Imagine a snowflake
falling from the sky, yes the sky
where else would it fall from?
And as it falls, it grows, it crystallizes, it freezes
into a unique structure,
something that people will praise,
something ir-reproducible – like a made up word.
But I ask:
As this flake falls,
white, crisp, light onto your feather filled parka like
a feather, and melts into its constituent form,
and soaks into the fabric,why can’t it refreeze
and take a new shape?
Another shot at uniquity – another made up word.
Why must its individuality, its trajectory
end with one shot?
The water cycle will tell you it doesn’t:
Evaporation, Condensation, Precipitation, Storage
And the seasons say so too.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Pisstol
Yellow urine bladdered in the tank of a plastic gun, made all the more putrid by its green material tint, sloshing and bubbling, foaming into a fizz, as the gunman runs, ready to release a deadly stream of piss.
“I will spray you,” he howls, pumping the soaker to make the stream super, wishing his own pisstol could be so easily enlarged, gnashing yellow teeth, the front two gapped and scummy, no wonder spray lisps.
His target, a wise little rabbit trying to keep his thick, brown fur warm and dry, scurries, he knew his fate from the start – the color of the school bus told him so.
The fox cackles, points the orange tip, lets out a steaming stream, pumps again, the stream splashes harmlessly on the street, darker black liquid stains upon dry charcoal grey, a mark of his territory.
A shoe lace flails, betraying, entangling, snaring, rabbit. He falls, saving face with hands, but scraping each pure white palm into a red scramble pocked with gravel.
“Gotcha,” the predator pounces, whipping back his golden mane in glee. The orange tip, drips, hovers inches above widened brown irides, finger mounts trigger.
Will he deliver?
And tomorrow, when the gun is gone, no matter, the fox will still have his bladder.
“I will spray you,” he howls, pumping the soaker to make the stream super, wishing his own pisstol could be so easily enlarged, gnashing yellow teeth, the front two gapped and scummy, no wonder spray lisps.
His target, a wise little rabbit trying to keep his thick, brown fur warm and dry, scurries, he knew his fate from the start – the color of the school bus told him so.
The fox cackles, points the orange tip, lets out a steaming stream, pumps again, the stream splashes harmlessly on the street, darker black liquid stains upon dry charcoal grey, a mark of his territory.
A shoe lace flails, betraying, entangling, snaring, rabbit. He falls, saving face with hands, but scraping each pure white palm into a red scramble pocked with gravel.
“Gotcha,” the predator pounces, whipping back his golden mane in glee. The orange tip, drips, hovers inches above widened brown irides, finger mounts trigger.
Will he deliver?
And tomorrow, when the gun is gone, no matter, the fox will still have his bladder.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Saturday, October 3, 2009
A Eulogy to my Good Friend, John Ahn
John was a man, a man’s man’s man, a man who liked banquet beer, and broads, and ate only barbequed brats, that were of course self prepared with the delicate care of a toll booth operator will Alzheimer’s. John had hair on his arms, and hair on his legs, and hair on his back, and of course hair on his face in the form of a beard, that was thick and dark, and went well with his wardrobe of flannel. John was a lumberjack, a LumberJohn as it were. I mean this literally, you know, you don’t always have to be metaphorical and deep – Kermit the Frog on mescaline may be wise for a time, but eventually you realize that he, like everyone else is just a tadpole with legs. But I digress, and am apologetic, severely so, for I must tell you the story of LumberJohn the lumberjack. He was real manly, you get it, I mean he cut down trees for a living and was strictly carnivorous! His friends were all lumberjacks too, and usually, on the weekends they’d get together at the local shooting range and chew bullets, while shooting their handmade bow- and-arrows at burlap sacks that they stuffed with wood chips and baby robin eggs and fashioned to look like Richard Simmons – the likeness was astounding. Well, one such weekend, while John was waiting for his friend Herb to pick him up from home, he decided to pass the time in a new and exciting way. John had a secret passion for nails. Yes, nails! And no, not the metallic ones, the kind you would expect, but the keratinous ones that protrude from your fingers and toes. Up until now, in his 42 years of sentient life, living in pure masculinity and making Conan the Barbarian look like a tampon commercial coated in Avon Skin-So-Soft Luscious Lip Balm, he had never exercised his fancy. So, having previously purchased some of the finest red nail polish from his secret catalogue subscription to Estee Lauder, he sat down on the floor and began to paint. He tore off his boots. He ripped off his socks. A stench emitted from between his toes. But then, then, delicately, paintbrush to yellow fungus-ed canvas, he stroked and made himself pretty.
And well, you probably guessed it, but Herb walked in the door, just in time to catch John red-handed (finger-nailed to be precise) and he stopped in a shock. John’s heart fluttered, he reeled his head to Herb, and instantly he felt like a steak being cooked in a microwave, marinated with catsup, and served with a side of beets. Words weren’t exchanged, but from that day onward, things were different in the forest. And the shooting range? The shooting range was just shot to hell. Never the same.
