The couple lay in bed, snuggled and cozy, enjoying the DVD they had chosen. It was something from the collection. Rarely did something from the collection make it onto the television these days. Usually it was the latest Netflix delivery, or the impulsive Blockbuster rental. Maybe it was the new place. They had only just moved in. Boxes were still piled high in the living room. Most of the furniture hadn’t quite migrated out of the garage yet. The DVD player and TV sat atop a card table. It felt like camping. Watching anything in this nascent home felt cutting edge, like a first time novelty.
It was at the peak of their enjoyment when the fly landed on the TV screen. It landed right on John Cleese’s face. It must have been half of James’ existence ago since he’d seen Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life. His wife, Shana, was already falling asleep. James didn’t take it personally. He couldn’t anymore. Shana only made it through about 2 out of every 10 films that commenced after nine in the evening, and though it always evoked James to shake his head, he had gotten used to it.
The fly flew away and James forgot about it for a few moments until it returned again – crawling around on Eric Idle’s nose before buzzing off once more.
Flies never bothered James. Shana couldn’t stand them. If she were awake right now, James thought, she would make me go after it. She’d tell me to get the Newsweek with Sarah Palin on the cover and tell me to go try to whack the little S.O.B. even though flies are, 90% of the time, WAY too fast for humans to swat them without proper equipment.
“What’s that?” It was Shana.
“What?” said James.
“There’s a fly on the TV.”
“So what? You’re not even watching it. You were fast asleep two seconds ago!”
Shana was on her feet. Before James could inhale the lights were on. Shana’s steely eyes followed the fly as it detached from the TV face and proceeded to buzz around the room, stealing in and out of the couple’s field of vision.
“I hate flies!” Shana stammered.
James rolled over. “Go back to bed, Shana. It’s just a fly. It’s not bothering anybody.”
“I can’t stand flies…” There was no persuading her. “Get it, James.”
“You get it!” James protested. “You’re the one who cares! It’s not bothering me at all!”
Shana grabbed the Newsweek with Sarah Palin on the cover and rolled it tight in her hands.
“What are you doing, Shana? I haven’t even read that yet.”
“Shhh!!!” Shana was upon it… she lunged, but the fly flew away. Shana’s eyes followed the fly, which was well out of arm’s reach. She did that for about a minute.
“C’mon, Shana. I was watching a movie!”
“Get the dustbuster.”
“The dustbuster doesn’t work, Shana. The fly just flies away when I get close. We need a flyswatter. Or flypaper, I guess.”
“I hate flies!”
Shana really hated flies. Otherwise, she was tolerant toward most animals. It was really bizarre. James couldn’t figure her out. He’d been warned by every married man he knew that wives made no sense.
The fly landed on the television. BAM! For a split-second the picture fuzzed out completely at Sarah Palin’s wrath. James had never seen the TV do that before.
“What the FUCK!!!” James yelled.
“I HATE flies!” Shana gritted her teeth.
“You’re gonna break the fuckin TV, Shana! Are you crazy!”
“DO SOMETHING, JAMES!”
Is this what marriage was? James wondered. Is she really upset? Or is this like pledging that fraternity, back in college? Maybe she’s just testing me, to see what kind of a husband I am. James decided he would show her. He lept up from the bed, grabbing the Newsweek out of his wife’s hands.
“Just relax!!!” James said as calmly as he could, which wasn’t very much.
James followed the fly as best he could. But his eyes blurred. He didn’t care. He just didn’t damn well care about the fly. His heart wasn’t in it. He swatted, his arms flailing, nearly missing and nearly missing again. Maybe it looked impressive to Shana, he thought. Wives, he had been told, simply like effort, even if results aren’t always achieved. The effort is romantic to them on some deep level. Whatever, fuck that. James was in no mood to score romance points. He wanted to watch his fucking movie and laugh every time the Monty Pythons mentioned the machine that goes ‘ping!’
The couple of near-hits only drove the nail further in James’ coffin. No “well done, good try, you can go watch your movie now” from Shana. Instead her resolve had only strengthened. “You nearly got it! Almost! Wait – let it land again!”
James admittedly felt a little encouraged. But mostly he still wanted to watch his movie. He swatted and swatted, but the fly kept landing on things undeserved of full attack. If it wasn’t the TV screen it was a glass lightbulb. If it wasn’t a fragile lightbulb it was the fresh coat of paint James had meticulously applied just a couple of days earlier. If it wasn’t the sparkling paint it was the DVD player – the TV had already used up a life; damn James if he would allow the DVD player to suffer the same.
James let the Newsweek fall on the bed, his shoulders sagging. He tried to act like he was crying. “I just want to watch the movie and go to bed. I’m sooooo tired, Shana. Please. The fly isn’t bothering anyone. It’s all in your mind. If you shut the lights off and not watch the movie like you always do you won’t even see it.”
“I’ll hear it.”
James hung his head. “Not if I turn the volume up loud on the TV.”
“How is that supposed to help? Then I won’t be able to sleep, James.”
Shana scooped the magazine back up into her determined hands.
“You shouldn’t be sleeping! You should be watching the movie like you set out to do earlier! You ALWAYS fall asleep at movies! That’s your problem, Shana!”
“The fly will land on the TV and I’ll see it. The TV is the only light source. You have to kill it, James. There’s no other option.”
“The light!” James had an idea. “Shut off the TV!”
Shana did. The room flooded with darkness.
The light in the hall turned on by James’ hand and the fly was soon buzzing around it.
Another light clicked on in the foyer.
“Turn that one off!” It was Shana. James did as instructed. As darkness overtook him, the fly appeared near Shana. She opened the front door, flipping on the outside light, turning off the one by her… and the fly followed.
SLAM.
The door shut. The house was quiet. For the first time since the ordeal began, absolutely no buzzing could be heard whatsoever.
Shana beamed, “We didn’t even have to kill it!”
James couldn’t help but crack a smile.
Shana slinked over to him, wrapping her arms around him, staring her man in the eyes. Hers were full of so much love all of a sudden it was intoxicating. As she leaned in to kiss James he couldn’t help but let his eyes wander to the Newsweek in Shana’s fingers. I wonder what Todd Palin would’ve done? James wondered.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Friday, September 5, 2008
The Clinic
Laura's knees ground against the moving treadmill. The buzzing rubber pad didn't feel hot anymore. All she could register was wincing, biting pain. Her thin flesh had been worn to bloody bone under the weight of all of her 238 pounds. Laura's right hand had long fallen limp against the handcuffs that bound her left hand to the merciless exercise machine. She was still crying loudly but after twenty straight minutes, her voice was beginning to rasp.
"Please! Stop! I can't run anymore!"
Laura couldn't help but keep wondering how she wound up here, in this situation. This cold, dark room containing nothing but a chrome treadmill with no control switches, a bed and a small windowless bathroom.
It had started out as a normal day. She went to work at the temp agency. She flirted with the nice guy who she knew she would never attract in a million years, but who nonetheless played along with her advances with child-like naivete.
And she left, heading for home.
On her way, she had decided to hit the Ralph's supermarket. It was an impulse stop, at least it had felt impulsive. She had a lot of impulse stops. And they always seemed to end with Laura purchasing two pints of Ben and Jerry's ice cream. Though she never listened to improvisational rock in her life, Laura's favorite flavors happened to be Cherry Garcia and Phish Food. One, she reasoned, technically qualified as a serving of fruit, and the other was by contrast an utterly decadent medley of gooey marshmallow, silky milk chocolate and rich fudge fishies that melted in Laura's mouth like heaven on earth. So Laura was completely stunned when, on her way back to her car in the Ralph's parking lot, she felt the gloved hand clasp over her mouth. At first she thought the syringe that plunged into her neck was a knife--
Then, it felt like Laura had instantaneously time-traveled to the room, waking up with her left hand cuffed to the treadmill. Her fat body hanging from her shackle. Laura's hand had turned white and was without feeling. She had gone so long without blood to that area, for several moments she worried she might never have use of her hand again. She feared it might have to be amputated.
The pain and worry had gotten her up on her feet, at which time she realized she was dressed in a grey spandex jogging suit which clung unflatteringly against her rolls. Another moment and the treadmill was moving under her. She nearly fell, and had to walk to keep from falling.
The treadmill had started slow, but soon went faster, and faster still. A digital readout on the treadmill showed the rate she was walking. Laura did a good job of keeping up until the machine had her at 5.2 miles per hour for thirteen minutes and twelve seconds. That was when she collapsed the first time. The burning rubber against her knees was enough to get her back up on her feet for a little while before she fell again.
And that was the way it went for a while. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.
But Laura could no longer summon the will to run any longer. She wished she could. In fact, she couldn't remember a time in her life when she had wanted to run so badly.
The machine eventually stopped and as it did, a panel on the dashboard flipped open like clockwork. Inside there was a shiny key. It took a few moments for Laura to notice the object as she writhed in pain. She soon figured out that the key went to her handcuffs. Laura freed herself and crawled, moaning for help over to the bed, instinctively climbing up onto it, collapsing, leaving a nasty bloody trail behind her.
Laura passed out.
When she awoke, she was once again cuffed to the treadmill. Her knees had been professionally bandaged. Sliced fruit and water had been left out for her, within arm's reach. She hungrily devoured both and, a few moments after digesting, the treadmill kicked on again. Fear flushed through Laura. She ran. And she ran. And she ran for a little bit longer than she had managed the last time. And on this occasion, when she fell, her knees didn't hurt quite so badly, thanks ironically to the bandages.
* * *
After countless months of similar routines, Laura woke one day to find herself back in the Ralph's parking lot. Her car was there. She was sitting in it, reclined in the driver's seat. Her keys dangled from the ignition.
Laura's first instinct was to shout for help but the parking lot was deserted. Her purse was sitting on the passenger seat next to her. She opened it, finding her phone, noting the time: 5:37 a.m. Laura's fingers drifted, dialing 9-1-1. But before pressing the 'call' button the morning sun that was searing her eyes caused Laura to deftly pull down her sun visor, putting her face to face with the vanity mirror.
Laura held her breath. Who was this beautiful woman staring back at her?
Laura gaped at herself for forty five minutes, admiring over and over in disbelief the sharp angles of her jaw and cheek bones.
Her finger remained frozen on the 'send' button of her cell phone. Laura looked down, realizing she could see over her seatbelt into her own lap for the first time since she could ever remember.
Deep emotion welled inside Laura. It began as a joyful tickle, like giddy laughter. Then it blossomed into a warm eruption of elation. The most surprising thing she felt was the gratitude. She wanted to scold herself for feeling it. She knew she should be angry, at least, if not hateful for what was done to her. Up until this very moment she had known nothing but fear and trauma. But, staring into the mirror, somehow she felt an instant understanding.
Laura drove home, but honest to God she felt like running.
"Please! Stop! I can't run anymore!"
Laura couldn't help but keep wondering how she wound up here, in this situation. This cold, dark room containing nothing but a chrome treadmill with no control switches, a bed and a small windowless bathroom.
It had started out as a normal day. She went to work at the temp agency. She flirted with the nice guy who she knew she would never attract in a million years, but who nonetheless played along with her advances with child-like naivete.
And she left, heading for home.
On her way, she had decided to hit the Ralph's supermarket. It was an impulse stop, at least it had felt impulsive. She had a lot of impulse stops. And they always seemed to end with Laura purchasing two pints of Ben and Jerry's ice cream. Though she never listened to improvisational rock in her life, Laura's favorite flavors happened to be Cherry Garcia and Phish Food. One, she reasoned, technically qualified as a serving of fruit, and the other was by contrast an utterly decadent medley of gooey marshmallow, silky milk chocolate and rich fudge fishies that melted in Laura's mouth like heaven on earth. So Laura was completely stunned when, on her way back to her car in the Ralph's parking lot, she felt the gloved hand clasp over her mouth. At first she thought the syringe that plunged into her neck was a knife--
Then, it felt like Laura had instantaneously time-traveled to the room, waking up with her left hand cuffed to the treadmill. Her fat body hanging from her shackle. Laura's hand had turned white and was without feeling. She had gone so long without blood to that area, for several moments she worried she might never have use of her hand again. She feared it might have to be amputated.
The pain and worry had gotten her up on her feet, at which time she realized she was dressed in a grey spandex jogging suit which clung unflatteringly against her rolls. Another moment and the treadmill was moving under her. She nearly fell, and had to walk to keep from falling.
The treadmill had started slow, but soon went faster, and faster still. A digital readout on the treadmill showed the rate she was walking. Laura did a good job of keeping up until the machine had her at 5.2 miles per hour for thirteen minutes and twelve seconds. That was when she collapsed the first time. The burning rubber against her knees was enough to get her back up on her feet for a little while before she fell again.
And that was the way it went for a while. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.
But Laura could no longer summon the will to run any longer. She wished she could. In fact, she couldn't remember a time in her life when she had wanted to run so badly.
The machine eventually stopped and as it did, a panel on the dashboard flipped open like clockwork. Inside there was a shiny key. It took a few moments for Laura to notice the object as she writhed in pain. She soon figured out that the key went to her handcuffs. Laura freed herself and crawled, moaning for help over to the bed, instinctively climbing up onto it, collapsing, leaving a nasty bloody trail behind her.
Laura passed out.
When she awoke, she was once again cuffed to the treadmill. Her knees had been professionally bandaged. Sliced fruit and water had been left out for her, within arm's reach. She hungrily devoured both and, a few moments after digesting, the treadmill kicked on again. Fear flushed through Laura. She ran. And she ran. And she ran for a little bit longer than she had managed the last time. And on this occasion, when she fell, her knees didn't hurt quite so badly, thanks ironically to the bandages.
