20 June 2006
marsha marsha marsha.
man, i'm getting tired of my clingy issues. i go through my days, looking each of my three issues in the face. i try to do what's best, to foster a sense of independence so that my issues won't need me anymore. i pat each firmly on the head in an admonishing but hopeful way, and at the end of the day i send them off to bed. i wake up in the morning; and one, two, three, me---there we all are. same f'ing issues. can't get through the first cup of coffee before they're blathering; it's like ... sometimes it feels like my issues aren't even talking to me, they just want to talk near me, you know? so juvenile, they're so loud. f me. it's so hard to get some time for myself. but tonight i've hired a sitter, and at last i'll be able to get some breathing space, some time just for me, when i can go up to the bar, have a few beers, and hold a bible in my lap while i tell cute girls of how i'm holding myself back. what a relief that'll be.
14 June 2006
this song is not a rebel song.
it's wednesday afternoon. just got done with boni, my therapist; i spent a lot of time peering at the radiator just behind her left elbow. but then her small eyebrows furrowed with worry, and she very quietly asked after a very noisy thing. and soon enough i was laying down that i want there to be law for myself--how does she manage to make me do that. and man, i can't explain my knowledge that there's a melody just out there--just away there--waiting, for me to strike it. a song my voicebox was made to spell. and it's not a lullaby, it does not lilt. i want these baby teeth out of my head. my throat is sinking, is deepening down to its resonance point. i don't know much else, but i know. this song is not a rebel song; this song is.
09 May 2006
the BYOBRACELETS party.
(a silly 1st draft excerpt from my book)
I’m not sure if I really knew this or was just convinced of it, but I was sure you had multiple bibles laying around your house. My eyes ran immediately to the dark, crooked corners—on top of the fridge, under the floorlamp—looking for bibles. You would have, given your penchant for ironic lifestyle, tucked them neatly away, in multiple locations, like even grown men do with porn because the fear of mother finding the stash again never goes away. (Pay no attention to the porn behind the curtain.) I was having a hard time, and just as my biblical enthusiasm was about to expire, I made another pass through your bedroom and decided to check the bookshelf above your bed, just for the hell of it. Sure enough, there was a glaringly green, softbound NIV bible. When I returned to my spot on your lawn I set the good book down in front of me and it flipped open to a page in early Matthew, bookmarked by a many-folded sheet of glossy paper. The paper was ancient and astounding for the rush of memories it brought back—it was a copy of an invitation to the Finals party you threw. It was the last party I was to attend at your house, and, except for the time I did mushrooms and had, like, 3 hours of nirvana followed by 5 hours of hallucinating that a swarm of demon tadpoles was swirling through the air around me, that night lives in my head as the closest that the best of times have ever been followed by the worst of times. But I had forgotten about the invitation, a simple black-and-white print on nice paper, and it made me laugh.
The BYOBRACELETS Party
WWJP Where Would Jesus Party
At Fats’s House in Montecito, this Saturday
WWJC Why Would Jesus Care
Because He’s fully human, and finals are next week, and He fully needs to blow off steam.
WWJA When Would Jesus Arrive
Before things got too crowded, like, around 8p
WWJW What Would Jesus Wear
A Smuumuu (part smock, part muumuu)
WWJD Who Would Jesus Dig
Everybody: because He’s the Son of Man, which is like a Man of the People only way cooler
HWJG How Would Jesus Groove
Modestly at first, but when it was time to jam He would take the dance floor to a place of Divine Freakstasy.
...
I’m not sure if I really knew this or was just convinced of it, but I was sure you had multiple bibles laying around your house. My eyes ran immediately to the dark, crooked corners—on top of the fridge, under the floorlamp—looking for bibles. You would have, given your penchant for ironic lifestyle, tucked them neatly away, in multiple locations, like even grown men do with porn because the fear of mother finding the stash again never goes away. (Pay no attention to the porn behind the curtain.) I was having a hard time, and just as my biblical enthusiasm was about to expire, I made another pass through your bedroom and decided to check the bookshelf above your bed, just for the hell of it. Sure enough, there was a glaringly green, softbound NIV bible. When I returned to my spot on your lawn I set the good book down in front of me and it flipped open to a page in early Matthew, bookmarked by a many-folded sheet of glossy paper. The paper was ancient and astounding for the rush of memories it brought back—it was a copy of an invitation to the Finals party you threw. It was the last party I was to attend at your house, and, except for the time I did mushrooms and had, like, 3 hours of nirvana followed by 5 hours of hallucinating that a swarm of demon tadpoles was swirling through the air around me, that night lives in my head as the closest that the best of times have ever been followed by the worst of times. But I had forgotten about the invitation, a simple black-and-white print on nice paper, and it made me laugh.