God damn you John
And well, you probably guessed it, but Herb walked in the door, just in time to catch John red-handed (finger-nailed to be precise) and he stopped in a shock. John’s heart fluttered, he reeled his head to Herb, and instantly he felt like a steak being cooked in a microwave, marinated with catsup, and served with a side of beets. Words weren’t exchanged, but from that day onward, things were different in the forest. And the shooting range? The shooting range was just shot to hell. Never the same.
God damn you John
Fire!
Fire that bonds and burns through the night
Your heat draws me in,
Your orange light unblinds
I enter your radiance and wonder who made you
I watch your core glow, your flames lick, and ask why you burn
With dread, as I see your fuel slowly crumble into ash, I can only think, when will you die?
I move closer towards you, to question further, but you burn me, and I recoil in pain
In resolve, I admire your beauty and embrace your warmth from a distance, until the moment you fade away.
Your heat draws me in,
Your orange light unblinds
I enter your radiance and wonder who made you
I watch your core glow, your flames lick, and ask why you burn
With dread, as I see your fuel slowly crumble into ash, I can only think, when will you die?
I move closer towards you, to question further, but you burn me, and I recoil in pain
In resolve, I admire your beauty and embrace your warmth from a distance, until the moment you fade away.
The Sensation of Pulsation
To pulsate puberectically, that’s what I want to do
Like a frothing wet vagina,
Or a butthole passing poo
Or a veiny, growing lizard with an eye and bulbous sac
Who grows and throws his lizard milk
In a sticky, white attack
To pulsate pulsate pulsate
Like a raisin in the sun,
It was a grape that swelled and burst
Now it’s the smoking gun
Of what is left of youth and past
A supple bodice, not built to last
A skin, no soul, merely a cast
A shining soul that lived too fast
But I digress,
I stress, I stress,
That the bodice is the upper part of a women’s dress
And well, I guess
To pulsate like a loving heart,
Is simply, always best
Yet to quiver like a chicken dick, well that’s a second close
Or a close second,
I meant to say
But that expression's so morose!
Which one, you ask, the chicken dick quivering?
Or the fact that I’m delivering,
My sentiments in jest
It’s the latter, yes you guessed.
Now, lest you return
Remember what you’ve learned
To pulsate is the very best,
To pulsate, and to burn
Like a frothing wet vagina,
Or a butthole passing poo
Or a veiny, growing lizard with an eye and bulbous sac
Who grows and throws his lizard milk
In a sticky, white attack
To pulsate pulsate pulsate
Like a raisin in the sun,
It was a grape that swelled and burst
Now it’s the smoking gun
Of what is left of youth and past
A supple bodice, not built to last
A skin, no soul, merely a cast
A shining soul that lived too fast
But I digress,
I stress, I stress,
That the bodice is the upper part of a women’s dress
And well, I guess
To pulsate like a loving heart,
Is simply, always best
Yet to quiver like a chicken dick, well that’s a second close
Or a close second,
I meant to say
But that expression's so morose!
Which one, you ask, the chicken dick quivering?
Or the fact that I’m delivering,
My sentiments in jest
It’s the latter, yes you guessed.
Now, lest you return
Remember what you’ve learned
To pulsate is the very best,
To pulsate, and to burn
If only I could sing
I’m just a little bit of coconut fuzz
I’m just a bee, can you hear me a buzz?
I’m just a prehistoric dino that was
I’m just a bein’ and I’m singing because
I’m just a little bit of sand on the beach
I’m just the hair on the skin of a peach
I’m just a star shinin’ way out of reach
And I’m just a bein’ makin’ energy speech
Whenever you think that you know what you are
Look up to the sky, look up to the stars
Whoever it is that you want to a be
Remember I’m you, and you’re probably me
Cuz I’m just a little bit of coconut fuzz
I’m just a bee, can you hear me a buzz?
I’m just a prehistoric dino that was
I’m just a bein’ and I’m singing because
I’m just a little piece of blueberry pie
I’m just a dot on the top of an i
I’m just creature livin’ under the sky
I’m just a here and I wanna know why
I’m just a bee, can you hear me a buzz?
I’m just a prehistoric dino that was
I’m just a bein’ and I’m singing because
I’m just a little bit of sand on the beach
I’m just the hair on the skin of a peach
I’m just a star shinin’ way out of reach
And I’m just a bein’ makin’ energy speech
Whenever you think that you know what you are
Look up to the sky, look up to the stars
Whoever it is that you want to a be
Remember I’m you, and you’re probably me
Cuz I’m just a little bit of coconut fuzz
I’m just a bee, can you hear me a buzz?
I’m just a prehistoric dino that was
I’m just a bein’ and I’m singing because
I’m just a little piece of blueberry pie
I’m just a dot on the top of an i
I’m just creature livin’ under the sky
I’m just a here and I wanna know why
Zombies
Hello my ghoulish Zombie friend, how is your brain today?