* * *
After countless months of similar routines, Laura woke one day to find herself back in the Ralph's parking lot. Her car was there. She was sitting in it, reclined in the driver's seat. Her keys dangled from the ignition.
Laura's first instinct was to shout for help but the parking lot was deserted. Her purse was sitting on the passenger seat next to her. She opened it, finding her phone, noting the time: 5:37 a.m. Laura's fingers drifted, dialing 9-1-1. But before pressing the 'call' button the morning sun that was searing her eyes caused Laura to deftly pull down her sun visor, putting her face to face with the vanity mirror.
Laura held her breath. Who was this beautiful woman staring back at her?
Laura gaped at herself for forty five minutes, admiring over and over in disbelief the sharp angles of her jaw and cheek bones.
Her finger remained frozen on the 'send' button of her cell phone. Laura looked down, realizing she could see over her seatbelt into her own lap for the first time since she could ever remember.
Deep emotion welled inside Laura. It began as a joyful tickle, like giddy laughter. Then it blossomed into a warm eruption of elation. The most surprising thing she felt was the gratitude. She wanted to scold herself for feeling it. She knew she should be angry, at least, if not hateful for what was done to her. Up until this very moment she had known nothing but fear and trauma. But, staring into the mirror, somehow she felt an instant understanding.
Laura drove home, but honest to God she felt like running.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
The Accident
The light gave way to darkness and that’s the way it would be for a while.
It was unnaturally dark. The crew was already scared. They had no idea where they were however that wasn’t the scariest thing. They had used up all their fuel in one gargantuan error and now they were left stranded, drifting in an inky blackness that had to be space but one without the usual stars that had traditionally guided explorers like them since the beginning of exploration, itself.
Captain Aidan stood front and center, addressing his crew over the loudspeaker. It was in times of utter hopelessness, times just like this one, that a Captain had to be most Captain-like.
“As you’re all aware we’ve made a very long and unscheduled trip forward. We’ve assessed the reason for the massive jump and have determined it was a technical malfunction pure and simple. Not one of you is to blame. As far as any one of us can tell, our crew carried out all the right directives and worked in perfect concert together. I want to make that perfectly clear up front,” he began.
Someone in the crowd shouted. “How far did we go?”
Aidan blinked. He didn’t have an exact number of years to quote. He hadn’t bothered to memorize the gauge – there were more figures than he even knew the ship was capable of counting. ‘Goddamned far, that’s how far’, he wanted to say. But in lieu of being able to speak his free mind and in lieu of exact statistics, Aidan held back.
His heart weighed like an anchor. All these faces he was staring at were supposed to be the survivors of the human race. They had all narrowly escaped the complete destruction of Earth just a few hours ago. He didn’t see the point in telling them that the helming crew hadn’t had time to check things out completely before bringing all systems to go. It probably was someone’s fault, but being a good Captain he knew that blame was no remedy for failure. He had played enough sports in college to know you simply try to recover the ball as quickly and as best you can and keep punting it forward.
“Our time-accelerator was stuck in the forward position for a good hour and a half before it finally ran out of power. The good news is of course we’ve stopped accelerating and we’ve managed to un-jam the accelerator. And, the accelerator is still fully operational. The bad news is our travels have left us without fuel for further time jumps.”
The murmurs and disapproving uproar Aidan was expecting to hear did not come. He took the opportunity to keep talking.
“We’ve come extremely far. We’re approximately ten to the twenty-sixth power years ahead of our start point.”
Perhaps they all still viewed themselves as lucky survivors, he thought. High morale had a way of lasting for a while in the wake of a massive success.
“If my basic astronomy serves me, we’re sometime in what’s called the ‘Degenerate Stage’ of our universe.”
Sandy was standing in the front row of anxious bodies facing Aidan. Mark stood next to her. They had both offered Aidan to stand up there with him. But the Captain told them he felt it might look partisan if he was flanked by first officers, and rather preferred to stand on the bridge alone. He was the Captain, and would address the crowd as such. They stood below him, Sandy with her fists clenched in her pockets; Mark far better at hiding his emotions, Sandy thought to herself.
Sandy couldn’t believe her mind was drifting at a time like this. Guilt took over. She was grateful Captain Aidan hadn’t asked too many questions about her controls over the time-accelerator. She didn’t think anyone would find her out; her track record was near flawless. But then, she’d never been tested under the kind of pressure the last three hours had brought. She was so good when her mind was clear, sometimes bad when it wasn’t. Sandy thought she might have experienced the greatest emotional roller coaster of any human being in history. In one minute she was a key player in the salvation of the last survivors of Earth. In the next, she was the silent trigger finger of mankind’s suicide. And she knew exactly why it had happened. That pride she felt came too early – she was celebrating before the game had been won. She’d jinxed herself, and the whole ship with her. Sandy should have felt sicker than she was feeling, this she new. She felt immense guilt. It could have been anyone in her position. But mostly now she felt sad, staring up at the Captain as he struggled to explain her mistakes to the crew. That should be me up there, she thought. Sandy couldn’t look at the poor man anymore. She glanced in Mark’s direction. Mark’s eyes stayed fixed on Aidan. She realized she was being disrespectful, and set her eyes back where they belonged.
“We’ve arrived at the end of the existence. The reason you don’t see stars outside is because there aren’t any,” Aidan went on. “If there are any stars left they are few and far between. We would be very lucky to find one, and my hope is that we will. We have the ability to harness power. Our rockets do not rely on the same fuel reserves as the time-accelerator. They can carry us a ways yet. If we can get to a star – even a decaying one – it could supply us more than enough energy to completely refuel the ship, and afford us all one more amazing story to tell our grandchildren.”
Respectful silence.
“I’m going to ask you all now to please bear with me while I consult with our navigators,” he concluded. “Thank you.”
Clapping. It started as a trickle, and then got very loud. Captain Aidan wished to God that sound could last but he knew full well there were probably no stars within reach of the ship. He had a vague idea of where the ship was in space, and it was in the opposite direction of where they should have been traveling to keep up with the movement of the ever-expanding stars.
Back in the Captain’s quarters, Sandy and Mark sat across from Aidan. Aidan poured three glasses of whisky from a crystal decanter, handing two out. Mark and Sandy took them without hesitation. The three sipped in silence. Aidan took a belabored breath.
“Navigation tells me the nearest star is about forty times the distance this ship is capable of traveling on its current reserves. Even if she drifted for a while after, we would long die off before reaching it.”
Sandy felt her hands clam with cold sweat. Too much for her to bear as she now felt personally responsible. A tear rolled down her cheek and her body wracked.
“It’s my fault,” she whimpered. “I was moving too fast. I was trying to be efficient,” she choked in hard gasps that interrupted her speech. Aidan leaned across his desk. Sandy felt him apply pressure under the crystal tumbler, bringing it up to her lips. She stared down into the caramel liquid, allowing him to make her drink, her tears running down her red cheeks into the glass.
Aidan settled back down into his chair, not quite finished with his thought.
“There is something in reach.”
Mark’s voice was clinical. “What is it?”
“Navigation’s pretty sure it’s a black hole.”
“Why do you bring it up?” Mark continued.
Aidan raised a stressed eyebrow. “Because it’s the only thing left out there for us, Mark, besides cold, dead space. It’s energy.”
“Do you think we can use it?” Mark wasn’t being cynical. He never was cynical. Aidan always felt bad when he got short with Mark. The man was smart, well-meaning and quite warm in the center which was easy for Aidan to forget sometimes. A large part of Mark’s strength was his hard shell. Aidan simply had a different style. He often struggled to keep that fact in perspective. Now was especially trying.
“Probably not, but we may as well go. If for no other reason than to give the crew some hope and keep everybody busy. You know me, I hate doing nothing.”
Aidan hoped for a smile from Mark but he got only an acknowledging nod. Aidan wondered if, deep down, Mark was afraid of him. Aidan looked into his whisky tumbler, setting it down and pushing it aside.
“Please, Mark. Sandy, you too. Both of you. Tell me if you disagree. We’ll be using up all our resources on this. I realize the final decision will be mine and I plan to take full responsibility for this and everything that’s transpired thus far.
Sandy stiffened. Was that meant for her? It didn’t seem so.
Aidan went on. “I just want to know your opinions because I’m afraid our opinions are all we have left.”
A pause, then,
“I think it’s a great idea,” Mark said.
Sandy felt the eyes on her. She was glad Mark had volunteered his opinion first. She daren’t look a gift horse in the mouth by disagreeing now. She tried to emulate Mark’s strength of conviction.
“I agree,” she delivered.
The crew took direction without a single protest. Aidan considered himself too lucky. If they had rebelled on him, if mutiny had taken place, he might have had a reason to think they were somehow deserved of their fate. Other perspectives entered his mind. He couldn’t help but feel proud – this was how the human race was behaving at the end? Calm, cool, and collected? It looked as if the last of them would go out, not by warring upon one another but rather they would go out in cooperation. The nice guys would finish last, he mused. Better than the spiteful assholes who had destroyed each other back on Earth. These, that were left, were truly the finest, and they were his crew. Aidan allowed himself to feel a special pride in that thought. During the long journey ahead he would need to remember it, and reference often.
* * *
They reached their destination.
The journey took six months to complete and they had traveled quite a significant distance. They had gone against the grain, heading in the exact opposite direction of where everything seemed to be moving. It was the universe’s ‘dead zone’.
The crew gathered on the bridge to stare at the black hole. It wasn’t much to look at. It was barely visible and many admitted they couldn’t see it at all.
Sandy and Mark were with Captain Aidan on the bridge when Smith approached Aidan. Smith, a bespectacled astronomer with blonde hair always seemed to be sweating. He was excited. “Captain, you’re never going to believe this!” Aidan silenced Smith, pulling him aside, beckoning for Sandy and Mark to follow. Aidan never liked his crew to overhear information for the first time before he had heard it first himself.
In Smith’s quarters, Aidan, Sandy and Mark listened as Smith explained, waving his hands wildly as he spoke. “This is very strange. That thing out there is no ordinary black hole. There’s something on the other side of it, that somehow… exists! And we’re able to detect it!”
“Slow down,” said Aidan. “Is it or isn’t it a black hole?”
“It is a black hole as far as I can tell but it’s like we’ve found a new species of black hole. It’s impossible to put it in a category because, well frankly sir we’ve never seen anything like it before!”
Smith looked stark raving mad.
Mark cut in. “Can we harness any energy from it?”
Smith gritted his teeth, shrugging. “In theory, it’s got what we need on the other side. But I wouldn’t necessarily advise steering the ship into it just yet. We need to see if we can send an object into it and pull it out again. That’s the unlikely part. We also simply need to see what’s inside.”
Mark turned to Aidan. “We need a probe.”
Aidan looked bleak.
“There’s a very subtle chance someone could safely pass in and back out,” Smith continued. “The fact that we’re getting a reading of positive energy from inside the hole could mean it has a stable portal. It might be safe to passage through.”
Sandy found herself stepping forward. This was the moment she had been waiting for. “You could send me in. Tie a tether to me. I’ll go.”
Before Aidan could react, Smith interjected. “I wouldn’t recommend a tether. You could pull the whole ship in with you. If it is safe to pass through you should take your chances with a rocket pack. If there’s equilibrium you shouldn’t have a problem. And if there isn’t there’s no way a ship even this size is going to be able to fight against the force of a black hole, no matter how mild.”
* * *
The next thing Sandy realized, she was listening to the loud sound of her breathing through the space helmet. She was standing at the gaping mouth of the ship’s hangar, staring out into impossible nothing. She turned to the crew behind her, giving a clunky wave.
Sandy stepped off the platform. The whole experience felt like it could be an electronic simulator game. Rather surreal.
She heard Aidan’s static voice buzz over the radio intercom.
“Doing okay so far?”
“So far so good,” she answered back. Sandy was unnerved that she couldn’t see the enemy. The idea of the black hole was worse, she thought, than if she were able to see it. It was like the shark in that great film classic, “Jaws”.
“Still with us?” Aidan’s voice again.
“You bet,” she replied.
There was no sense of movement. It was like waiting for the boogey man to appear out of the dark, claws bared, ready to devour you whole.
Sandy hovered there for a time, watching in her rear video monitor as the ship got further and further away, until it was nothing but a tiny speck to her. It had to stay far away. It couldn’t risk the crew.
Sandy suddenly felt the need to talk to Aidan. He hadn’t said anything for several minutes. “Aidan?… Captain?”
Static.
She must be getting close.
This was it.
Sandy wanted to close her eyes but her sense of responsibility and need to set right her mistakes wouldn’t let her. That ship back there was, once again, depending on her. Maybe she had a chance here and now. Even if the group were successful they’d have to find a planet in some place, space, and time that would support them. Could they? Who knew? Perhaps the human race was doomed whether or not she had screwed up the time-accelerator. Perhaps they had been screwed from the moment the bombs had gone off and the Earth had been covered in those ugly charcoal clouds, she wished she could erase from her memory forever, somehow.
Perhaps they had been screwed since the beginning. Sandy found herself sick again, and realized she must shake off these negative thoughts. It was thoughts like these that had probably pitted man against man in the first place.
Then, something strange began to happen. Her suit began to shake. It felt like she had been grabbed by something. It was gentle. It sure had to be, she reckoned, if she had any chance of surviving this ride.
An explosion.
White.
White.
White.
Blinding her.