The BYOBRACELETS Party
WWJP Where Would Jesus Party
At Fats’s House in Montecito, this Saturday
WWJC Why Would Jesus Care
Because He’s fully human, and finals are next week, and He fully needs to blow off steam.
WWJA When Would Jesus Arrive
Before things got too crowded, like, around 8p
WWJW What Would Jesus Wear
A Smuumuu (part smock, part muumuu)
WWJD Who Would Jesus Dig
Everybody: because He’s the Son of Man, which is like a Man of the People only way cooler
HWJG How Would Jesus Groove
Modestly at first, but when it was time to jam He would take the dance floor to a place of Divine Freakstasy.
...
and she’s lovin’ him with that body I just know it.
this is the last P from a critical annotation on the Stories of John Cheever -
In all, Cheever’s deft irony—and in particular his style with its plain-but-optimistic delivery—brings to mind a comparison that on its face may not seem complimentary: the pop music of the first half of the 80s. Driven by guitar licks that were choppily upbeat and vibrant melodies that brimmed with pep-rally emotion, the chart-toppers of this era had themes that were at best uncertain and most often hopelessly morose. Whether it was Rick Springfield pining for Jesse’s Girl (“And I’m lookin’ in the mirror all the time, wondering what she don’t see in me! [Hurray!]”) or Styx and their Too Much Time on My Hands (“I’m so tired of losing – I got nothing to do and all day to do it [which is radical!]”), the ironic pairing of style and content was ubiquitous. And, whether they’ve thought constructively about it or not, people love this. It’s why, for the foreseeable future, when you walk into a casino anywhere in America you’ll have a one-in-three chance of hearing a Journey song playing on the overhead speakers. And it’s a fundamental part of what works so well with Cheever. His stories are often sad, and never do they overflow with hope, but his style and cheerful delivery carry us on. The next story will end more happily; No sweat, we'll win it back at the craps table.
In all, Cheever’s deft irony—and in particular his style with its plain-but-optimistic delivery—brings to mind a comparison that on its face may not seem complimentary: the pop music of the first half of the 80s. Driven by guitar licks that were choppily upbeat and vibrant melodies that brimmed with pep-rally emotion, the chart-toppers of this era had themes that were at best uncertain and most often hopelessly morose. Whether it was Rick Springfield pining for Jesse’s Girl (“And I’m lookin’ in the mirror all the time, wondering what she don’t see in me! [Hurray!]”) or Styx and their Too Much Time on My Hands (“I’m so tired of losing – I got nothing to do and all day to do it [which is radical!]”), the ironic pairing of style and content was ubiquitous. And, whether they’ve thought constructively about it or not, people love this. It’s why, for the foreseeable future, when you walk into a casino anywhere in America you’ll have a one-in-three chance of hearing a Journey song playing on the overhead speakers. And it’s a fundamental part of what works so well with Cheever. His stories are often sad, and never do they overflow with hope, but his style and cheerful delivery carry us on. The next story will end more happily; No sweat, we'll win it back at the craps table.
31 March 2006
weatherpants.
off to a ragged start today but it fits, for today.
today is not specifically
what. what do you mean what. your silence is yelling at me that's what.
do you know how you look at me these days
you're the weatherman
off-camera, waiting, desperately
bored yet glaring, blaring
you have to know this, your whole body
is rhetorical.
today is the topic, but since your ennui
is about to kill you, let's try the parlance of your 5-day forecast,
today is not noticeably downcast, neither is it hopeful!
today is not bouyant, and by tomorrow today may experience feelings of drowning!
but, see, that full-body cynicism is so much
work to keep up all the time. my version's not sunshine
just simpler, and so much brighter for it,
today wanted the day off and didn't get it
today took a short lunch
hopes to get done early.
on some days today regrets canceling cable.
today is not specifically
what. what do you mean what. your silence is yelling at me that's what.
do you know how you look at me these days
you're the weatherman
off-camera, waiting, desperately
bored yet glaring, blaring
you have to know this, your whole body
is rhetorical.
today is the topic, but since your ennui
is about to kill you, let's try the parlance of your 5-day forecast,
today is not noticeably downcast, neither is it hopeful!
today is not bouyant, and by tomorrow today may experience feelings of drowning!
but, see, that full-body cynicism is so much
work to keep up all the time. my version's not sunshine
just simpler, and so much brighter for it,
today wanted the day off and didn't get it
today took a short lunch
hopes to get done early.
on some days today regrets canceling cable.