Your gaze is blank, your body foul, have you something to say?
Go away? Go away you say? No I insist, I must here stay.
There’s something on my mind you see, I’ve got to get it out the way!
Okay?
Your inner woes and conflicts, your recognition of self failures, your brewing frustrations with the outer world, (which you believe to be the cause of said failures), and your resoluteness in this belief all manifest in your blank, vegetative gaze. Like a plant, you suck in that blue, plasmatic light, but you do not grow. No! All growth is suppressed, and neither can you reflect, for its shine has made you dull.
Hearsay, you say?
You’re wrong my friend, for why would I lead you astray?
My only wish, for you, the plant, is to be a shining ray
But instead, you watch your glowing screen, and are molded, as if clay.
Your gaze is blank, your body foul, have you something to say?
Go away? Go away you say? No I insist, I must here stay.
There’s something on my mind you see, I’ve got to get it out the way!
Okay?
Your inner woes and conflicts, your recognition of self failures, your brewing frustrations with the outer world, (which you believe to be the cause of said failures), and your resoluteness in this belief all manifest in your blank, vegetative gaze. Like a plant, you suck in that blue, plasmatic light, but you do not grow. No! All growth is suppressed, and neither can you reflect, for its shine has made you dull.
Hearsay, you say?
You’re wrong my friend, for why would I lead you astray?
My only wish, for you, the plant, is to be a shining ray
But instead, you watch your glowing screen, and are molded, as if clay.
Time to Go
Tickety, tock, the time stream flows,
And I can tell you were it goes,
So take that finger out of your nose
And listen up get on those toes
Time goes behind, comes from ahead
And with some time, we’ll all be dead
But please forget what I’ve just said
Unless you want a life of dread
There’s lots of ways to pass the time
You can do like me, and make things rhyme
You can widdle a flute, or bang a chime
You can bake a cake, or squeeze a lime
You can learn the Tango, of go to France
You can wear your shirt like a pair of pants
You can sit all day and watch the ants
You can think about life’s shoulds and shants
You can spend your time just cutting cheese
You can learn a language, like Japanese
You can pray to God, down on your knees
You can even collect things, like keys…or peas…or fleas…or rare LPs…or geez! I should just shut up
Because,
You can waste your time if you please
But the moments of others, don’t waste these
And I can tell you were it goes,
So take that finger out of your nose
And listen up get on those toes
Time goes behind, comes from ahead
And with some time, we’ll all be dead
But please forget what I’ve just said
Unless you want a life of dread
There’s lots of ways to pass the time
You can do like me, and make things rhyme
You can widdle a flute, or bang a chime
You can bake a cake, or squeeze a lime
You can learn the Tango, of go to France
You can wear your shirt like a pair of pants
You can sit all day and watch the ants
You can think about life’s shoulds and shants
You can spend your time just cutting cheese
You can learn a language, like Japanese
You can pray to God, down on your knees
You can even collect things, like keys…or peas…or fleas…or rare LPs…or geez! I should just shut up
Because,
You can waste your time if you please
But the moments of others, don’t waste these
A Poem About a Pony
A poem about a pony, that’s what I want to write
She’s well fed, not too bony, polka dotted green and white
I won her at the circus, when I was seventeen
Her name was Halladercus, but I changed it to Maureen
I thought that we should trek the globe, we left from Illinois
I wore a cotton terry robe, Maureen wore corduroy
At first we traveled to Japan, and ate wasabi rice
I turned eighteen, became a man, Maureen contracted lice
After Japan, we swam and swam, and made it to Peru
I helped a shepherd birth a lamb, Maureen, she caught the flu
We water skied to Malawi, we got there by mistake
I hung out with a wallaby, Maureen stepped on a snake
We pogo sticked till we were sick, and ended up in Wales
I learned a secret magic trick, Maureen broke all her nails!
We snow mobiled out to Nepal, and saw a mountain range
I met a monk whose name was Saul, Maureen, she got the mange
Ziplining down the mountains, we stopped in Italy
I photographed some fountains, but Maureen just had to pee
To warm up a bit, we took our trip, to the island of Buton
I saw a sunken pirate ship, Maureen just seemed withdrawn
But we hitch hiked to Australia, to see The Barrier Reef
I learned to say “G’day to Ya”, Maureen remarked, “Good Grief!”
“You took me from the circus, where I was having fun!
I once was Halledercus, That’s it, We’re through, I’m done!”
“Oh dear Maureen, I did reply, please give me one more chance.
Just one more place, give it a try! I’ll change this circumstance!”