Her eyes adjusted.
Sandy was hovering in a sea of brilliant glowing orbs the size of basketballs and baseballs. They floated all around her. One bounced off her leg, dinging away, propelled along, bouncing against several others and knocking them all in different directions. They wouldn’t go too far before slowing. It was as if they were traveling in cooking oil. There was something graceful – and peaceful – about them.
It was a beautiful and strange sight. One orb passed by her face. It seemed to possess enormous detail inside of it.
Sandy tried her radio.
“Captain? Are you copying?”
She wasn’t surprised when silence came back. She didn’t want the burden of complete responsibility again. She wasn’t sure she could handle another mess up being her fault, twice. Of course if there was going to be an encore, Sandy at least felt reassured she would likely not be living long to worry about it.
What to do?
“Sandy?” It was Mark.
“Mark! Can you hear me?!’
“I can.” Mark – so matter of fact.
“I’m inside. It’s very bright in here. I’m surrounded by white… globes? Spheres? Most of them are hand sized. I could almost reach out and grab one.”
“Hold on…” Mark’s voice fizzled out. A moment later it came back.
“Do you feel comfortable making contact?” He asked.
“I already have – one just bounced off my leg. Mark, does Smith know what it is? Does he have any idea?”
“Hold on.”
She wished she could talk directly with Smith.
“Sandy? This is Smith. Sandy, can you try to pick up one of whatever it is you’re seeing?”
One floated past. The size of a volleyball. Sandy grabbed it. She held it in her hands. It was soft. Incredibly dense feeling too.
“I’ve got one in my hands now. It’s the size of a volleyball.”
Aidan’s voice came back. “Sandy.”
“Yes?”
“We want you to try to take it out of there. Can you do that?”
“Yes, of course. I’ll come now.”
Sandy stared into the orb. It was hypnotizing. For an elongated moment she was transfixed. Colonies of energy seemed to flow past each other all along its surface. This was a sight to behold.
She looked away, dizzy. The world around her was so blinding it was becoming overwhelming. She actually looked forward to getting back to the endless dark void that awaited her just outside. That is if she could indeed go back out.
Sandy turned on her rocket thrusters. They carried her. Sandy moved in a slow, steady straight line, cradling the glowing orb in her hands.
The light finally gave way, turning to grey. Sandy could see the ship, tiny in the distance as the haze of light lifted effortlessly away.
“Sandy!” The radio bleeped on. It was Aidan again.
“Yeah?” She replied.
“Sandy, put it back! Go back and put it back!!!”
Sandy tried turning off the rockets, throwing them in reverse to stop, but it seemed too late; something kept her moving forward.
“Why? I’m sorry, I don’t understand. I can’t turn around now for some reason. Cap-“
Sandy looked down. The detail in the orb, she realized, was so much more apparent now, contrasted against the blackness of this terrible abyss. She knew the little white ball was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.
What came next was instantaneous. Sandy and the ship were consumed in a great BIG BANG. The little white orb expanded, blowing apart in her hands like a cosmic grenade, shattering into infinite, fiery fragments. Fragments that tore outward in clusters of varying sizes. Out, out, out… into the black. Turning on some much needed light in the universe.
Mercifully, Sandy and the crew were spared any pain. The last thing any of them saw was that tremendous light that gave them all hope.
It was unnaturally dark. The crew was already scared. They had no idea where they were however that wasn’t the scariest thing. They had used up all their fuel in one gargantuan error and now they were left stranded, drifting in an inky blackness that had to be space but one without the usual stars that had traditionally guided explorers like them since the beginning of exploration, itself.
Captain Aidan stood front and center, addressing his crew over the loudspeaker. It was in times of utter hopelessness, times just like this one, that a Captain had to be most Captain-like.
“As you’re all aware we’ve made a very long and unscheduled trip forward. We’ve assessed the reason for the massive jump and have determined it was a technical malfunction pure and simple. Not one of you is to blame. As far as any one of us can tell, our crew carried out all the right directives and worked in perfect concert together. I want to make that perfectly clear up front,” he began.
Someone in the crowd shouted. “How far did we go?”
Aidan blinked. He didn’t have an exact number of years to quote. He hadn’t bothered to memorize the gauge – there were more figures than he even knew the ship was capable of counting. ‘Goddamned far, that’s how far’, he wanted to say. But in lieu of being able to speak his free mind and in lieu of exact statistics, Aidan held back.
His heart weighed like an anchor. All these faces he was staring at were supposed to be the survivors of the human race. They had all narrowly escaped the complete destruction of Earth just a few hours ago. He didn’t see the point in telling them that the helming crew hadn’t had time to check things out completely before bringing all systems to go. It probably was someone’s fault, but being a good Captain he knew that blame was no remedy for failure. He had played enough sports in college to know you simply try to recover the ball as quickly and as best you can and keep punting it forward.
“Our time-accelerator was stuck in the forward position for a good hour and a half before it finally ran out of power. The good news is of course we’ve stopped accelerating and we’ve managed to un-jam the accelerator. And, the accelerator is still fully operational. The bad news is our travels have left us without fuel for further time jumps.”
The murmurs and disapproving uproar Aidan was expecting to hear did not come. He took the opportunity to keep talking.
“We’ve come extremely far. We’re approximately ten to the twenty-sixth power years ahead of our start point.”
Perhaps they all still viewed themselves as lucky survivors, he thought. High morale had a way of lasting for a while in the wake of a massive success.
“If my basic astronomy serves me, we’re sometime in what’s called the ‘Degenerate Stage’ of our universe.”
Sandy was standing in the front row of anxious bodies facing Aidan. Mark stood next to her. They had both offered Aidan to stand up there with him. But the Captain told them he felt it might look partisan if he was flanked by first officers, and rather preferred to stand on the bridge alone. He was the Captain, and would address the crowd as such. They stood below him, Sandy with her fists clenched in her pockets; Mark far better at hiding his emotions, Sandy thought to herself.
Sandy couldn’t believe her mind was drifting at a time like this. Guilt took over. She was grateful Captain Aidan hadn’t asked too many questions about her controls over the time-accelerator. She didn’t think anyone would find her out; her track record was near flawless. But then, she’d never been tested under the kind of pressure the last three hours had brought. She was so good when her mind was clear, sometimes bad when it wasn’t. Sandy thought she might have experienced the greatest emotional roller coaster of any human being in history. In one minute she was a key player in the salvation of the last survivors of Earth. In the next, she was the silent trigger finger of mankind’s suicide. And she knew exactly why it had happened. That pride she felt came too early – she was celebrating before the game had been won. She’d jinxed herself, and the whole ship with her. Sandy should have felt sicker than she was feeling, this she new. She felt immense guilt. It could have been anyone in her position. But mostly now she felt sad, staring up at the Captain as he struggled to explain her mistakes to the crew. That should be me up there, she thought. Sandy couldn’t look at the poor man anymore. She glanced in Mark’s direction. Mark’s eyes stayed fixed on Aidan. She realized she was being disrespectful, and set her eyes back where they belonged.
“We’ve arrived at the end of the existence. The reason you don’t see stars outside is because there aren’t any,” Aidan went on. “If there are any stars left they are few and far between. We would be very lucky to find one, and my hope is that we will. We have the ability to harness power. Our rockets do not rely on the same fuel reserves as the time-accelerator. They can carry us a ways yet. If we can get to a star – even a decaying one – it could supply us more than enough energy to completely refuel the ship, and afford us all one more amazing story to tell our grandchildren.”
Respectful silence.
“I’m going to ask you all now to please bear with me while I consult with our navigators,” he concluded. “Thank you.”
Clapping. It started as a trickle, and then got very loud. Captain Aidan wished to God that sound could last but he knew full well there were probably no stars within reach of the ship. He had a vague idea of where the ship was in space, and it was in the opposite direction of where they should have been traveling to keep up with the movement of the ever-expanding stars.
Back in the Captain’s quarters, Sandy and Mark sat across from Aidan. Aidan poured three glasses of whisky from a crystal decanter, handing two out. Mark and Sandy took them without hesitation. The three sipped in silence. Aidan took a belabored breath.
“Navigation tells me the nearest star is about forty times the distance this ship is capable of traveling on its current reserves. Even if she drifted for a while after, we would long die off before reaching it.”
Sandy felt her hands clam with cold sweat. Too much for her to bear as she now felt personally responsible. A tear rolled down her cheek and her body wracked.
“It’s my fault,” she whimpered. “I was moving too fast. I was trying to be efficient,” she choked in hard gasps that interrupted her speech. Aidan leaned across his desk. Sandy felt him apply pressure under the crystal tumbler, bringing it up to her lips. She stared down into the caramel liquid, allowing him to make her drink, her tears running down her red cheeks into the glass.
Aidan settled back down into his chair, not quite finished with his thought.
“There is something in reach.”
Mark’s voice was clinical. “What is it?”
“Navigation’s pretty sure it’s a black hole.”
“Why do you bring it up?” Mark continued.
Aidan raised a stressed eyebrow. “Because it’s the only thing left out there for us, Mark, besides cold, dead space. It’s energy.”
“Do you think we can use it?” Mark wasn’t being cynical. He never was cynical. Aidan always felt bad when he got short with Mark. The man was smart, well-meaning and quite warm in the center which was easy for Aidan to forget sometimes. A large part of Mark’s strength was his hard shell. Aidan simply had a different style. He often struggled to keep that fact in perspective. Now was especially trying.
“Probably not, but we may as well go. If for no other reason than to give the crew some hope and keep everybody busy. You know me, I hate doing nothing.”
Aidan hoped for a smile from Mark but he got only an acknowledging nod. Aidan wondered if, deep down, Mark was afraid of him. Aidan looked into his whisky tumbler, setting it down and pushing it aside.
“Please, Mark. Sandy, you too. Both of you. Tell me if you disagree. We’ll be using up all our resources on this. I realize the final decision will be mine and I plan to take full responsibility for this and everything that’s transpired thus far.
Sandy stiffened. Was that meant for her? It didn’t seem so.
Aidan went on. “I just want to know your opinions because I’m afraid our opinions are all we have left.”
A pause, then,
“I think it’s a great idea,” Mark said.
Sandy felt the eyes on her. She was glad Mark had volunteered his opinion first. She daren’t look a gift horse in the mouth by disagreeing now. She tried to emulate Mark’s strength of conviction.
“I agree,” she delivered.
The crew took direction without a single protest. Aidan considered himself too lucky. If they had rebelled on him, if mutiny had taken place, he might have had a reason to think they were somehow deserved of their fate. Other perspectives entered his mind. He couldn’t help but feel proud – this was how the human race was behaving at the end? Calm, cool, and collected? It looked as if the last of them would go out, not by warring upon one another but rather they would go out in cooperation. The nice guys would finish last, he mused. Better than the spiteful assholes who had destroyed each other back on Earth. These, that were left, were truly the finest, and they were his crew. Aidan allowed himself to feel a special pride in that thought. During the long journey ahead he would need to remember it, and reference often.
* * *
They reached their destination.
The journey took six months to complete and they had traveled quite a significant distance. They had gone against the grain, heading in the exact opposite direction of where everything seemed to be moving. It was the universe’s ‘dead zone’.
The crew gathered on the bridge to stare at the black hole. It wasn’t much to look at. It was barely visible and many admitted they couldn’t see it at all.
Sandy and Mark were with Captain Aidan on the bridge when Smith approached Aidan. Smith, a bespectacled astronomer with blonde hair always seemed to be sweating. He was excited. “Captain, you’re never going to believe this!” Aidan silenced Smith, pulling him aside, beckoning for Sandy and Mark to follow. Aidan never liked his crew to overhear information for the first time before he had heard it first himself.
In Smith’s quarters, Aidan, Sandy and Mark listened as Smith explained, waving his hands wildly as he spoke. “This is very strange. That thing out there is no ordinary black hole. There’s something on the other side of it, that somehow… exists! And we’re able to detect it!”
“Slow down,” said Aidan. “Is it or isn’t it a black hole?”
“It is a black hole as far as I can tell but it’s like we’ve found a new species of black hole. It’s impossible to put it in a category because, well frankly sir we’ve never seen anything like it before!”
Smith looked stark raving mad.
Mark cut in. “Can we harness any energy from it?”
Smith gritted his teeth, shrugging. “In theory, it’s got what we need on the other side. But I wouldn’t necessarily advise steering the ship into it just yet. We need to see if we can send an object into it and pull it out again. That’s the unlikely part. We also simply need to see what’s inside.”
Mark turned to Aidan. “We need a probe.”
Aidan looked bleak.
“There’s a very subtle chance someone could safely pass in and back out,” Smith continued. “The fact that we’re getting a reading of positive energy from inside the hole could mean it has a stable portal. It might be safe to passage through.”
Sandy found herself stepping forward. This was the moment she had been waiting for. “You could send me in. Tie a tether to me. I’ll go.”
Before Aidan could react, Smith interjected. “I wouldn’t recommend a tether. You could pull the whole ship in with you. If it is safe to pass through you should take your chances with a rocket pack. If there’s equilibrium you shouldn’t have a problem. And if there isn’t there’s no way a ship even this size is going to be able to fight against the force of a black hole, no matter how mild.”
* * *
The next thing Sandy realized, she was listening to the loud sound of her breathing through the space helmet. She was standing at the gaping mouth of the ship’s hangar, staring out into impossible nothing. She turned to the crew behind her, giving a clunky wave.
Sandy stepped off the platform. The whole experience felt like it could be an electronic simulator game. Rather surreal.