28 March 2006
huntsmanic
funny ha ha, funny queer. a number of comments have been made about my new email username, huntsmanic@. and these comments have been ... skeptical, let's say. when i have asked if that amount of sarcasm is really called for, commenters have conceded that well, it is funny. huntsmanic is funny. then they pause, yoda-style. this pause extends the word “funny” to include less formal meanings, like hella-funny, f'ing-funny, and uber-funny, but also the more deprecatory funny-my-ass-funny, you-lookin-at-me-funny-funny, and don’t-quit-your-job-even-your-retail-one-funny. so it seems that we should clear some things up. let's define our terms.
huntsmanic, in context. it’s not like i’m announcing a new personal catch phrase, people. but if that’s how it’s going to be approached then this bears clarification—because we are done with catchphrases. have gone beyond them. what we have here is not a phrase but a word. a new one—with huntsmanic we have gone back to the lexicon and forged a composite, a new substance. huntsmanic is both fully huntsman and fully manic. but also it’s something else.
something else is what people say when they have already given the wrong answer. but too it is where people turn when none of their ideas are working, and it is these people who are best prepared to benefit from huntsman. it’s not a happy place to be, nor a comfortable one, walking around with the fetal posture of somebody who’s trying to stave off the inevitable. and huntsman understands this. huntsman knows what it is like to be so frowny-faced all the time that you worry about growing jowels, and too huntsman knows that such thinking circles back on itself and eventually you realize that you are worrying about the effects of your own worry, which is like a self-fulfilling prophecy thing, a cyclical, circular image that makes you think of a gerbil running on his exercise wheel, happy to be running at first but then just running and running and not getting anywhere, the running won’t ever stop and the image just won’t get out of your head and now you are manic. it’s okay, have a seat. you can talk if you want. huntsman won’t freak out on you, won’t be all in a hurry to end the discussion. huntsman even liked ally mcbeal before she stopped eating. this here is a meeting place, a delta, where manic flows together with huntsman and goes out for a riverboat tour with their friends sense of foreboding and calculated slowness. it’s too soon to say the particulars of how the dynamic will shape up, but they’re serving watercress sandwiches for lunch, and someone (huntsman?) brought beer and cheez-its in the daypack. should be nice.
huntsmanic, in context. it’s not like i’m announcing a new personal catch phrase, people. but if that’s how it’s going to be approached then this bears clarification—because we are done with catchphrases. have gone beyond them. what we have here is not a phrase but a word. a new one—with huntsmanic we have gone back to the lexicon and forged a composite, a new substance. huntsmanic is both fully huntsman and fully manic. but also it’s something else.
something else is what people say when they have already given the wrong answer. but too it is where people turn when none of their ideas are working, and it is these people who are best prepared to benefit from huntsman. it’s not a happy place to be, nor a comfortable one, walking around with the fetal posture of somebody who’s trying to stave off the inevitable. and huntsman understands this. huntsman knows what it is like to be so frowny-faced all the time that you worry about growing jowels, and too huntsman knows that such thinking circles back on itself and eventually you realize that you are worrying about the effects of your own worry, which is like a self-fulfilling prophecy thing, a cyclical, circular image that makes you think of a gerbil running on his exercise wheel, happy to be running at first but then just running and running and not getting anywhere, the running won’t ever stop and the image just won’t get out of your head and now you are manic. it’s okay, have a seat. you can talk if you want. huntsman won’t freak out on you, won’t be all in a hurry to end the discussion. huntsman even liked ally mcbeal before she stopped eating. this here is a meeting place, a delta, where manic flows together with huntsman and goes out for a riverboat tour with their friends sense of foreboding and calculated slowness. it’s too soon to say the particulars of how the dynamic will shape up, but they’re serving watercress sandwiches for lunch, and someone (huntsman?) brought beer and cheez-its in the daypack. should be nice.