So the two of us, then took a bus, right back to Illinois
I told Maureen, “You shouldn’t fuss, there’s something you’ll enjoy”
And back at home, there on my farm, there was a field of hay
Maureen rejoiced, now free from harm, she said that we should stay
She’s well fed, not too bony, polka dotted green and white
I won her at the circus, when I was seventeen
Her name was Halladercus, but I changed it to Maureen
I thought that we should trek the globe, we left from Illinois
I wore a cotton terry robe, Maureen wore corduroy
At first we traveled to Japan, and ate wasabi rice
I turned eighteen, became a man, Maureen contracted lice
After Japan, we swam and swam, and made it to Peru
I helped a shepherd birth a lamb, Maureen, she caught the flu
We water skied to Malawi, we got there by mistake
I hung out with a wallaby, Maureen stepped on a snake
We pogo sticked till we were sick, and ended up in Wales
I learned a secret magic trick, Maureen broke all her nails!
We snow mobiled out to Nepal, and saw a mountain range
I met a monk whose name was Saul, Maureen, she got the mange
Ziplining down the mountains, we stopped in Italy
I photographed some fountains, but Maureen just had to pee
To warm up a bit, we took our trip, to the island of Buton
I saw a sunken pirate ship, Maureen just seemed withdrawn
But we hitch hiked to Australia, to see The Barrier Reef
I learned to say “G’day to Ya”, Maureen remarked, “Good Grief!”
“You took me from the circus, where I was having fun!
I once was Halledercus, That’s it, We’re through, I’m done!”
“Oh dear Maureen, I did reply, please give me one more chance.
Just one more place, give it a try! I’ll change this circumstance!”
So the two of us, then took a bus, right back to Illinois
I told Maureen, “You shouldn’t fuss, there’s something you’ll enjoy”
And back at home, there on my farm, there was a field of hay
Maureen rejoiced, now free from harm, she said that we should stay
The Toliet Tree
Have you ever heard of the toilet tree?
It’s real, yes it’s real, believe you in me!
It’s shaped like a toilet, but it’s not for pee
And I climbed it one time, yep, me and mommy
We were running errands, and it wasn’t too fun
And I said to my mommy, “can we just be done?
How many more stops?”, and she said “Just one”
And it was right then that the journey begun
We came to this store that I never had seen
Its inside was white, and incredibly clean
And right in middle, of isle thirteen
Was a toilet shaped tree, with a porcelain glean!
I looked at my mommy, and she laughed and she smiled
“Let’s climb it,” she said, “aren’t you curious, child?”
She jumped off the floor, ceramically tiled
And she swung up the first branch orangutang styled
So up it I went, but was I surprised!
Because none of the leaves were equally sized
In fact, they weren’t leaves, no I soon realized,
They were things for the bathroom! I couldn’t believe my eyes!
There were leaves for the shower, yes leaves of shampoo
And leaves of made of bar soap, pink, yellow, and blue
And shaving cream cans right next to them grew
My mommy said “Pick them, that’s what we’re here to do!”
There was a branch full of teeth things, like toothpaste and floss
And mouthwash, and toothpicks, and I looked right across
To the branch to my left that grew leaves of lip gloss
And chapstick, and lipstick, and bubble bath sauce
Cue tips, and tissues, and white cotton fluff
With toilet paper petals that were soft, never rough
Formed flowers on branches, next to all the other stuff
I picked one, and Mommy said, “That isn’t enough”
So we went to the next limb, which grew syrups and pills
For fevers, for toothaches, for headaches, for chills
There was a pharmacist monkey for pre-scription fills
And I thought that was all, yes I that thought until
I got to the next branch that grew bandaids and gauze!
And diapers for babies, and some for grandpas
And good smelling lotions, that we didn’t need because
Mommy said they only use those things in spas.
There was a branch full of hair things, like barrettes and brushes
And one that grew perfumes, and powders, and blushes
There were leaves that were creams that make your skin luscious
And mommy said, “Pull the branch at the top, that’s how the Toilet Tree flushes”
So I climbed to the top, and pulled on that limb
And the Toilet Tree flushed, and we started to swim
And we swirled and we spun ‘round the Toilet Tree’s rim
‘Til we got to the bottom, and it filled back to its brim
And we paid for our leaf things, and I said, “Mommy please!
“Can we come back again?” And I begged on my knees
And she laughed and she smiled and she said to me, “Geez,
Since when do you like shopping for toil-et-tries?”
It’s real, yes it’s real, believe you in me!
It’s shaped like a toilet, but it’s not for pee
And I climbed it one time, yep, me and mommy
We were running errands, and it wasn’t too fun
And I said to my mommy, “can we just be done?
How many more stops?”, and she said “Just one”
And it was right then that the journey begun
We came to this store that I never had seen
Its inside was white, and incredibly clean
And right in middle, of isle thirteen
Was a toilet shaped tree, with a porcelain glean!
I looked at my mommy, and she laughed and she smiled
“Let’s climb it,” she said, “aren’t you curious, child?”
She jumped off the floor, ceramically tiled
And she swung up the first branch orangutang styled
So up it I went, but was I surprised!