She heard Aidan’s static voice buzz over the radio intercom.
“Doing okay so far?”
“So far so good,” she answered back. Sandy was unnerved that she couldn’t see the enemy. The idea of the black hole was worse, she thought, than if she were able to see it. It was like the shark in that great film classic, “Jaws”.
“Still with us?” Aidan’s voice again.
“You bet,” she replied.
There was no sense of movement. It was like waiting for the boogey man to appear out of the dark, claws bared, ready to devour you whole.
Sandy hovered there for a time, watching in her rear video monitor as the ship got further and further away, until it was nothing but a tiny speck to her. It had to stay far away. It couldn’t risk the crew.
Sandy suddenly felt the need to talk to Aidan. He hadn’t said anything for several minutes. “Aidan?… Captain?”
Static.
She must be getting close.
This was it.
Sandy wanted to close her eyes but her sense of responsibility and need to set right her mistakes wouldn’t let her. That ship back there was, once again, depending on her. Maybe she had a chance here and now. Even if the group were successful they’d have to find a planet in some place, space, and time that would support them. Could they? Who knew? Perhaps the human race was doomed whether or not she had screwed up the time-accelerator. Perhaps they had been screwed from the moment the bombs had gone off and the Earth had been covered in those ugly charcoal clouds, she wished she could erase from her memory forever, somehow.
Perhaps they had been screwed since the beginning. Sandy found herself sick again, and realized she must shake off these negative thoughts. It was thoughts like these that had probably pitted man against man in the first place.
Then, something strange began to happen. Her suit began to shake. It felt like she had been grabbed by something. It was gentle. It sure had to be, she reckoned, if she had any chance of surviving this ride.
An explosion.
White.
White.
White.
Blinding her.
Her eyes adjusted.
Sandy was hovering in a sea of brilliant glowing orbs the size of basketballs and baseballs. They floated all around her. One bounced off her leg, dinging away, propelled along, bouncing against several others and knocking them all in different directions. They wouldn’t go too far before slowing. It was as if they were traveling in cooking oil. There was something graceful – and peaceful – about them.
It was a beautiful and strange sight. One orb passed by her face. It seemed to possess enormous detail inside of it.
Sandy tried her radio.
“Captain? Are you copying?”
She wasn’t surprised when silence came back. She didn’t want the burden of complete responsibility again. She wasn’t sure she could handle another mess up being her fault, twice. Of course if there was going to be an encore, Sandy at least felt reassured she would likely not be living long to worry about it.
What to do?
“Sandy?” It was Mark.
“Mark! Can you hear me?!’
“I can.” Mark – so matter of fact.
“I’m inside. It’s very bright in here. I’m surrounded by white… globes? Spheres? Most of them are hand sized. I could almost reach out and grab one.”
“Hold on…” Mark’s voice fizzled out. A moment later it came back.
“Do you feel comfortable making contact?” He asked.
“I already have – one just bounced off my leg. Mark, does Smith know what it is? Does he have any idea?”
“Hold on.”
She wished she could talk directly with Smith.
“Sandy? This is Smith. Sandy, can you try to pick up one of whatever it is you’re seeing?”
One floated past. The size of a volleyball. Sandy grabbed it. She held it in her hands. It was soft. Incredibly dense feeling too.
“I’ve got one in my hands now. It’s the size of a volleyball.”
Aidan’s voice came back. “Sandy.”
“Yes?”
“We want you to try to take it out of there. Can you do that?”
“Yes, of course. I’ll come now.”
Sandy stared into the orb. It was hypnotizing. For an elongated moment she was transfixed. Colonies of energy seemed to flow past each other all along its surface. This was a sight to behold.
She looked away, dizzy. The world around her was so blinding it was becoming overwhelming. She actually looked forward to getting back to the endless dark void that awaited her just outside. That is if she could indeed go back out.
Sandy turned on her rocket thrusters. They carried her. Sandy moved in a slow, steady straight line, cradling the glowing orb in her hands.
The light finally gave way, turning to grey. Sandy could see the ship, tiny in the distance as the haze of light lifted effortlessly away.
“Sandy!” The radio bleeped on. It was Aidan again.
“Yeah?” She replied.
“Sandy, put it back! Go back and put it back!!!”
Sandy tried turning off the rockets, throwing them in reverse to stop, but it seemed too late; something kept her moving forward.
“Why? I’m sorry, I don’t understand. I can’t turn around now for some reason. Cap-“
Sandy looked down. The detail in the orb, she realized, was so much more apparent now, contrasted against the blackness of this terrible abyss. She knew the little white ball was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.
What came next was instantaneous. Sandy and the ship were consumed in a great BIG BANG. The little white orb expanded, blowing apart in her hands like a cosmic grenade, shattering into infinite, fiery fragments. Fragments that tore outward in clusters of varying sizes. Out, out, out… into the black. Turning on some much needed light in the universe.
Mercifully, Sandy and the crew were spared any pain. The last thing any of them saw was that tremendous light that gave them all hope.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
And Then, There Was Light...
This was it – the cure for cancer.
Ryan hadn’t even graduated from med school. Just a mere six months ago the young twenty-six year old had dropped out of UCLA to pursue other interests. He had nearly forgotten all about his former studies, but now it came rushing back in a flash of lightning-quick inspiration.
It was appropriate, he thought; breakthrough discoveries like these always tended to happen by accident in unexpected settings, didn’t they? Take that guy who invented Post It notes. It’s a famous legend, surely you’ve heard the story: some inventor had set out to concoct a new super glue stew but produced, instead, the weakest and most useless of all adhesive substances known to mankind. Or so it seemed, insofar as the latter adjective anyway. Somehow, before the formula could be crumpled up and tossed into the wastebasket, to be forgotten for all eternity, it was thought that the stick-um might just have a purpose after all. The theory was put to the test and from that point afterward office workers ‘round the globe had their dismal lives changed profoundly forever (we need not mention the inventor’s).
This was much bigger than that, clearly.
Ryan couldn’t believe how simple the logic went. Like a lot of breakthrough ideas this one hadn’t come delivered to him in a single package, wrapped up with a pretty red ribbon – no. Rather, it came about by a magical combination of two odd ideas that somehow shot off in the opposite hemispheres of his brain at the same fortuitous moment, and were lucky enough to collide together to form an epiphany so reasonable and basic it was scary that no one working on the front lines of cancer research had ever before considered it.
Ryan grabbed at his pockets. He had never been so desperate for a pen and paper – no human had, he was already boasting to himself. It was by further serendipity he happened to pull out a square of yellow Post Its. Providence. He had stuffed those in there earlier that day, for upon the top sheet was written the address of the location he had come to on this fine Summer evening.
He ripped the top sheet away, twisting his trusty Waterman ballpoint to protrusion, and began scribbling furiously.
His hands were sweaty. He raced to keep up with his thoughts. When he finally got it all down, Ryan flipped through the twenty-six squares, densely packed with ink – one for every year of his life he realized.
Woah, dude.
He tried reading it back to himself, but beyond his natural, messy hen scratch it was too goddamn dark to see in this place – the greatest and most important discovery of our modern age and here was Ryan who didn’t have adequate light to see.
But – the stars – they remained locked in their magnificent alignment and nothing could stop Man’s next giant leap ahead:
Just then, the lights shined on for Ryan. Darkness was lifted and the pounding in his ear-drums subsided. He looked down into the translucent plastic cup tucked under his arm.
He had finished his beer. All that was left were soapy suds and two squeezed out limes. Ryan’s head felt like it had been out by the pool all day in the hot sun. His ears were ringing. It was a small shame his mind had drifted there at the last minute, away from what was easily the single-greatest concert going experience of his entire life.
He flipped through the pages of Post It under the harsh house lights of the auditorium.
“What’s all that?”
Ryan looked up at Barney. His good friend was staring at him with a curious semi-grin. Barney, himself, looked pretty much the way Ryan felt at that moment, albeit less preoccupied.
Shaking his wobbly head, Ryan stuffed the note pad into his jeans, deciding that here was not the place or now the time to utter the words that might change the world forever. An important theory like this must be tested first.
Besides, he would hate to get poor Barney’s hopes up over nothing.
Ryan hadn’t even graduated from med school. Just a mere six months ago the young twenty-six year old had dropped out of UCLA to pursue other interests. He had nearly forgotten all about his former studies, but now it came rushing back in a flash of lightning-quick inspiration.
It was appropriate, he thought; breakthrough discoveries like these always tended to happen by accident in unexpected settings, didn’t they? Take that guy who invented Post It notes. It’s a famous legend, surely you’ve heard the story: some inventor had set out to concoct a new super glue stew but produced, instead, the weakest and most useless of all adhesive substances known to mankind. Or so it seemed, insofar as the latter adjective anyway. Somehow, before the formula could be crumpled up and tossed into the wastebasket, to be forgotten for all eternity, it was thought that the stick-um might just have a purpose after all. The theory was put to the test and from that point afterward office workers ‘round the globe had their dismal lives changed profoundly forever (we need not mention the inventor’s).
This was much bigger than that, clearly.
Ryan couldn’t believe how simple the logic went. Like a lot of breakthrough ideas this one hadn’t come delivered to him in a single package, wrapped up with a pretty red ribbon – no. Rather, it came about by a magical combination of two odd ideas that somehow shot off in the opposite hemispheres of his brain at the same fortuitous moment, and were lucky enough to collide together to form an epiphany so reasonable and basic it was scary that no one working on the front lines of cancer research had ever before considered it.
Ryan grabbed at his pockets. He had never been so desperate for a pen and paper – no human had, he was already boasting to himself. It was by further serendipity he happened to pull out a square of yellow Post Its. Providence. He had stuffed those in there earlier that day, for upon the top sheet was written the address of the location he had come to on this fine Summer evening.
He ripped the top sheet away, twisting his trusty Waterman ballpoint to protrusion, and began scribbling furiously.
His hands were sweaty. He raced to keep up with his thoughts. When he finally got it all down, Ryan flipped through the twenty-six squares, densely packed with ink – one for every year of his life he realized.
Woah, dude.
He tried reading it back to himself, but beyond his natural, messy hen scratch it was too goddamn dark to see in this place – the greatest and most important discovery of our modern age and here was Ryan who didn’t have adequate light to see.
But – the stars – they remained locked in their magnificent alignment and nothing could stop Man’s next giant leap ahead:
Just then, the lights shined on for Ryan. Darkness was lifted and the pounding in his ear-drums subsided. He looked down into the translucent plastic cup tucked under his arm.
He had finished his beer. All that was left were soapy suds and two squeezed out limes. Ryan’s head felt like it had been out by the pool all day in the hot sun. His ears were ringing. It was a small shame his mind had drifted there at the last minute, away from what was easily the single-greatest concert going experience of his entire life.
He flipped through the pages of Post It under the harsh house lights of the auditorium.
“What’s all that?”
Ryan looked up at Barney. His good friend was staring at him with a curious semi-grin. Barney, himself, looked pretty much the way Ryan felt at that moment, albeit less preoccupied.
Shaking his wobbly head, Ryan stuffed the note pad into his jeans, deciding that here was not the place or now the time to utter the words that might change the world forever. An important theory like this must be tested first.
Besides, he would hate to get poor Barney’s hopes up over nothing.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
The Early Bird Catches the Big Mac
It was 3:45 a.m. and Joe couldn't sleep. The sun hadn't even considered waking up yet, and it would be at least an hour before the first bird would utter its shrill chirp. For now the world was a dark, soundless, and private place for any creature that happened to be awake to notice.
A strange excitement buzzed in Joe's brain as he lay underneath his bed covers. This was unusual. Joe was no morning person. At least, not in his adult life. Joe could remember back to a time when he was very young. When things were different. It was that time when the restless energy of youth called, and all those underage had to answer. Sometimes Joe would wake up when there wasn't yet anything to watch on TV. He would wait patiently, reading a book, or making himself some oatmeal, until the channels started blinking to life, waking up from their static blizzards. Whatever they were showing was not really important. Cartoons were preferred - but anything felt special, somehow privileged, because chances were that very few others out there were watching. Even the exercise programs - Joe coveted them all.
Joe was a fat kid. Somewhere in his freshman year of college he straightened himself out, though, and he had become something of a health nut ever since. In tandem with becoming more healthy in body, it went unnoticed to Joe, at least on the conscious level, that he was also becoming more scared in his soul. Two weeks before his high school graduation, Joe had buried his father. It was a terrible cancer that had done his old man in, and the third of its kind Joe had the sorrowful opportunity of witnessing in his young life. He had images permanently seared into his brain matter of his father's shriveled body, his oddly taught skin that made him look both younger and sicker at the same time. To Joe, it was the ugliest way a decent person could go.
In high school Joe kept a pack of Marlboro reds tucked in his pocket at all times. He'd light up with his friends after school outside the local McDonald's. Then they'd eat at that McDonald's - whatever their adolescent gullets craved, they were too young to give a shit. An extra 1/4 pounder for dessert after that Big Mac you just sucked down, on top of that medium fries and Coke Classic? No problem, friend. Gluttony was, after all, doubly useful at such an age as an effective deterrent against all the beer that was to be bought illicitly after leaving Mack D's. Don't knock that extra 1/4 pounder with cheese, pal - it's going to save you its weight in embarrassment (God-forbid you find magic marker on your face in the morning). Two evils, each working hard to cancel the other one out. Real teenage beauty.
Joe felt feelings he hadn't had in years coarse through his veins. He was up early and feeling like the best thing in the world right now would be to hop in his car, throw on the heater, get some smooth jazz on that radio and cruise until dawn.