27 March 2006
like poets do.
art works in many ways and sometimes the ways are not obvious. sometimes you have to look; at others you have to just let yourself feel it. like today. i’m up on whidbey island, it’s sunny and everything is crisp; i go down to the beach where the wind is roaring and walk next to the crashing waves, arms spread wide like pre-iceberg leonardo. and a scene from a film comes to my mind, this one that my mind won’t let go of. as sometimes happens in art—a piece or a scene will have a particular impact that resonates and keeps popping up until you are satisfied. this one is from mean girls, an exchange between the main nice girl and the slutty mean girl. it goes like this.
main nice girl: c'mon. there must be something you're good at.
slutty mean girl: well... i'm kinda psychic. i have a fifth sense.
main nice girl: what do you mean?
slutty mean girl: it's like i have espn or something. my breasts can always tell when it's going to rain.
main nice girl: really? that's amazing.
slutty mean girl: well, they can tell when it's raining.
and there’s so much going on in that scene; it’s a lot to process. today there i was, standing before the waves, a seagull gliding motionless in the wind above me, the mean girls scene running on repeat, and it was like the world handing me a big bag of good vibes, you know? everything just came together, all at once, so. i wrote a song, right there in my head, like wordsworth on his constitutional:
here comes the rain again.
falling on my breasts like a memory.
falling on my breasts like a new emotion.
they want to move in the open wind.
they want to bounce like lovers do.
they want to dive into your ocean.
do you have sunscreen with you.
so boobies bare for me.
like poets do.
stand for me.
like soldiers do.
bare for me.
like strippers do.
here comes the rain again.
raining on my boobs like a tragedy.
wetting my shirt like a new emotion.
oooooh.
they want to move in the open wind.
they want to bounce like lovers do.
they want to dive into your ocean.
do you have sunscreen with you.
main nice girl: c'mon. there must be something you're good at.
slutty mean girl: well... i'm kinda psychic. i have a fifth sense.
main nice girl: what do you mean?
slutty mean girl: it's like i have espn or something. my breasts can always tell when it's going to rain.
main nice girl: really? that's amazing.
slutty mean girl: well, they can tell when it's raining.
and there’s so much going on in that scene; it’s a lot to process. today there i was, standing before the waves, a seagull gliding motionless in the wind above me, the mean girls scene running on repeat, and it was like the world handing me a big bag of good vibes, you know? everything just came together, all at once, so. i wrote a song, right there in my head, like wordsworth on his constitutional:
here comes the rain again.
falling on my breasts like a memory.
falling on my breasts like a new emotion.
they want to move in the open wind.
they want to bounce like lovers do.
they want to dive into your ocean.
do you have sunscreen with you.
so boobies bare for me.
like poets do.
stand for me.
like soldiers do.
bare for me.
like strippers do.
here comes the rain again.
raining on my boobs like a tragedy.
wetting my shirt like a new emotion.
oooooh.
they want to move in the open wind.
they want to bounce like lovers do.
they want to dive into your ocean.
do you have sunscreen with you.
06 March 2006
Bible Desk - Proof THE BIBLE IS TRUE.
i just wanted to go to my blog, just to write an ordinary little entry about the complex miasma that is my daily life. (today has been an average day, good and bad out for a walk together, so i had in mind a short something, thematically concerned with the looming void of compounding darkness that sucks in my every righteous intention but expressed metaphorically as a daily entry from the diary i used to keep for my cabbage patch kid, whose name was dwight.) but i made a typo on the way to my blog:
apiletostepin.blogpot.com
just a simple omission: blogpot. kind of funny. only NOT FUNNY. VERY SERIOUS. because it took me here:
BIBLE COLLEGE ON LINE (If it's in the Bible, it should be on this site.)
and, huh. i was just at men's group this morning, where we played and read and examined different definitions of the kingdom of god. maybe this could offer an easily found supplement to what we'd posited. it is, after all, a college. a very open-minded one. here are some excerpts:
"Let’s prove the Bible is true and that we are nearing the end of the last generation before Christ returns.
THE SOON COMING CLIMAX
(bIBLE PROPHECY—a very brief summary)
(pROOF THE BIBLE IS TRUE AND WE ARE NOW IN THE LATTER DAYS)
This message may be called a road sign of warning. Some may look at a sign that reads—THE BRIDGE IS OUT, and say, “Oh, someone is just trying to scare us into taking another road; let’s go on the same way.” They go on and plunge to their death. The sign was not meant to scare people, but to warn them of impending danger. The sign was put there, because someone cared and didn’t want others to die.
God wants you to know, WHEN YOU SEE THESE THINGS COME TO PASs, KNOW YE THAT THE KINGDOM OF GOD IS NIGH AT HAND-Lk 21:31.