Because none of the leaves were equally sized
In fact, they weren’t leaves, no I soon realized,
They were things for the bathroom! I couldn’t believe my eyes!
There were leaves for the shower, yes leaves of shampoo
And leaves of made of bar soap, pink, yellow, and blue
And shaving cream cans right next to them grew
My mommy said “Pick them, that’s what we’re here to do!”
There was a branch full of teeth things, like toothpaste and floss
And mouthwash, and toothpicks, and I looked right across
To the branch to my left that grew leaves of lip gloss
And chapstick, and lipstick, and bubble bath sauce
Cue tips, and tissues, and white cotton fluff
With toilet paper petals that were soft, never rough
Formed flowers on branches, next to all the other stuff
I picked one, and Mommy said, “That isn’t enough”
So we went to the next limb, which grew syrups and pills
For fevers, for toothaches, for headaches, for chills
There was a pharmacist monkey for pre-scription fills
And I thought that was all, yes I that thought until
I got to the next branch that grew bandaids and gauze!
And diapers for babies, and some for grandpas
And good smelling lotions, that we didn’t need because
Mommy said they only use those things in spas.
There was a branch full of hair things, like barrettes and brushes
And one that grew perfumes, and powders, and blushes
There were leaves that were creams that make your skin luscious
And mommy said, “Pull the branch at the top, that’s how the Toilet Tree flushes”
So I climbed to the top, and pulled on that limb
And the Toilet Tree flushed, and we started to swim
And we swirled and we spun ‘round the Toilet Tree’s rim
‘Til we got to the bottom, and it filled back to its brim
And we paid for our leaf things, and I said, “Mommy please!
“Can we come back again?” And I begged on my knees
And she laughed and she smiled and she said to me, “Geez,
Since when do you like shopping for toil-et-tries?”
Monday, September 28, 2009
Deemster Derek: Revised
The guy really did come from nowhere it seemed. We were all sitting in the grass field of a parking lot drinking away the day, waiting for the night, waiting for the real bands to hit the stage, and then suddenly there he was. Actually, if you want the truth, I did see him approaching from a distance, lumbering from side to side in his bright orange jacket, and I did make eye contact and give him a friendly little nod, but that’s something my friends will never know. I guess that’s why he decided to sit next to me.
“Shit man, I’m almost senile and I’m only 25,” was his opening line. He was cross legged on the ground and the statement had an air of pride - he laughed after he said it though, so you can take that for what you will. He smelled like everyone else at that festival, like a goddamn hippie. Yes, they still exist. It’s almost a sweet smell, a mixture of B.O. and half wiped ass baked in the sun, melded together by caked on dirt and sand and whatever juices they’ve drank or bits of food their beards have accumulated. This place was filled with that scent. It pervaded every crowd and lingered in every line. In the port-o-potties it would lay in wait and attack in full strength. I thought that in this open field we would escape it, but I was wrong.
“You know what I mean, brother,” was the next thing he said, and he said it to me. I didn’t know what he meant, but I nodded, and he nodded back. He looked like an out of work Jack Black. A huge belly and short, stout legs. A beard that was long unkempt and two blue eyes that rested in his skull so glazed over and lazy they just screamed, “I do drugs.”
He looked around the circle and everyone looked back.
“Could I get one of those beers?” he asked. I thought it was downright rude and expected someone to tell him to fuck off, but Rob, the one next to the case was already drunk, and a big friendly bear, so he tossed him a can. The guy snagged it out of the air, and downed half of it in one chug. He used his dirty sleeve to wipe his beard.
“Ahh,” he said, “now that’s some good shit, am I right brother?” And I genuinely did agree. It was some good shit under this hot summer sun next to all these reflective car hoods, without a breeze or cloud or speck of shade to be found. Sure, alcohol and sunshine both act in a dehydrative manner, but that never stops the drinking. While the warmth is beating down, consequences are negligible.
He put up his hand for a high five and I wondered if LSD or Hepatitis could be transferred via palm to palm contact, but what could I do? I gave the hand a slap.
“Right on,” he said and I looked at my friends.
“So what’s your name man?” Rob came in. I was grateful, but at the same time wondered why he was being so friendly. The guy was clearly scum and I wanted him gone. It was me he was sitting next to, and it was our beer that he was drinking. Five dollars of that case was mine.
“I’m Derek.”
“That’s cool man,” said Rob. “Do you work here or something?” Derek laughed and gave a tug to his coat. Like I said, it was thick and bright orange, and he must have been sweating his balls off in the heat.
“Nope,” Derek replied, “I do not. The coat’s working though. It got you, and it got me in here for free.” He raised his pudgy wrist and waved it, laughing like a martian. A blue festival bracelet dangled around, nestling with thick, dark arm hair.
“Sick,” said Rob, and he took a sip of his beer. Derek did the same, and then asked for another, and Rob gave it up. The bastard. I looked across to one of my friends in the circle and his eyes widened. Derek cracked open the new can.