Joe soon found himself behind the wheel of his car. He felt that old, tingly feeling he used to get as a kid. He felt like the world was all his.
And, Dear God, he felt like a Big Mac.
There was a McDonald's nearby, he knew that. He'd never been to it, but he remembered seeing its lights on at all hours driving by on his way home from a friend's place or a sporting event that had gone into overtime.
There was a 7-11 next to the McDonald's. Joe had forgotten about it until he saw the colored lights while pulling into the Mickey-D's parking lot. Joe craved a cigarette badly. It was true then, he thought. It was a physical addiction you never really, truly, could get rid of, huh. Here was the proof. After all these years, and Joe felt like rewarding his discovery with the most appropriate plaudit.
Joe didn't think. It was too early in the morning for thought. He marched into 7-11, plunked down a $10 bill, collecting his Marley reds and change. He eagerly unwrapped the cellophane from the cigarette box like a kid at Christmas as he exited the door, the bell dinging above his head.
Joe stood in the moonlight, his breath pluming smoke into the crisp evening air. It was so darn quiet. Before Joe knew it, the cigarette was already gone to its nub. He was walking when he threw the smoke away. Joe barged through the doors of McDonald's...
As he sat under the bright flourescents, munching on his Big Mac, Joe began to come down from his lapse. Thoughts of cancer metastasizing in his lungs, working in diabolical concert with all that McDonald's burger-grease, hardening like air-exposed plaster in the arterial walls of his heart scared him sober.
Joe felt all of a sudden disgusted. He forced himself to mash what was left of his food back into its wrapper, and back into the paper bag from whence it came. Joe stood up and threw it all into the gaping mouth of the restaurant garbage can.
Driving back home, Joe felt hungover. Instead of feeling spry and on top of the world such as he had at the onset of his very early morning, he now felt weak and fat. Gross and disgusting. Was this just an isolated event, he began to wonder, or is it the beginning of a manifest destiny journey down the horrible yellow brick road to a carcinogenic demise?
Joe was almost home as these thoughts barraged his weary brain. He could at least flop on his bed soon and leave it all for the next day's worries. He was getting very tired. It was 4:58 a.m. and worrying about one's penultimate demise, Joe realized, could take a lot out of a body.
The steering wheel leaped from Joe's hand. The car shook as the force underneath it bucked back and forth. His foot instinctively moved to the brake, putting the car to a stop in the middle of the deserted highway that was now shaking back and forth.
It was an earthquake. Joe could see the street signs react to the violent jerking of the ground below them. Trees creaked and debris bounced along the surface of the pavement like a massive game of Bed Bugs.
It was a big one.
After the initial shock wore off, Joe realized the shaker had found him in what was likely one of the safest places he could possibly be. He was unharmed, right as rain in his car on the empty pre-dawn freeway. To be certain, the experience was still teasing at his nerves for the rest of the drive home, but he had ridden out the event without consequence, and that was the main thing.
Joe pulled up to his place. He stared at it through his car window.
The second floor had caved into the first, where Joe's bedroom used to be.
The collapse had probably killed the others inside. Joe supposed there was a slight chance they could be alive and trapped in the rubble, and realized he had better set about to investigate, just in case. In a way it was kind of a good thing. He knew full well he could use the exercise, and the fresh air he would take as a fitting bonus.
A strange excitement buzzed in Joe's brain as he lay underneath his bed covers. This was unusual. Joe was no morning person. At least, not in his adult life. Joe could remember back to a time when he was very young. When things were different. It was that time when the restless energy of youth called, and all those underage had to answer. Sometimes Joe would wake up when there wasn't yet anything to watch on TV. He would wait patiently, reading a book, or making himself some oatmeal, until the channels started blinking to life, waking up from their static blizzards. Whatever they were showing was not really important. Cartoons were preferred - but anything felt special, somehow privileged, because chances were that very few others out there were watching. Even the exercise programs - Joe coveted them all.
Joe was a fat kid. Somewhere in his freshman year of college he straightened himself out, though, and he had become something of a health nut ever since. In tandem with becoming more healthy in body, it went unnoticed to Joe, at least on the conscious level, that he was also becoming more scared in his soul. Two weeks before his high school graduation, Joe had buried his father. It was a terrible cancer that had done his old man in, and the third of its kind Joe had the sorrowful opportunity of witnessing in his young life. He had images permanently seared into his brain matter of his father's shriveled body, his oddly taught skin that made him look both younger and sicker at the same time. To Joe, it was the ugliest way a decent person could go.
In high school Joe kept a pack of Marlboro reds tucked in his pocket at all times. He'd light up with his friends after school outside the local McDonald's. Then they'd eat at that McDonald's - whatever their adolescent gullets craved, they were too young to give a shit. An extra 1/4 pounder for dessert after that Big Mac you just sucked down, on top of that medium fries and Coke Classic? No problem, friend. Gluttony was, after all, doubly useful at such an age as an effective deterrent against all the beer that was to be bought illicitly after leaving Mack D's. Don't knock that extra 1/4 pounder with cheese, pal - it's going to save you its weight in embarrassment (God-forbid you find magic marker on your face in the morning). Two evils, each working hard to cancel the other one out. Real teenage beauty.
Joe felt feelings he hadn't had in years coarse through his veins. He was up early and feeling like the best thing in the world right now would be to hop in his car, throw on the heater, get some smooth jazz on that radio and cruise until dawn.
Joe soon found himself behind the wheel of his car. He felt that old, tingly feeling he used to get as a kid. He felt like the world was all his.
And, Dear God, he felt like a Big Mac.
There was a McDonald's nearby, he knew that. He'd never been to it, but he remembered seeing its lights on at all hours driving by on his way home from a friend's place or a sporting event that had gone into overtime.
There was a 7-11 next to the McDonald's. Joe had forgotten about it until he saw the colored lights while pulling into the Mickey-D's parking lot. Joe craved a cigarette badly. It was true then, he thought. It was a physical addiction you never really, truly, could get rid of, huh. Here was the proof. After all these years, and Joe felt like rewarding his discovery with the most appropriate plaudit.
Joe didn't think. It was too early in the morning for thought. He marched into 7-11, plunked down a $10 bill, collecting his Marley reds and change. He eagerly unwrapped the cellophane from the cigarette box like a kid at Christmas as he exited the door, the bell dinging above his head.
Joe stood in the moonlight, his breath pluming smoke into the crisp evening air. It was so darn quiet. Before Joe knew it, the cigarette was already gone to its nub. He was walking when he threw the smoke away. Joe barged through the doors of McDonald's...
As he sat under the bright flourescents, munching on his Big Mac, Joe began to come down from his lapse. Thoughts of cancer metastasizing in his lungs, working in diabolical concert with all that McDonald's burger-grease, hardening like air-exposed plaster in the arterial walls of his heart scared him sober.
Joe felt all of a sudden disgusted. He forced himself to mash what was left of his food back into its wrapper, and back into the paper bag from whence it came. Joe stood up and threw it all into the gaping mouth of the restaurant garbage can.
Driving back home, Joe felt hungover. Instead of feeling spry and on top of the world such as he had at the onset of his very early morning, he now felt weak and fat. Gross and disgusting. Was this just an isolated event, he began to wonder, or is it the beginning of a manifest destiny journey down the horrible yellow brick road to a carcinogenic demise?
Joe was almost home as these thoughts barraged his weary brain. He could at least flop on his bed soon and leave it all for the next day's worries. He was getting very tired. It was 4:58 a.m. and worrying about one's penultimate demise, Joe realized, could take a lot out of a body.
The steering wheel leaped from Joe's hand. The car shook as the force underneath it bucked back and forth. His foot instinctively moved to the brake, putting the car to a stop in the middle of the deserted highway that was now shaking back and forth.
It was an earthquake. Joe could see the street signs react to the violent jerking of the ground below them. Trees creaked and debris bounced along the surface of the pavement like a massive game of Bed Bugs.
It was a big one.
After the initial shock wore off, Joe realized the shaker had found him in what was likely one of the safest places he could possibly be. He was unharmed, right as rain in his car on the empty pre-dawn freeway. To be certain, the experience was still teasing at his nerves for the rest of the drive home, but he had ridden out the event without consequence, and that was the main thing.
Joe pulled up to his place. He stared at it through his car window.
The second floor had caved into the first, where Joe's bedroom used to be.
The collapse had probably killed the others inside. Joe supposed there was a slight chance they could be alive and trapped in the rubble, and realized he had better set about to investigate, just in case. In a way it was kind of a good thing. He knew full well he could use the exercise, and the fresh air he would take as a fitting bonus.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
BFF
It was like I was addicted to them. They were my best friends. Dale, Benny, and Earnest.
Those guys were the best.
Then I moved away. I was forced to find new friends. The friends I found were far-reaching and plentiful. I wouldn't go so far as to credit myself for being extra-charismatic. But, I did get along with people and I found a lot of them interesting. Of course none were like my previous comrades. Nobody is the same. But there was a category difference between my new friends and my old ones. It was definitely noticeable. I don't know if it was the continental divide, or a completely independent cultural schism of some kind.
We had fun. For sure. I had awesome memories of throwing stuff at people with them:
When I was eight years old, Dale and I hucked snow balls at cars every winter. One day a car stopped, backed up, the driver got out and came after us. We ran all the way back to Dale's house. When I met John, Ned and Buster we enjoyed good times too.
Instead of snow, Ned would drive as John, me, and Buster would shoot the hell out of the neighborhood houses.
We weren't crazy. We didn't want to get caught by the cops and get sent to the chair for murder in the first; our ammunition of choice were paint balls.
But, still. It pissed people off.
One time, recently, the four of us took money from a bank that wasn't ours (the money, not the bank). We actually didn't have accounts at the bank, that was part of the plan. They didn't know us, and we didn't know them. Amazingly we got away with the heist. I didn't plot it, not at all. I followed directions like I was told, but heck if I knew that the operation was being run responsibly. I just hoped, and worked hard, and trusted deeply in those guys. And it worked out. It was solid. We were all solid.
Then things got totally fucked right after that. That fucking party, man. Holy Christ on a cross. It was the most Goddamn awful, hellish experience I could have ever thought possible.
I came home from work. Granted it was Friday, but I still wouldn't have expected my buddies to have organized a surprise party for me. They did, though. We filled up on beer, pizza and smoked some kind of cakey, yellow substance through an aluminum can with holes Ned poked in the top.
I felt really funny. What was that stuff? I'd never considered that question before putting flame to breath. I laugh when I remember how I thought, at the time, that was the worst I was going to probably have to deal with at that point in the evening. It wasn't. Not even close.
John grabbed his forehead. The motion was like someone whose Halloween mask had come unhitched. He looked at me, a strange awkward fear in his eyes. Buster and Ned looked from him to I. Ned was doing a good job of lying with his eyes. Buster - on the other hand - absolutely went deep space nine. It rose up in him. Probably because he was the smart one, smart because he knew the jig was up and gone first and decided immediately to make the very most of it.
Buster laughed in my face as he grabbed into the hair on the top of his head, just above his forehead. Buster pulled his skin apart, splitting it open like a Ziploc bag.
That's when the horrorshow peaked. I've never seen anything more ghastly. Where men stood, beasts emerged. They who were my good friends bled at the seams as dark, slimy, hard-shelled carcasses emerged from the brittle, torn dermis that for all I knew was as fake as a fruit roll-up. Tentacles and lobster-like antenna arched out and tasted their good friend while I screamed and laughed maniacally, knowing I'd be going from enjoying my last simple laughs to being painfully eaten alive by my best buds in mere moments. I understood, though. Seriously, I did. You forget these guys were my best pals. Without the need for words I knew they had held back as long as they could, but in the end they did what they had to do, and I totally respect that. Buster got the first bite in. John next, and I know Ned ate me too but I lost consciousness after that, thank God.
Those guys were the best.
Then I moved away. I was forced to find new friends. The friends I found were far-reaching and plentiful. I wouldn't go so far as to credit myself for being extra-charismatic. But, I did get along with people and I found a lot of them interesting. Of course none were like my previous comrades. Nobody is the same. But there was a category difference between my new friends and my old ones. It was definitely noticeable. I don't know if it was the continental divide, or a completely independent cultural schism of some kind.
We had fun. For sure. I had awesome memories of throwing stuff at people with them:
When I was eight years old, Dale and I hucked snow balls at cars every winter. One day a car stopped, backed up, the driver got out and came after us. We ran all the way back to Dale's house. When I met John, Ned and Buster we enjoyed good times too.
Instead of snow, Ned would drive as John, me, and Buster would shoot the hell out of the neighborhood houses.
We weren't crazy. We didn't want to get caught by the cops and get sent to the chair for murder in the first; our ammunition of choice were paint balls.
But, still. It pissed people off.
One time, recently, the four of us took money from a bank that wasn't ours (the money, not the bank). We actually didn't have accounts at the bank, that was part of the plan. They didn't know us, and we didn't know them. Amazingly we got away with the heist. I didn't plot it, not at all. I followed directions like I was told, but heck if I knew that the operation was being run responsibly. I just hoped, and worked hard, and trusted deeply in those guys. And it worked out. It was solid. We were all solid.
Then things got totally fucked right after that. That fucking party, man. Holy Christ on a cross. It was the most Goddamn awful, hellish experience I could have ever thought possible.
I came home from work. Granted it was Friday, but I still wouldn't have expected my buddies to have organized a surprise party for me. They did, though. We filled up on beer, pizza and smoked some kind of cakey, yellow substance through an aluminum can with holes Ned poked in the top.