Will Russia and some Arab nations invade Israel? Yes
Will the U.S.A. become involved in this war? Yes.
here is the tastiest line i read, regarding going to church (post-conversion, which it is suggested may have happened by the time you've read this far down the page)
Attend often and get baptized. Tell others that Jesus is your only hope of salvation. If you’ve just said that prayer and committed your life to Jesus, please e-mail us and let us know. We would like to pray for you and send you some free literature.
...so, ah, there we have it, saved for the end: this is the work of a frustrated writer. thanks for the info, comrade.
apiletostepin.blogpot.com
just a simple omission: blogpot. kind of funny. only NOT FUNNY. VERY SERIOUS. because it took me here:
BIBLE COLLEGE ON LINE (If it's in the Bible, it should be on this site.)
and, huh. i was just at men's group this morning, where we played and read and examined different definitions of the kingdom of god. maybe this could offer an easily found supplement to what we'd posited. it is, after all, a college. a very open-minded one. here are some excerpts:
"Let’s prove the Bible is true and that we are nearing the end of the last generation before Christ returns.
THE SOON COMING CLIMAX
(bIBLE PROPHECY—a very brief summary)
(pROOF THE BIBLE IS TRUE AND WE ARE NOW IN THE LATTER DAYS)
This message may be called a road sign of warning. Some may look at a sign that reads—THE BRIDGE IS OUT, and say, “Oh, someone is just trying to scare us into taking another road; let’s go on the same way.” They go on and plunge to their death. The sign was not meant to scare people, but to warn them of impending danger. The sign was put there, because someone cared and didn’t want others to die.
God wants you to know, WHEN YOU SEE THESE THINGS COME TO PASs, KNOW YE THAT THE KINGDOM OF GOD IS NIGH AT HAND-Lk 21:31.
Will Russia and some Arab nations invade Israel? Yes
Will the U.S.A. become involved in this war? Yes.
here is the tastiest line i read, regarding going to church (post-conversion, which it is suggested may have happened by the time you've read this far down the page)
Attend often and get baptized. Tell others that Jesus is your only hope of salvation. If you’ve just said that prayer and committed your life to Jesus, please e-mail us and let us know. We would like to pray for you and send you some free literature.
...so, ah, there we have it, saved for the end: this is the work of a frustrated writer. thanks for the info, comrade.
28 February 2006
let's get to know each other.
how are you? i could give you a run-down on me, my pros cons and so-soses, but what i'm really after is what your life is like these days and how are you. so let's do an exchange, a list; candidate questions for which could include,
1. are you more of an air balloon person or a unicycle person?
2. a human cannon person or a clown car person?
3. the picture you would most like to have on your mousepad
4. which are you most likely to pull out of your ass, a paper or a project?
5. your favorite verb, today
6. your favorite noun, today
7. your favorite adverb, today.
{preliminary answer key: 1. sort of a combination of the two -- a uni-ball person 2. clown car, duh 3. paris hilton naked but covered in thousand island dressing 4. since "projectile" is not an option, let's go with "paper" 5. please 6. myself 7. poorly}
1. are you more of an air balloon person or a unicycle person?
2. a human cannon person or a clown car person?
3. the picture you would most like to have on your mousepad
4. which are you most likely to pull out of your ass, a paper or a project?
5. your favorite verb, today
6. your favorite noun, today
7. your favorite adverb, today.
{preliminary answer key: 1. sort of a combination of the two -- a uni-ball person 2. clown car, duh 3. paris hilton naked but covered in thousand island dressing 4. since "projectile" is not an option, let's go with "paper" 5. please 6. myself 7. poorly}
23 February 2006
dally ho. (a serial)
part 1.
If someone had remarked that Ron’s life looked rather a lot like a farce, then he would not have disagreed. Or not even a farce, he thought as he carefully aligned the partially conductive widgets on the store shelf. It’s more specific than that. A capitol-F Farce is The Jerk or Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid or some movie with Steve Martin before he started making Cheaper by the Dozen Parts 1—Franchise. Before he started making pap that runs on the strength of his own past strength.
“Oh, damn!” Ron whispered violently, knocking the stacks of orange and yellow widgets to the floor (warm colors on the side that greets the customer! always!) as his hands clasped together in shock. This is what I am: I’m Steve Martin in reverse. Instead of parodying my younger brilliant self, I’m doing a preemptive parody of stuff I hope to do when I’m older. Ron groaned.