“So do you guys know where I could find any deemsters?” he asked. Immediately the silence of the group broke. One of the guys, Bill, laughed and darted his eyes around the circle as if this were the punch line to a joke. No one got it.
“DMT? No we don’t have any of that stuff,” Bill responded.
Derek laughed back, his throat gurgling like it needed to be cleared. “Damn, that’s too bad,” he said, “I’ve been looking for some deemsters all weekend. This place is dry.”
I looked down at Derek and tried to put some significance to the three letters. D.M.T. Dextro-morpho-something or another. A hardcore hallucinogenic drug that I’d never even seen on T.V. Damn. The drug was mysterious, like this Derek, so I decided to pull out my pad and pen.
“So yeah,” Derek continued and looked at me. I gave him a nod because I had no idea what he was referring to, and his glazed eyes lit up.
“You’ve done it?” he asked. It was like he’d found a brother, a co-conspirator, but I responded, “Me, no way,” and his eyes returned to their dull. He looked down and picked at a few grass blades and the group remained silent. No side conversations, no one flicking each other’s ear or horsing around, nothing. All eyes were on Derek.
“What’s that stuff like anyway,” said Bill, his voice small, but with an edge. The question was spurred out of curiosity, and probably voiced to ease the silence, but I could tell he was egging the guy on. The heat of the day called for some amusement. Reflective car hoods and tall grass, taken in by bloodshot eyes, in a beer after beer manner can get quite old. There were eight of us, and one of him. He would be our clown.
Derek looked up from the grass, but kept picking blades. On some he’d pull as deep as the roots and dirt would dangle in hair-like strands.
“You take life,” he said, “you know, life, it’s usually in 2-D. Well, a DMT trip is life in more than 3-D, it’s life in like, 3.7-D.” There were a few chuckles around the circle and that kept him going. “Yeah, I just love smoking deemsters man. It’s nice because the trip’s only like 15 minutes. But let me give you a word of advice. Don’t smoke em in your weed bowl. Your pot will taste like rubber forever. For-ever.”
“Now that’s some advice,” laughed Rob and we all joined in. Sips of beer were taken and the silence broke. Those sitting next to each other started talking, jump started out of their buzz and a warm wind picked up, comforting like a blanket, but loose like a sheet.
“If you want advice man, I’ve got it.”
I looked down at him and smiled, “Oh yeah?” I said.
“Of course,” he replied.
So I clicked my pen, found a fresh page in the pad, and gave it a heading: “Unconventional Wisdom?” Seated, Derek spread his arms, and began.
“Well first off, I don’t use any money, man. Everything is traded. For example, you stand on the corner of the street and hold up a sign that says ‘My family was raped and murdered by a clan of rival ninjas. Need money for Kung Fu lessons.’” His voice held an air of pride.
“Wwwhat!?” came suddenly from Stanley, the youngest of the group by three years. The kid’s mouth was agape, flashing bright-white teeth as he spoke. Feathery, blond hair shook with the shake of his head. “Does that work?”
“Yeah it works, we made fifty dollars off that one once.” Derek chuckled reflectively and leaned back, reclining on his arms. The belly that held all of our beer lay before him with a white crack revealed between tight shirt and shorts. I could see belly pubes. “But if you want to be more conventional,” and he said this right to Stan, “just run around the city screaming your ass off, banging a tambourine, setting off your friend’s car alarm – if you have a car – and hold up a sign that says ‘Will shut up for a dollar.’”
“That. Is. Awesome.” Stanley replied, wowed, and others in the group, older by those three years were wowed too, but wowed differently. Their wow showed its face in their silent cross leggedness on lawn chairs, in their white knuckled grip around beer cans that sweat like them in the sun and the heat and the situation. My wow, was a ‘Wow!’, explanation point and all in my pocket notebook. The breeze again blew, but now smelled of unwashed bedding. Of scum. Of Derek.
“Yeah, it is,” Derek crossed his hairy legs; they were caked in dried on dirt and I could hear the long grass scratch them. I didn’t know what would be said next, if anyone would question further, since the conversation had reached such an early climax, but then Rob pressed on. Rob, drunk off his big ass and silly. He said something to the effect of ‘so what do you do’/ ‘where are you from’ with the implicative laugh of ‘who the fuck are you, you strange, strange man?’ But that glossed right over Derek.
“I’m from Cali man,” said Derek, saying Cali like people from Illinois think people from Cali would say Cali, “but right now I’m living in West Lafayette, Indiana.” Immediately all eyes went from Derek to Dan, another kid in the group. He was wearing his school colors, black and gold, with the name, Purdue stamped across his chest. A connection had been made, and yeah it was intriguing, but apparently Dan didn’t see it as so. He was gazing with his head tilted back at the cloudless sky, responseless. I wasn’t even sure he’d heard what was said through that wild mop of hair of his covering his ears. Then Derek said, “You go there, man?”