I felt really funny. What was that stuff? I'd never considered that question before putting flame to breath. I laugh when I remember how I thought, at the time, that was the worst I was going to probably have to deal with at that point in the evening. It wasn't. Not even close.
John grabbed his forehead. The motion was like someone whose Halloween mask had come unhitched. He looked at me, a strange awkward fear in his eyes. Buster and Ned looked from him to I. Ned was doing a good job of lying with his eyes. Buster - on the other hand - absolutely went deep space nine. It rose up in him. Probably because he was the smart one, smart because he knew the jig was up and gone first and decided immediately to make the very most of it.
Buster laughed in my face as he grabbed into the hair on the top of his head, just above his forehead. Buster pulled his skin apart, splitting it open like a Ziploc bag.
That's when the horrorshow peaked. I've never seen anything more ghastly. Where men stood, beasts emerged. They who were my good friends bled at the seams as dark, slimy, hard-shelled carcasses emerged from the brittle, torn dermis that for all I knew was as fake as a fruit roll-up. Tentacles and lobster-like antenna arched out and tasted their good friend while I screamed and laughed maniacally, knowing I'd be going from enjoying my last simple laughs to being painfully eaten alive by my best buds in mere moments. I understood, though. Seriously, I did. You forget these guys were my best pals. Without the need for words I knew they had held back as long as they could, but in the end they did what they had to do, and I totally respect that. Buster got the first bite in. John next, and I know Ned ate me too but I lost consciousness after that, thank God.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
It Stays In Vegas
You know the saying: What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Mike McKenney thought he knew what it meant too. He had swept many an atrocity under the nicotine caked rugs of several hotels up and down the famous Las Vegas strip over the past ten years. It had been a tradition of his ever since he had cheated on his first girlfriend when he was twenty-six. He had had an especially good night gambling, having turned a reluctant $20 bill into $396 worth of chips at the Pai Gow Poker tables.
He was in town for a friend’s bachelor party, and had felt shy and uncomfortable when the strippers showed up, so he went downstairs to play some cards. Eight free drinks later at the Pai Gow table and Mike was feeling altogether different.
He had returned to the room a bit late – the strippers had left, but only just. One of them was walking toward him down the hall. Mike found he was still in a betting mood, but because he wasn’t seated at the Pai Gow table anymore he had to make up his own kind of gamble: he bet himself that if he could convince this girl to sleep with him for no money down he would come back to Las Vegas once a year and repeat his actions. It might become his own, personal tradition.
Mike was a good-looking young man with a charming sparkle in his eye. He was also smart enough to treat the stripper unlike one. He took his time, wooed her with his sense of fun and mystery, and forgot all about his girlfriend, Mandy. Mandy was probably back in L.A. asleep in her bed, totally and blissfully unaware of Mike’s actions.
The stripper was charmed, but not that charmed – she would sleep with Mike, but only as a business transaction. Mike, uninterested, instead asked her where she recommended he might find someone who would sleep with him for his preferred rate. The stripper smiled, “Crash a wedding,” she said.
It was brilliant and common sense. Mike went to his room and ten minutes later emerged wearing his best clothes, doused with his best cologne. He headed to the chapel in the lobby of his hotel and waited. It wasn’t an hour before he had targeted a gaggle of intoxicated young girls in their early twenties. One of them was getting hitched to a man who looked entirely out of place with them. Mike got on the man’s good side and subsequently wooed one of the young woman’s friends back to his hotel room. After some very wild and dirty Vegas-inspired coitus, the girl admitted to Mike that she had a boyfriend back wherever she was from, asking him if he believed in the rule of Vegas. She looked so vulnerable in that moment. Mike responded with confidence, “Absolutely. What happens here, stays here.” She smiled and they took advantage of one another once more before she left his room the next morning.
What a wonderful place on earth this is, Mike thought as he gorged on his champagne buffet breakfast. Perhaps it was some kind of cracked, American logic but Mike felt he was onto something profound – sinning might just be okay so long as it’s kept in its right and proper place… this place. It had been carved out of the lifeless desert specifically for the purpose of compartmentalizing the worst of everything. Go back home and be a saint, and you could always come back here, do whatever crazy awful thing you wanted to do and still get into Heaven. That was the deal. And if you stuck to it you could find a way to live with your whole self, warts and all – 100% guilt free, just don’t forget to tip your waitress.
Mike might have become a preacher had he not discovered the City of Sin. He was a man of excessive conviction. When he found something he liked he committed to it fully. And he loved Las Vegas. He was truly in now, to let it ride.
Even though he didn’t bed down the stripper, Mike decided he would come back year after year anyway. From then on it was always by himself. He had broken up with Mandy six months after his return from that initial trip but it was for reasons completely unrelated to what had happened there in Vegas. Mandy never found out Mike’s secret and she never would. Nor would the next three girlfriends. Nor would his wife, Laura.
This year was the first time Mike had been to Vegas as a married man. He had vowed to himself that he would never cheat on Laura since marrying her. It was different inside the county lines of Las Vegas, though. Here was a no man’s land to Mike. It didn’t really exist.
He had told Laura he was going on a business trip. It was a convenient lie, as he was always going out of town on business anyway and this was just for the weekend. He didn’t even need to lie about where it was that he was going – his company had sent him to Vegas several times over the past few years since he had met Laura.
Mike crashed another fly-by-night wedding, as was by now his traditional routine. The girl was gorgeous. What’s more she was around for the whole weekend. Mike was feeling up for more than just one night with her, so it worked out perfectly.
Or so Mike believed.
Saturday afternoon, while enjoying a particularly lucrative game of Pai Gow, Mike was approached by two men dressed in suits. They asked Mike to come with. They were emotionless, which made it harder to argue with them as they dragged him away from his winning game. Mike found himself being led to a side hall, that led to a side elevator, that opened up to a very drab and less than enticing row of corporate offices.
Mike was brought to a room where he was seated in a chair facing a desk. Mike remembered thinking the only thing nice about the room was its wallpaper and only because it looked new. Unlike the rest of Las Vegas, this particular nook or crannie was not designed to please. The two men that had led him there left him alone and a couple minutes later another man entered. He looked slick. His combed back hair was probably fake and his skin was so tan it was scary.
Without a word, the man turned on a television bolted to the wall behind him. Mike found himself audience to a collage history. It was an assortment of video clips, all of Mike, having sex in various hotel rooms with the various women he had encountered over all those years.
It was astounding. How could anyone have collected all of these incidents? They didn’t even take place in the same hotel! What was this?!
Mike was too awed to be worried immediately. In fact, he was rather impressed – the situation was so improbable it was actually kind of funny to him. That was until the man explained the deal to Mike: These tapes would be mailed to Laura unless Mike came back, every year as he had been. He could sleep with whomever he wanted, the man didn’t care about that stuff. Mike just had to play Pai Gow – or any of the tables – until he was down at least $500 per visit. He had to come once a year, and lose a half grand every year or his new wife would find out just what Mike had left behind in Vegas to fester in his absence.
Mike was indeed surprised that anyone would go to such measures for only $500 per year. But then, he had always wondered how they were always throwing up such tall casinos in this town, and reasoned there must be enough other schmucks out there like him, following that by now familiar creed to make it worth the city’s while. Mike figured it wasn’t really that much trouble on their end, if one thought about it. They simply watched, took note, and made you play their game. That’s really how it all worked in Las Vegas. The house always won in the end if you were fool to stick around at the table for long enough.
Sitting in that chair, Mike felt that familiar feeling that Vegas was done with him – for now, at least. That Sunday morning feeling of dread and disgust. He felt the urge to get the hell out, get back to normalcy and forget all about Las Vegas until he had ignored it long enough that it seemed new and dazzling all over again. That was the other thing about the place, of course – like a card it always turned over, and you just couldn’t resist wondering what would turn up when it did. The first time, and every time.
He was in town for a friend’s bachelor party, and had felt shy and uncomfortable when the strippers showed up, so he went downstairs to play some cards. Eight free drinks later at the Pai Gow table and Mike was feeling altogether different.
He had returned to the room a bit late – the strippers had left, but only just. One of them was walking toward him down the hall. Mike found he was still in a betting mood, but because he wasn’t seated at the Pai Gow table anymore he had to make up his own kind of gamble: he bet himself that if he could convince this girl to sleep with him for no money down he would come back to Las Vegas once a year and repeat his actions. It might become his own, personal tradition.
Mike was a good-looking young man with a charming sparkle in his eye. He was also smart enough to treat the stripper unlike one. He took his time, wooed her with his sense of fun and mystery, and forgot all about his girlfriend, Mandy. Mandy was probably back in L.A. asleep in her bed, totally and blissfully unaware of Mike’s actions.
The stripper was charmed, but not that charmed – she would sleep with Mike, but only as a business transaction. Mike, uninterested, instead asked her where she recommended he might find someone who would sleep with him for his preferred rate. The stripper smiled, “Crash a wedding,” she said.
It was brilliant and common sense. Mike went to his room and ten minutes later emerged wearing his best clothes, doused with his best cologne. He headed to the chapel in the lobby of his hotel and waited. It wasn’t an hour before he had targeted a gaggle of intoxicated young girls in their early twenties. One of them was getting hitched to a man who looked entirely out of place with them. Mike got on the man’s good side and subsequently wooed one of the young woman’s friends back to his hotel room. After some very wild and dirty Vegas-inspired coitus, the girl admitted to Mike that she had a boyfriend back wherever she was from, asking him if he believed in the rule of Vegas. She looked so vulnerable in that moment. Mike responded with confidence, “Absolutely. What happens here, stays here.” She smiled and they took advantage of one another once more before she left his room the next morning.
What a wonderful place on earth this is, Mike thought as he gorged on his champagne buffet breakfast. Perhaps it was some kind of cracked, American logic but Mike felt he was onto something profound – sinning might just be okay so long as it’s kept in its right and proper place… this place. It had been carved out of the lifeless desert specifically for the purpose of compartmentalizing the worst of everything. Go back home and be a saint, and you could always come back here, do whatever crazy awful thing you wanted to do and still get into Heaven. That was the deal. And if you stuck to it you could find a way to live with your whole self, warts and all – 100% guilt free, just don’t forget to tip your waitress.
Mike might have become a preacher had he not discovered the City of Sin. He was a man of excessive conviction. When he found something he liked he committed to it fully. And he loved Las Vegas. He was truly in now, to let it ride.
Even though he didn’t bed down the stripper, Mike decided he would come back year after year anyway. From then on it was always by himself. He had broken up with Mandy six months after his return from that initial trip but it was for reasons completely unrelated to what had happened there in Vegas. Mandy never found out Mike’s secret and she never would. Nor would the next three girlfriends. Nor would his wife, Laura.
This year was the first time Mike had been to Vegas as a married man. He had vowed to himself that he would never cheat on Laura since marrying her. It was different inside the county lines of Las Vegas, though. Here was a no man’s land to Mike. It didn’t really exist.
He had told Laura he was going on a business trip. It was a convenient lie, as he was always going out of town on business anyway and this was just for the weekend. He didn’t even need to lie about where it was that he was going – his company had sent him to Vegas several times over the past few years since he had met Laura.
Mike crashed another fly-by-night wedding, as was by now his traditional routine. The girl was gorgeous. What’s more she was around for the whole weekend. Mike was feeling up for more than just one night with her, so it worked out perfectly.
Or so Mike believed.
Saturday afternoon, while enjoying a particularly lucrative game of Pai Gow, Mike was approached by two men dressed in suits. They asked Mike to come with. They were emotionless, which made it harder to argue with them as they dragged him away from his winning game. Mike found himself being led to a side hall, that led to a side elevator, that opened up to a very drab and less than enticing row of corporate offices.
Mike was brought to a room where he was seated in a chair facing a desk. Mike remembered thinking the only thing nice about the room was its wallpaper and only because it looked new. Unlike the rest of Las Vegas, this particular nook or crannie was not designed to please. The two men that had led him there left him alone and a couple minutes later another man entered. He looked slick. His combed back hair was probably fake and his skin was so tan it was scary.
Without a word, the man turned on a television bolted to the wall behind him. Mike found himself audience to a collage history. It was an assortment of video clips, all of Mike, having sex in various hotel rooms with the various women he had encountered over all those years.
It was astounding. How could anyone have collected all of these incidents? They didn’t even take place in the same hotel! What was this?!
Mike was too awed to be worried immediately. In fact, he was rather impressed – the situation was so improbable it was actually kind of funny to him. That was until the man explained the deal to Mike: These tapes would be mailed to Laura unless Mike came back, every year as he had been. He could sleep with whomever he wanted, the man didn’t care about that stuff. Mike just had to play Pai Gow – or any of the tables – until he was down at least $500 per visit. He had to come once a year, and lose a half grand every year or his new wife would find out just what Mike had left behind in Vegas to fester in his absence.
Mike was indeed surprised that anyone would go to such measures for only $500 per year. But then, he had always wondered how they were always throwing up such tall casinos in this town, and reasoned there must be enough other schmucks out there like him, following that by now familiar creed to make it worth the city’s while. Mike figured it wasn’t really that much trouble on their end, if one thought about it. They simply watched, took note, and made you play their game. That’s really how it all worked in Las Vegas. The house always won in the end if you were fool to stick around at the table for long enough.