And groaned again. Groaned like a grumpy old man as he got on his hands and knees. Groaned like a grumpy old man with a grumpier prostate as he strained to reach under the bottom shelf far enough to collect the fallen widgets. He wondered if there was a positive spin to be found in this realization. Like, maybe by living as the shadow of his hypothetical future self now, such that even his brightest moments are only wrinkly reflections of the many successes of this wildly charming not-yet-self, he will be able to see in advance where he will go wrong, and then make adjustments so that his much-adored older self will not get type-cast. And will maintain an aura of dignity. Dignity, yes, thought Ron as he strained his fingers through the dirt and cobwebs to reach a widget that had rolled all the way into the corner, Dignity is the thing.
From his gerbil-like position on the floor, Ron looked up and, through a gap the shelf, and saw two pairs of shoes standing toe-to-toe in the next aisle. The girl pair, rubber-toed and pink and cute, raised up on its toes, and kissing noises followed. Or maybe, thought Ron, I just need to get laid. The other shoes, a pair of cheaply distressed brown boots, he recognized as belonging to a wildly unremarkable floor manager named Rod, whose tendency to ignore the needs of his fellow workers was matched only by his penchant for breaking into nasal, freestyle rap on topics varying from widgets to bitches. Rod was kissing a girl, a girl whose feet Ron did not recognize, but a girl still – a girl with sharp pink shoes. Who, underneath what was probably late-term eyeliner and an overdone perm, was probably cute. This made Ron very sad, and even before he’d finished re-aligning his fallen widgets, he’d decided to go to the handicap-accessible bathroom where he could lock the door and lean against the sink until he found something new to sulk about.
The restroom door was locked. Ron stretched, shifted his weight and tried to look at and think about something besides the array of camping-oriented widgets that surrounded him. Countless times he had walked customers through this section, explaining the advantages and disadvantages of the manual-shaft widgets versus the solar-powered widgets. He had feigned excitement about the smallness of the plasticized mini-widgets (“widgies”) on more occasions than he could bear to consider. He tried looking at the ceiling. He tried casually rubbing his eyes for an extended period. He tried to consider something worth anything. For a moment he thought hard about boobies. He tried to imagine the boobs belonging to the girl in the pink shoes, wondering: were they big enough to have some heft to them? Pert enough that she didn't wear a bra under her shirt? But then he got yanked back to the windowless rear of the store, where a florescent army of widgets was closing in on him. Suddenly he was flush with the realization that maybe being purposefully lazy at a job he hated himself for having was not a way to compensate. For anything. His lungs feeling weak, he decided to knock on the bathroom door.
Before his knuckles could rap a third time the door swung open, just enough to reveal a pair of large blue eyes. Peering at him. These eyes looked into his and saw something they recognized. Whether it was something they liked (a mellowed, casket-aged perspective on politics and world events?) or something they pitied (an apathy-inducing mixture of confusion and distress?) Ron didn’t know. Sooner than he could know anything the eyes had disappeared, a hand had shot out; fingers encircled his distressingly limp wrist, yanked him inside, and flipped the lock. Then there the eyes were again, surrounded by a face he recognized – that of Kat, a fellow Widgeables employee.
Kat was beautiful. Kat was tall, with smooth, pale skin, a body drawn in easy curves, and a lustrous shower of red hair. But now the eyes were all he saw, big and blue and perfectly round. Even in the unnecessary light of a public restroom they sparkled, shy and confident. Full of life. A life that was full and yet totally unhurried. Ron stared at them, at Kat, and found that he did not care to question why she had pulled him into a bathroom. Nor did he question why she, this more-beautiful-than-she-knows young thing with whom he had had exactly one conversation (about the pros and cons of the write-up method of disciplining employees: They had agreed that, since their employer treated them like children, the purpose would best be served if they were disciplined like actual children; they differed only in that Kat thought spanking would do the trick while Ron favored a timeout corner) was now busily pulling tiny votive candles from her bag, which she lit and placed in a circle around the bathroom floor.
“Will you put these ones atop the towel dispenser?” said Kat, handing him two freshly lit candles. Then she spread out her fingers and turned in a slow circle, examining the room: the dulled metal of the mirror, the monochrome putty color of the walls and floor and ceiling, the glistening white of the toilet and sink. “I’ve never understood,” she said, “why they decorate restrooms in the style of Kafka. You?”
“No.” Ron shook his head. “But there’s something to be said for having the toilet be the shiniest thing in the room. As a boy I spent a lot of nights at my friend’s dad’s house. Dad was divorced and successful and super cool, in a really disaffected and unloving and depressed kind of way that you don’t recognize when you’re ten. ‘Cause all you see is the cool part. So the toilets in this house were a shiny black and cut really low to the floor like a sports car, and I thought it was so cool the first time; I went into the bathroom, sat on the toilet and felt like I was on the set of Miami Vice—and am I rambling and totally boring you?”