Dan didn’t move but said, “Yeah.” He, like Stanley was younger, but only by a year. I didn’t notice when he started looking at the sky, and with that pale skin of his I hoped that he’d applied sunscreen, he didn’t need a burn. All the other’s eyes were fixed, glued, to Derek, even mine, but Dan was looking straight up. ‘I thought I was the only one who looked up there,’ I thought, and in my notepad I drew a line. Under it I wrote: “Sky so blue, do you look down upon me too?” Then I joined Dan looking skyward and saw the sun much farther to the west than I’d suspected. How many hours? How many beers? When did Derek get here, and when will he leave? When will we leave, and when will it end? All the answers I didn’t have, but Derek kept talking, and I kept listening. If the others were too, I don’t know.
“I usually just travel from festival to festival,” he said, “but to make money to support my dog I make jewelry. You guys should check me out on Myspace, do you have Myspace?”
Stanley said, “Yeah, I’ll hit you up man,” and Rob said, “You’re dog?” Dog coming out like glitter, leaving a smile in its trail. Derek however, did not smile back. Instead he sat straight up from reclining and became rigid. He licked his lips and took a swig of his beer, looking Rob right in the eye.
“My dog has beautiful physique, I take her everywhere.”
I wondered where she, this dog, was now. This claim was clearly a lie, but still, I was curious as to how faithful to it he really was – and if he was, how he managed to do so. Across from me, Stanley wiggled and giggled, probably at the words “beautiful physique” and the rest of the group did that fast exhalation of air you do when you hear something truly ridiculous. Only Rob replied.
“A beautiful physique?”
And cross legged in that long, green grass Derek became poetic. The breeze picked up again and carried his words, “She’s beautiful man, so sleek, and slender, and jet black like the night. Sexy really. I put neon tape to her fur so she looks like a service dog so I can take her on the bus and stuff. My baby. Beautiful physique,” to all of our ears. Then, taking his own cue, he pulled a packet of neon stickers from his pocket.
“I should spruce this jacket up,” he laughed, and peeled off a hot green star. Stanley replied, “Hell yeah, man,” and Derek slapped it on his sleeve. When he looked down at it in examination, his whole body did a shrug, and the belly, his burden, wobbled. Satisfied, he took a finishing gulp of his beer and threw the can over his shoulder. Its emptiness landed with a soft ping.
“Could I get another one of those, brother?” He looked only to Rob when he asked, but he wasn’t the only one looking at Rob. I glared at him, Bill stared at him, and Stanley flashed a smile and nodded. Rob passed him another can. When Derek cracked it, I took a sip of my own, it was becoming warm from disuse, and as I swallowed it I put pen back to pad. “One can get very far on personality,” is what I wrote, and I began to think about executives and diplomats and Derek’s future. I shuddered.
“So Derek,” I finally said, but before I could continue a loud guitar screech wafted its way over from the festival grounds. Everyone jumped, and Derek said, “Sick.” This meant I had to wait to ask my question, as they all got riled up from the noise, and remembered why they were there, and started talking and laughing, but through the excitement I got his attention – which was again his blank, glazen stare.
“So Derek,” I said, “have you ever gotten into any trouble for all this stuff?”
“Trouble? Trouble? Trouble? Trouble? You think I’d get into trouble man?” he scoffed, and everyone stopped their talking and listened in. “You think I get in trouble for that stuff? Ha!” And he actually said ‘Ha’. “Everyone knows that as long as you’re two states away, they don’t mind.”
“What do you mean, they don’t mind?” Stanley asked.
“Like felony wise, man.” Is what he said back, and of course I wondered if it was true, and I guess everyone else stopped to wonder it as well. We each went through what seemed like another beer, which seemed like ten minutes, but the period was really indeterminable. It passed, and then it was gone, but I can remember glimpses, I can remember feelings. I remember a bird flying overhead and wondering what he saw as he soared. Eight kids in a circle, and one man, all clutching golden cylinders and raising and raising and raising them to their lips till they were through, then reaching for another till the case ran dry. The man begging for more from the kids and making himself their jester so they wouldn’t say no. His skin unwashed and hairy, his hair knotted from lack of treatment, his eyes dull from all he’d seen and done, but his smile still shone, flashing those familiar, bright white teeth. He sat and picked at the ground with ferocity and intensity, punishing it. Around him sat the younger, watching in wonder, but in a wonder that bordered fear. Were we all the same underneath the blue, or were we different, as we appeared atop the green? The infinite paths that could be trodden all produced variance, how did Derek come to be? Was he all that he said, or just a good story teller who liked beer?
I looked back up to the sky, joining Dan, who still held his head upward with a grin, and a few of those big, fluffy, harmless, summer clouds floated their way into view.
Then the one who spoke first was not an interviewer, but the subject himself.
“So you guys wanna hear a funny story?”