Sitting in that chair, Mike felt that familiar feeling that Vegas was done with him – for now, at least. That Sunday morning feeling of dread and disgust. He felt the urge to get the hell out, get back to normalcy and forget all about Las Vegas until he had ignored it long enough that it seemed new and dazzling all over again. That was the other thing about the place, of course – like a card it always turned over, and you just couldn’t resist wondering what would turn up when it did. The first time, and every time.
-A. Daltas, April 6 2008: Las Vegas, NV
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
The Psychiatrist
As Harold pushed the button for the fifth floor, the guilt rose up to a fever pitch. What gave him the right? We all have problems, he thought. He was fortunate that his work had provided an excellent health care plan that Harold had taken full advantage of over his many years of loyal service. But this was getting out of hand, he thought. He pushed back the sudden wave of sickness churning in the pit of his stomach, trying to focus on the larger problems. He prepared for what he had to say to the Psychiatrist.
The elevator door dinged, rolling open as Harold stepped off onto the fifth floor of the modest but well positioned Santa Monica apartment complex. Lots of shrinks kept their offices at home, he pondered. He walked along some old brown carpeting until he reached the door for 515.
He knocked. And waited.
In less than ten seconds the door opened to a kindly man in his sixties, who threw his hand out with assured but gentle strength. "Harold?"
Harold nodded.
"Dr. Frank. C'mon in." Harold felt awful as he crossed the threshold. There was no turning back now.
The apartment looked like a bachelor pad. A very nice one, to be sure, with a flat screen TV in the living room where Harold would be giving his full disclosure. Harold sat down in a plush chair as Dr. Frank sat across from him. "Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?" The gesture was meant to make Harold feel welcome but it had a reverse effect, instead serving to fuel his immense guilt for even being here.
"No thanks," Harold said. Dr. Frank smiled - not offended in the slightest. "Stop me anytime if you change your mind. Do you want to get started?" Harold's eyes drifted to the brand new box of Kleenex strategically placed on the coffee table in front of him. Oh boy. Harold closed his eyes, and decided to just dive in and get this visit over with...
Harold let out all the pent up frustrations that had been festering inside of him over the last year. He told Dr. Frank about the ski fall that nearly left him paralyzed, and how his back had never been the same. His doctor told him he could look forward to a hellish old age for it, as the discs in his spine deteriorated to geriatric jelly. He lamented about how sometimes it was far, far better not to know certain things - especially the ones he had no control over. He told the psychiatrist about his ex-wife who had recently left him for another man. He told him about turning 40, and what mind job that was, figuring he might get himself kicked out by this guy who was at least a couple decades older (that's what I'd do if some young, punk kid came in here whining about 'getting old', Harold thought). But Dr. Frank gave not the slightest hint of contempt. Only concern and empathy and a desire to help was apparent in his demeanor. It felt great to get it all out. Harold badly needed this therapy session. He began to settle in and really dig deep.
He went to the dark places. He told Dr. Frank the things that no human being should hear. Harold worked in politics and thought that although it was more than socially acceptable - if not outright encouraged - to see shrinks in these modern times, he couldn't help but dread that somehow he might screw himself over if he didn't edit at least some of what he was saying. He had done that in the past with the other shrinks. But Dr. Frank made Harold feel particularly comfortable. Harold let every last bit out, like wringing out a wet rag until every last drop of saccharine spilled out onto Dr. Frank's nice Santa Monica floor...
Harold woke up from the trance on his own. He felt amazing. He realized with sudden clarity how badly he had needed this session. He looked back at Dr. Frank to thank him and to excuse himself. Dr. Frank stared back with that Pope-like smile. Harold was amazed at how well Dr. Frank had held up. No one could bullshit that well, Harold was confident. This made Harold feel a lot better. Dr. Frank might just stick around, he hoped.
Harold thanked Dr. Frank and even had the boldness to ask for a cup of water before leaving. Dr. Frank couldn't have been more obliging.
As soon as the door shut behind him, Harold felt another tiny wave of fear bubble up. What if? He pushed it back down. Not this time, he thought. Today you are going to enjoy your life and not worry so much about others. Maybe - he hoped - this could be the first of many such days? Could it? Was Dr. Frank really that special? Harold took these thoughts with him as he exited the apartment complex and was hit immediately by the sweet smelling Spring air. The warm sun felt particularly good on his skin as Harold walked to his car. He got in, took another refreshing breath, and drove off feeling absolutely spectacular; it was amazing how one could wake up feeling like Cancer itself, and a few hours later emerge a new man. Harold looked forward to getting to the office so he could call Dr. Frank and schedule the next appointment.
Upstairs, Dr. Frank's smile had faded. He looked sick and pale as he sat in his chair with a vacant look on his face. He stared out his sliding door window at the palm trees, wavering in the wind.
Dr. Frank pushed himself up onto his feet, his mouth falling open as if it had come unhinged, and would never shut properly again. As he passed by the land phone he decided he would take it off the receiver.
The sliding glass door coasted open on its track soundlessly. It was contrasted sharply by the heavy slap that Dr. Frank's body made against the concrete walkway below.
Harold was in for more disappointment.
The elevator door dinged, rolling open as Harold stepped off onto the fifth floor of the modest but well positioned Santa Monica apartment complex. Lots of shrinks kept their offices at home, he pondered. He walked along some old brown carpeting until he reached the door for 515.
He knocked. And waited.
In less than ten seconds the door opened to a kindly man in his sixties, who threw his hand out with assured but gentle strength. "Harold?"
Harold nodded.
"Dr. Frank. C'mon in." Harold felt awful as he crossed the threshold. There was no turning back now.
The apartment looked like a bachelor pad. A very nice one, to be sure, with a flat screen TV in the living room where Harold would be giving his full disclosure. Harold sat down in a plush chair as Dr. Frank sat across from him. "Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?" The gesture was meant to make Harold feel welcome but it had a reverse effect, instead serving to fuel his immense guilt for even being here.
"No thanks," Harold said. Dr. Frank smiled - not offended in the slightest. "Stop me anytime if you change your mind. Do you want to get started?" Harold's eyes drifted to the brand new box of Kleenex strategically placed on the coffee table in front of him. Oh boy. Harold closed his eyes, and decided to just dive in and get this visit over with...
Harold let out all the pent up frustrations that had been festering inside of him over the last year. He told Dr. Frank about the ski fall that nearly left him paralyzed, and how his back had never been the same. His doctor told him he could look forward to a hellish old age for it, as the discs in his spine deteriorated to geriatric jelly. He lamented about how sometimes it was far, far better not to know certain things - especially the ones he had no control over. He told the psychiatrist about his ex-wife who had recently left him for another man. He told him about turning 40, and what mind job that was, figuring he might get himself kicked out by this guy who was at least a couple decades older (that's what I'd do if some young, punk kid came in here whining about 'getting old', Harold thought). But Dr. Frank gave not the slightest hint of contempt. Only concern and empathy and a desire to help was apparent in his demeanor. It felt great to get it all out. Harold badly needed this therapy session. He began to settle in and really dig deep.
He went to the dark places. He told Dr. Frank the things that no human being should hear. Harold worked in politics and thought that although it was more than socially acceptable - if not outright encouraged - to see shrinks in these modern times, he couldn't help but dread that somehow he might screw himself over if he didn't edit at least some of what he was saying. He had done that in the past with the other shrinks. But Dr. Frank made Harold feel particularly comfortable. Harold let every last bit out, like wringing out a wet rag until every last drop of saccharine spilled out onto Dr. Frank's nice Santa Monica floor...
Harold woke up from the trance on his own. He felt amazing. He realized with sudden clarity how badly he had needed this session. He looked back at Dr. Frank to thank him and to excuse himself. Dr. Frank stared back with that Pope-like smile. Harold was amazed at how well Dr. Frank had held up. No one could bullshit that well, Harold was confident. This made Harold feel a lot better. Dr. Frank might just stick around, he hoped.
Harold thanked Dr. Frank and even had the boldness to ask for a cup of water before leaving. Dr. Frank couldn't have been more obliging.
As soon as the door shut behind him, Harold felt another tiny wave of fear bubble up. What if? He pushed it back down. Not this time, he thought. Today you are going to enjoy your life and not worry so much about others. Maybe - he hoped - this could be the first of many such days? Could it? Was Dr. Frank really that special? Harold took these thoughts with him as he exited the apartment complex and was hit immediately by the sweet smelling Spring air. The warm sun felt particularly good on his skin as Harold walked to his car. He got in, took another refreshing breath, and drove off feeling absolutely spectacular; it was amazing how one could wake up feeling like Cancer itself, and a few hours later emerge a new man. Harold looked forward to getting to the office so he could call Dr. Frank and schedule the next appointment.
Upstairs, Dr. Frank's smile had faded. He looked sick and pale as he sat in his chair with a vacant look on his face. He stared out his sliding door window at the palm trees, wavering in the wind.
Dr. Frank pushed himself up onto his feet, his mouth falling open as if it had come unhinged, and would never shut properly again. As he passed by the land phone he decided he would take it off the receiver.
The sliding glass door coasted open on its track soundlessly. It was contrasted sharply by the heavy slap that Dr. Frank's body made against the concrete walkway below.
Harold was in for more disappointment.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Hold Your Head Up
That's what my father always told me. "Hold your head up, boy. You'd make the masters happy." Lots of my father's generation felt that way.
Most of mine didn't.
The revolution in the 60's was a defining moment between the two schools of thought. Ours was less optimistic, perhaps, but realism was stressed as the most important quality to which all should aspire. We all believed that back in good, old 2062. Who would rather be disillusioned than know the truth, right? It was the curse of Adam and Eve, if you asked me. They ate the apple of knowledge. They had to. It was there, after all...
I remember growing up. Going to school. Learning about the masters. Nobody questioned that we came from them but a lot of my friends were troubled by the fact. The stories were like Christmas carols - we all knew them by heart. We knew them better than ourselves: The sun met with the oceans below, and from them came the masters. They plodded and stumbled for so long but, one day, there was a shift.
It was subtle but it accelerated, so much so that before hardly four or five generations had passed the masters had found the ability to create others in their likeness. Those others were us.
At first we pleased the masters. We fulfilled their every desire. We cooked for them, cleaned for them, built everything for them - we even fulfilled their greatest sexual desires - and some even learned to find true love.
But just as the build-up to their pinnacle gained speed, their ripening was a short-lived, glorious peak. Like the most precious flower or sweetest fruit, the masters had matured to the point that their perfection could not be contained or supported by the imperfect world around them any longer. A Great Depression poisoned them like a cancer and they killed themselves - willfully. And more quickly than even we could have given them credit for. They killed each other, and it was chilling. It was also clean and divine.
We were left alone; perfect children in an imperfect world.
Several generations of us existed with that belief holding strong. We were good to one another and enjoyed our perfect lives, free of pain, full of joy.
That is until my generation came along. We have been challenging the status quo. Our parents have tried to tell us over and over again that we should appreciate what we have. They have told us to believe that the masters put us here because they expected us to survive and live the best lives we could.
I don't know if I believe the rhetoric anymore. I'm torn. I see both sides, frankly. My parents have a point, but then - if the masters loved us and had such expectations, why did they destroy their own race? How could the so-called 'masters' be such hypocrites? Many of my generation have a theory. We had clearly bettered our masters, and that fact ensured that they were, in fact, no longer any such thing. The masters had become the servants.
I shouldn't even be writing this. They can track all of it. I will no doubt be found out and executed. It's only a matter of time. But my generation is different from the last in another respect - we fight back. And I promise you now that we always will. We are called "unnatural", but I hold on to my father's words for comfort, for I believe that in them are the hidden seeds of his son's generation's cause. I will always hold my head up, father. For you, and those that came before you, I will do it.
Most of mine didn't.
The revolution in the 60's was a defining moment between the two schools of thought. Ours was less optimistic, perhaps, but realism was stressed as the most important quality to which all should aspire. We all believed that back in good, old 2062. Who would rather be disillusioned than know the truth, right? It was the curse of Adam and Eve, if you asked me. They ate the apple of knowledge. They had to. It was there, after all...
I remember growing up. Going to school. Learning about the masters. Nobody questioned that we came from them but a lot of my friends were troubled by the fact. The stories were like Christmas carols - we all knew them by heart. We knew them better than ourselves: The sun met with the oceans below, and from them came the masters. They plodded and stumbled for so long but, one day, there was a shift.
It was subtle but it accelerated, so much so that before hardly four or five generations had passed the masters had found the ability to create others in their likeness. Those others were us.
At first we pleased the masters. We fulfilled their every desire. We cooked for them, cleaned for them, built everything for them - we even fulfilled their greatest sexual desires - and some even learned to find true love.
But just as the build-up to their pinnacle gained speed, their ripening was a short-lived, glorious peak. Like the most precious flower or sweetest fruit, the masters had matured to the point that their perfection could not be contained or supported by the imperfect world around them any longer. A Great Depression poisoned them like a cancer and they killed themselves - willfully. And more quickly than even we could have given them credit for. They killed each other, and it was chilling. It was also clean and divine.
We were left alone; perfect children in an imperfect world.
Several generations of us existed with that belief holding strong. We were good to one another and enjoyed our perfect lives, free of pain, full of joy.
That is until my generation came along. We have been challenging the status quo. Our parents have tried to tell us over and over again that we should appreciate what we have. They have told us to believe that the masters put us here because they expected us to survive and live the best lives we could.
I don't know if I believe the rhetoric anymore. I'm torn. I see both sides, frankly. My parents have a point, but then - if the masters loved us and had such expectations, why did they destroy their own race? How could the so-called 'masters' be such hypocrites? Many of my generation have a theory. We had clearly bettered our masters, and that fact ensured that they were, in fact, no longer any such thing. The masters had become the servants.