“No no. Go.”
“Okay well, I guess I’m almost done anyway. My point is just is this, just that after the first time the toilets there started to back up on me. …Oh god, sorry, I didn’t even mean to be tacky like that.”
Kat laughed and dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “Don’t worry, no. And I think I know what you mean, there’s something about a shiny white toilet. Makes you know everything is going to be okay.”
Ron grinned and fluttered shyly, embarrassed. “Yeah, that must be it.”
“So,” said Kat loudly, like she was reading from a teleprompter. ”So. I think we’re all set. And I am glad you showed up; this was going to be my only little deal here, but it’s nice to have some company.”
“Some company?” Ron’s eyebrows stitched themselves together. “It looks like you’re having a séance. In which case you’d already have company, you and some ghosts.”
“No, it’s not a séance.” Kate giggled. “I don’t like dead people.”
“A poetry reading, then. Revolutionary poetry, safe only to be read deep, deep in the underground, here in the handicapped bathroom at Widgeables.”
“That might be fun.” said Kat. “But what are we revolting against, hmm.” Long, elegant fingers stroked her chin.
“The Widget militia, duh,” he said. Kat seemed to him to be really contemplating this matter, which he very much liked. He looked at her again, this time with a mixture of confusion and longing; the confusion part got smaller the longer he looked. He dropped down across from where she sat yogi-style on a green bed sheet she’d spread on the floor, crossed his legs so that their kneecaps almost were touching, and assumed a contemplative face. “Now what?”
“Now?” said Kat with a grin. “Now we’re into it.”
If someone had remarked that Ron’s life looked rather a lot like a farce, then he would not have disagreed. Or not even a farce, he thought as he carefully aligned the partially conductive widgets on the store shelf. It’s more specific than that. A capitol-F Farce is The Jerk or Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid or some movie with Steve Martin before he started making Cheaper by the Dozen Parts 1—Franchise. Before he started making pap that runs on the strength of his own past strength.
“Oh, damn!” Ron whispered violently, knocking the stacks of orange and yellow widgets to the floor (warm colors on the side that greets the customer! always!) as his hands clasped together in shock. This is what I am: I’m Steve Martin in reverse. Instead of parodying my younger brilliant self, I’m doing a preemptive parody of stuff I hope to do when I’m older. Ron groaned.
And groaned again. Groaned like a grumpy old man as he got on his hands and knees. Groaned like a grumpy old man with a grumpier prostate as he strained to reach under the bottom shelf far enough to collect the fallen widgets. He wondered if there was a positive spin to be found in this realization. Like, maybe by living as the shadow of his hypothetical future self now, such that even his brightest moments are only wrinkly reflections of the many successes of this wildly charming not-yet-self, he will be able to see in advance where he will go wrong, and then make adjustments so that his much-adored older self will not get type-cast. And will maintain an aura of dignity. Dignity, yes, thought Ron as he strained his fingers through the dirt and cobwebs to reach a widget that had rolled all the way into the corner, Dignity is the thing.
From his gerbil-like position on the floor, Ron looked up and, through a gap the shelf, and saw two pairs of shoes standing toe-to-toe in the next aisle. The girl pair, rubber-toed and pink and cute, raised up on its toes, and kissing noises followed. Or maybe, thought Ron, I just need to get laid. The other shoes, a pair of cheaply distressed brown boots, he recognized as belonging to a wildly unremarkable floor manager named Rod, whose tendency to ignore the needs of his fellow workers was matched only by his penchant for breaking into nasal, freestyle rap on topics varying from widgets to bitches. Rod was kissing a girl, a girl whose feet Ron did not recognize, but a girl still – a girl with sharp pink shoes. Who, underneath what was probably late-term eyeliner and an overdone perm, was probably cute. This made Ron very sad, and even before he’d finished re-aligning his fallen widgets, he’d decided to go to the handicap-accessible bathroom where he could lock the door and lean against the sink until he found something new to sulk about.
The restroom door was locked. Ron stretched, shifted his weight and tried to look at and think about something besides the array of camping-oriented widgets that surrounded him. Countless times he had walked customers through this section, explaining the advantages and disadvantages of the manual-shaft widgets versus the solar-powered widgets. He had feigned excitement about the smallness of the plasticized mini-widgets (“widgies”) on more occasions than he could bear to consider. He tried looking at the ceiling. He tried casually rubbing his eyes for an extended period. He tried to consider something worth anything. For a moment he thought hard about boobies. He tried to imagine the boobs belonging to the girl in the pink shoes, wondering: were they big enough to have some heft to them? Pert enough that she didn't wear a bra under her shirt? But then he got yanked back to the windowless rear of the store, where a florescent army of widgets was closing in on him. Suddenly he was flush with the realization that maybe being purposefully lazy at a job he hated himself for having was not a way to compensate. For anything. His lungs feeling weak, he decided to knock on the bathroom door.
Before his knuckles could rap a third time the door swung open, just enough to reveal a pair of large blue eyes. Peering at him. These eyes looked into his and saw something they recognized. Whether it was something they liked (a mellowed, casket-aged perspective on politics and world events?) or something they pitied (an apathy-inducing mixture of confusion and distress?) Ron didn’t know. Sooner than he could know anything the eyes had disappeared, a hand had shot out; fingers encircled his distressingly limp wrist, yanked him inside, and flipped the lock. Then there the eyes were again, surrounded by a face he recognized – that of Kat, a fellow Widgeables employee.
Kat was beautiful. Kat was tall, with smooth, pale skin, a body drawn in easy curves, and a lustrous shower of red hair. But now the eyes were all he saw, big and blue and perfectly round. Even in the unnecessary light of a public restroom they sparkled, shy and confident. Full of life. A life that was full and yet totally unhurried. Ron stared at them, at Kat, and found that he did not care to question why she had pulled him into a bathroom. Nor did he question why she, this more-beautiful-than-she-knows young thing with whom he had had exactly one conversation (about the pros and cons of the write-up method of disciplining employees: They had agreed that, since their employer treated them like children, the purpose would best be served if they were disciplined like actual children; they differed only in that Kat thought spanking would do the trick while Ron favored a timeout corner) was now busily pulling tiny votive candles from her bag, which she lit and placed in a circle around the bathroom floor.
“Will you put these ones atop the towel dispenser?” said Kat, handing him two freshly lit candles. Then she spread out her fingers and turned in a slow circle, examining the room: the dulled metal of the mirror, the monochrome putty color of the walls and floor and ceiling, the glistening white of the toilet and sink. “I’ve never understood,” she said, “why they decorate restrooms in the style of Kafka. You?”
“No.” Ron shook his head. “But there’s something to be said for having the toilet be the shiniest thing in the room. As a boy I spent a lot of nights at my friend’s dad’s house. Dad was divorced and successful and super cool, in a really disaffected and unloving and depressed kind of way that you don’t recognize when you’re ten. ‘Cause all you see is the cool part. So the toilets in this house were a shiny black and cut really low to the floor like a sports car, and I thought it was so cool the first time; I went into the bathroom, sat on the toilet and felt like I was on the set of Miami Vice—and am I rambling and totally boring you?”
“No no. Go.”
“Okay well, I guess I’m almost done anyway. My point is just is this, just that after the first time the toilets there started to back up on me. …Oh god, sorry, I didn’t even mean to be tacky like that.”
Kat laughed and dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “Don’t worry, no. And I think I know what you mean, there’s something about a shiny white toilet. Makes you know everything is going to be okay.”
Ron grinned and fluttered shyly, embarrassed. “Yeah, that must be it.”
“So,” said Kat loudly, like she was reading from a teleprompter. ”So. I think we’re all set. And I am glad you showed up; this was going to be my only little deal here, but it’s nice to have some company.”
“Some company?” Ron’s eyebrows stitched themselves together. “It looks like you’re having a séance. In which case you’d already have company, you and some ghosts.”
“No, it’s not a séance.” Kate giggled. “I don’t like dead people.”
“A poetry reading, then. Revolutionary poetry, safe only to be read deep, deep in the underground, here in the handicapped bathroom at Widgeables.”
“That might be fun.” said Kat. “But what are we revolting against, hmm.” Long, elegant fingers stroked her chin.
“The Widget militia, duh,” he said. Kat seemed to him to be really contemplating this matter, which he very much liked. He looked at her again, this time with a mixture of confusion and longing; the confusion part got smaller the longer he looked. He dropped down across from where she sat yogi-style on a green bed sheet she’d spread on the floor, crossed his legs so that their kneecaps almost were touching, and assumed a contemplative face. “Now what?”
“Now?” said Kat with a grin. “Now we’re into it.”
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