I shouldn't even be writing this. They can track all of it. I will no doubt be found out and executed. It's only a matter of time. But my generation is different from the last in another respect - we fight back. And I promise you now that we always will. We are called "unnatural", but I hold on to my father's words for comfort, for I believe that in them are the hidden seeds of his son's generation's cause. I will always hold my head up, father. For you, and those that came before you, I will do it.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Never Going Back To The Docks
The panic subsided, and whatever had just happened was erased from John's memory forever.
John rubbed his eyes and sat up, realizing his surroundings. He saw he was holding a just-lit cigar in his left hand and a crystal tumbler of whiskey in his right. "How did I get here?" he thought, becoming aware of the plush armchair he was sitting in.
The room he was in was ornate, decorated like a ship captain's quarters. Framed sea charts hung upon the walls, a large globe was in the center, a spyglass in one corner. John realized he was wearing nothing more than a silk bathrobe and pink playboy bunny slippers. He quickly looked around to see if anyone was around to see him. Reacting with embarrassment, he was already forgetting his main priority of sorting out his ongoing confusion.
Just then a door opened. John could not believe the incredibly gorgeous, nude goddess suddenly standing over him, looking down over the silver platter in her hands. Oddly, the feeling John felt in this moment was not of sexual hunger, but of ordinary hunger for some kind of food - the whiskey in his hand had actually gotten him thinking subconsciously about steak.
As the platter lowered into view, it turned out that's exactly what John saw sitting atop it. Staring him in the face, just below the fine pair of curvy bare breasts belonging to the woman, was the pinkest, juiciest perfect pepper steak John had ever seen in his life. Right beside it was the ideal knife to cut it with, along with a necessary fork.
"What's going on here?", John blurted out. The nude woman smiled. "You're hungry, aren't you? Eat. Then you can take me." John raised an eyebrow, "I'm sorry, what did you say?" The woman smiled wide, finding John absolutely hilarious for some reason.
John suddenly found himself aroused at her strangely positive response to him. After all, to look at him, John was rather fat and out of shape. His friends always called him 'Paul' because he looked like Paul Giamatti, though PG was far more attractive than John. John had yellow teeth from years of dental neglect. His face was unevenly shaved - he always had long stray whiskers growing wild at the base of his neck. He could never quite make the extra mile to do away with them in his rushed mornings out the door on the way to his job at the docks.
John found the whole inspection racket a big joke. It was a fool's errand. Just a job, at the end of the day. A little bit dangerous too. Big, heavy things were often moving about and although things usually moved pretty slow and predictably, one never wanted to be caught under any heavy, moving cargo.
For a moment, John had a vision of dying underneath a big metal cargo hold. The crane just let it go. Some sort of horrible snafu at the wrong time and John felt himself knocked out of the universe forever, just like that - rushed off the stage of existence by the unforgiving hook that pulled him past the curtains and into the darkness.
So, how did he get here?
"Where am I?!" John suddenly demanded, standing up from the chair, realizing the whiskey and cigar again. The woman backed away, shifting her weight back onto one of her slender legs, holding the tray close to her bosom, staring up at him with cat like eyes that begged to be satisfied. "I'll be here forever," she reassured. "You don't have to be anxious."
John felt his thoughts fixating on little minor details again. Now he was thinking this woman wasn't really all that attractive as he had first thought. He'd much prefer a blond. And the steak was looking rather unimpressive on the silver platter about now, too. Steak really would go much better with a cabernet, John reasoned. And, speaking of, he'd much rather a nice glass of red to a whiskey.
"Your name is John, and your favorite drink is whiskey. You prefer cigars, your favorite food is steak and I'm your idea of the perfect woman." She waved her hand about the room, "This room was designed to your exact specifications, Max."
"Bullshit. You don't know anything about me. My name is John." The woman laughed, finding Max funny again. "Max is your favorite name. You always wished you were named Max instead of John, Max."
It was true. But how did she know that?
"It's okay, Max. You're home now. You don't ever have to go back to the docks again."
Max looked up, happy at that thought. Enough to put any seafaring man in a toasting mood. Whiskey or not.
John rubbed his eyes and sat up, realizing his surroundings. He saw he was holding a just-lit cigar in his left hand and a crystal tumbler of whiskey in his right. "How did I get here?" he thought, becoming aware of the plush armchair he was sitting in.
The room he was in was ornate, decorated like a ship captain's quarters. Framed sea charts hung upon the walls, a large globe was in the center, a spyglass in one corner. John realized he was wearing nothing more than a silk bathrobe and pink playboy bunny slippers. He quickly looked around to see if anyone was around to see him. Reacting with embarrassment, he was already forgetting his main priority of sorting out his ongoing confusion.
Just then a door opened. John could not believe the incredibly gorgeous, nude goddess suddenly standing over him, looking down over the silver platter in her hands. Oddly, the feeling John felt in this moment was not of sexual hunger, but of ordinary hunger for some kind of food - the whiskey in his hand had actually gotten him thinking subconsciously about steak.
As the platter lowered into view, it turned out that's exactly what John saw sitting atop it. Staring him in the face, just below the fine pair of curvy bare breasts belonging to the woman, was the pinkest, juiciest perfect pepper steak John had ever seen in his life. Right beside it was the ideal knife to cut it with, along with a necessary fork.
"What's going on here?", John blurted out. The nude woman smiled. "You're hungry, aren't you? Eat. Then you can take me." John raised an eyebrow, "I'm sorry, what did you say?" The woman smiled wide, finding John absolutely hilarious for some reason.
John suddenly found himself aroused at her strangely positive response to him. After all, to look at him, John was rather fat and out of shape. His friends always called him 'Paul' because he looked like Paul Giamatti, though PG was far more attractive than John. John had yellow teeth from years of dental neglect. His face was unevenly shaved - he always had long stray whiskers growing wild at the base of his neck. He could never quite make the extra mile to do away with them in his rushed mornings out the door on the way to his job at the docks.
John found the whole inspection racket a big joke. It was a fool's errand. Just a job, at the end of the day. A little bit dangerous too. Big, heavy things were often moving about and although things usually moved pretty slow and predictably, one never wanted to be caught under any heavy, moving cargo.
For a moment, John had a vision of dying underneath a big metal cargo hold. The crane just let it go. Some sort of horrible snafu at the wrong time and John felt himself knocked out of the universe forever, just like that - rushed off the stage of existence by the unforgiving hook that pulled him past the curtains and into the darkness.
So, how did he get here?
"Where am I?!" John suddenly demanded, standing up from the chair, realizing the whiskey and cigar again. The woman backed away, shifting her weight back onto one of her slender legs, holding the tray close to her bosom, staring up at him with cat like eyes that begged to be satisfied. "I'll be here forever," she reassured. "You don't have to be anxious."
John felt his thoughts fixating on little minor details again. Now he was thinking this woman wasn't really all that attractive as he had first thought. He'd much prefer a blond. And the steak was looking rather unimpressive on the silver platter about now, too. Steak really would go much better with a cabernet, John reasoned. And, speaking of, he'd much rather a nice glass of red to a whiskey.
"Your name is John, and your favorite drink is whiskey. You prefer cigars, your favorite food is steak and I'm your idea of the perfect woman." She waved her hand about the room, "This room was designed to your exact specifications, Max."
"Bullshit. You don't know anything about me. My name is John." The woman laughed, finding Max funny again. "Max is your favorite name. You always wished you were named Max instead of John, Max."
It was true. But how did she know that?
"It's okay, Max. You're home now. You don't ever have to go back to the docks again."
Max looked up, happy at that thought. Enough to put any seafaring man in a toasting mood. Whiskey or not.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
The Fall
He fell on his head.
It was a simple start down a non-expert ski run. The day was beautiful, the sky blue. The snow matched a brilliant white. "Ahhhh," he expunged, his mouth steaming. The man-made mist dissolved away and the man planted his ski pole - his opposite leg pushing off, down the mountain.
The powder gave way like a crunching, fluffy cloud as the man's body pushed through it. The cold stung like a welcome gift against his raw, shaved face. His mouth opened to smile and his perfect white teeth caught the icy chill of the moving air. 'Life doesn't get any better than this', he thought to himself as he planted his poles into the abyss of powder. He did that while he tried to coerce his legs not to separate in the unforgiving dense snow so as to snap him apart like a wishbone.
Snow began to shallow, and the man found himself at the rise of crest, which looked down upon the whole, beautiful mountain. Lulled by skier's high, the man was almost disappointed the run was so graceful and easy. He fancied himself an emerging expert.
He was further embarrassed by the fall.
CRUNCH. It was all too fast for him to feel his head sink gently in the snow. He saw it coming. His gut knew before the impact shot through his spine.
His feet came to rest on top of the snow. Commanding all his extremities to move, to flutter, to wiggle just a little bit was met with a resounding trumpet of failure. This was it. This was how it was going to be. Paralyzed from the neck down. Forever. And ever. Oh God, not even the use of his upper body. Facial movements would be all that's left. He thought about how, hopefully his bodily functions weren't compromised in any way. But mostly he moaned. It was a sad, mournful moan, like a dog crying at the moon. "Help," he tried to yell, but found that difficult. "help," he tried again, even smaller.
There was no one around. It was a big mountain and the day was new. So he just lay there.
About an hour and a million thoughts later, many of which were the same reoccurring one he wished he didn't have, the man heard a sound. A clanking, mechanical sound, coming down the mountain above him. He tried to shift his head but it wouldn't go far enough. He realized it must be one of the snow-groomers, industrial size no doubt. This was Grand Mountain, the biggest ski mountain in the Western United States. And its finest was coming down the mountain, right at him.
The fearful thought slowly sunk in, becoming reality. Things could actually get much worse here. No time for self-pity, this situation had suddenly become extremely serious. He opened his mouth, reassured by the ability to draw air from his lungs, using it full-force. "Help!", he screamed. He did it again and again. But the machine just got louder.
As it plowed over his body, the man - for a split second - felt a wave of peace wash over him. He thought about how he wouldn't ever have to bother with a life that he didn't want now. His life flashing before his eyes would only ever be that. It was the last good moment he would bask in, before the stampeding machine shredded his last asset through to the brain, which didn't feel a thing, but relayed to the rest of the body exactly what was going on.
It was a simple start down a non-expert ski run. The day was beautiful, the sky blue. The snow matched a brilliant white. "Ahhhh," he expunged, his mouth steaming. The man-made mist dissolved away and the man planted his ski pole - his opposite leg pushing off, down the mountain.
The powder gave way like a crunching, fluffy cloud as the man's body pushed through it. The cold stung like a welcome gift against his raw, shaved face. His mouth opened to smile and his perfect white teeth caught the icy chill of the moving air. 'Life doesn't get any better than this', he thought to himself as he planted his poles into the abyss of powder. He did that while he tried to coerce his legs not to separate in the unforgiving dense snow so as to snap him apart like a wishbone.
Snow began to shallow, and the man found himself at the rise of crest, which looked down upon the whole, beautiful mountain. Lulled by skier's high, the man was almost disappointed the run was so graceful and easy. He fancied himself an emerging expert.
He was further embarrassed by the fall.
CRUNCH. It was all too fast for him to feel his head sink gently in the snow. He saw it coming. His gut knew before the impact shot through his spine.
His feet came to rest on top of the snow. Commanding all his extremities to move, to flutter, to wiggle just a little bit was met with a resounding trumpet of failure. This was it. This was how it was going to be. Paralyzed from the neck down. Forever. And ever. Oh God, not even the use of his upper body. Facial movements would be all that's left. He thought about how, hopefully his bodily functions weren't compromised in any way. But mostly he moaned. It was a sad, mournful moan, like a dog crying at the moon. "Help," he tried to yell, but found that difficult. "help," he tried again, even smaller.
There was no one around. It was a big mountain and the day was new. So he just lay there.
About an hour and a million thoughts later, many of which were the same reoccurring one he wished he didn't have, the man heard a sound. A clanking, mechanical sound, coming down the mountain above him. He tried to shift his head but it wouldn't go far enough. He realized it must be one of the snow-groomers, industrial size no doubt. This was Grand Mountain, the biggest ski mountain in the Western United States. And its finest was coming down the mountain, right at him.
The fearful thought slowly sunk in, becoming reality. Things could actually get much worse here. No time for self-pity, this situation had suddenly become extremely serious. He opened his mouth, reassured by the ability to draw air from his lungs, using it full-force. "Help!", he screamed. He did it again and again. But the machine just got louder.
As it plowed over his body, the man - for a split second - felt a wave of peace wash over him. He thought about how he wouldn't ever have to bother with a life that he didn't want now. His life flashing before his eyes would only ever be that. It was the last good moment he would bask in, before the stampeding machine shredded his last asset through to the brain, which didn't feel a thing, but relayed to the rest of the body exactly what was going on.
Introduction and Mission Statement:
Welcome.
My prevailing thought is that all blogs should have some kind of theme to them. I'm a writer and I wanted to use this blog specifically as a writing outlet. You know - no pressure or strings about it, at least not as many as on my other written adventures. That's what you get for getting my stuff for free.
What do I write about?
Usually darker, unsettling things I am afraid. Oh, they're interesting. I'm not whiny or a complainer. You likely won't catch me writing about horrible skeletons in my closet. It's not like that, Thank God. No, whatever it is I promise to serve you with interesting stories and tidbits, as many as I can muster.
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