And of course we did. Had we said no yet?
“Ok,” he swayed, “so last night my buddy was like, looking for his Molly,”
“His Molly?” Stanley interrupted.
“Yeah man, his Molly, you know MDMA?”
Stanley turned a bit red, and it wasn’t from the sun. He said, “Oh yeah, my bad,” and wobbled his head back and forth. “I’m a little drunk, man. I know what that stuff is.”
Derek looked down at the grass again and smacked the ground, “Sooo yeah,” he said, looking to the others of the group with the smile of a wolf, haggard and hairy. “He was looking for his Molly and I was like here it is man!” He broke into a gruff laugh, a guffaw, and rubbed his beard. He took a big gulp of his beer.
The wind blew in response, and we sat in wait for the rest. Derek seemed to have forgotten what he was talking about, as he paused and looked to the horizon.
“Well did he do it, then?” One of us finally asked.
“Yeah, but it had been cheeked.” Derek awoke and stood up with a quick jump, dropping his beer can where he sat. “It had been cheeked guys - it had been up someone’s ass.” He clapped, and put the group into a disgusted fit of laughter. But then he changed, then, as we were all laughing, buzzed and amazed and young and lighthearted, he looked to the sky. No one really noticed; everyone was all too wrapped up in the afterglow of the joke, talking about it, imagining it, debating over whether or not it was worth snorting cheeked drugs, and wondering if the guy who did them ever found out, but I saw. I saw Derek looking skyward, grounded on his stout legs stilly. He closed his eyes and took a breath, taking in the sweetness, enjoying, not moving at all. I couldn’t help but watch him, and I saw that there was no smile. His lips were hard pressed shut and his brow was furled. His pose struck me, and I wanted to write something poetic, something meaningful in my notebook, but nothing, nothing came to mind. I wanted to ask him what was wrong, but couldn’t find it in me to speak. Around his neck, I saw a necklace made of intricately woven hemp, and garnished with three clear-blue glass bulbs in the center.
Derek looked down to the can at his side and kicked it. He turned to me and said nothing. We had a moment, eyes locked, him reading me, I reading him, then it passed.
“Well I gotta go guys,” he said. Everyone broke their conversations and looked to him, each differently. Rob smiled, and reached for another beer – a parting gift. Bill remained still and watchful. Others piped in with a collective, “Later man,” or “Peace” and Dan un-bent his neck to say “SEE YA DUDE,” with mock enthusiasm.
Stanley stood up and shook his hand.
“Thanks for the advice, man” he said. His lanky, youthful figure, light and playful, met with Derek’s bulk, and when Derek got hold of the hand he held onto it for a time longer than expected. Stanley shook it up and down, like you’d see in a silent movie, and added, “Take it easy,” as a polite way to say, ‘Okay let go’, but Derek did not. He held on, he clung, and his glazen eyes dove through Stanley’s skin.
“You guys want some real advice,” he said in monotone of voice and figure. No one said a word, and I looked to Bill two seats over. His eyes were fists.
Derek let out a sigh laugh and dropped Stanley’s hand.
“If you want some real advice,” he said, “it’s this. If a girl ever tells you to come inside her, don’t. Just don’t”
We all laughed, again, like every time before this guy had said a word, and Derek smiled like before, but this time, this time I knew it was forced. As I wrote what he said in my notebook, he turned and walked away, giving a blind wave and saying some sort of mumbled farewell, and everyone again said buhbye. I could hear him, from behind, crack open that last beer we’d given and I imagined him draining it in one chug, walking through that tall grass, under that hot blue sky, navigating the make shift parking lot back towards the festival. Back towards those hippies, back towards the noise.
“Shit man, I’m almost senile and I’m only 25,” was his opening line. He was cross legged on the ground and the statement had an air of pride - he laughed after he said it though, so you can take that for what you will. He smelled like everyone else at that festival, like a goddamn hippie. Yes, they still exist. It’s almost a sweet smell, a mixture of B.O. and half wiped ass baked in the sun, melded together by caked on dirt and sand and whatever juices they’ve drank or bits of food their beards have accumulated. This place was filled with that scent. It pervaded every crowd and lingered in every line. In the port-o-potties it would lay in wait and attack in full strength. I thought that in this open field we would escape it, but I was wrong.
“You know what I mean, brother,” was the next thing he said, and he said it to me. I didn’t know what he meant, but I nodded, and he nodded back. He looked like an out of work Jack Black. A huge belly and short, stout legs. A beard that was long unkempt and two blue eyes that rested in his skull so glazed over and lazy they just screamed, “I do drugs.”
He looked around the circle and everyone looked back.
“Could I get one of those beers?” he asked. I thought it was downright rude and expected someone to tell him to fuck off, but Rob, the one next to the case was already drunk, and a big friendly bear, so he tossed him a can. The guy snagged it out of the air, and downed half of it in one chug. He used his dirty sleeve to wipe his beard.
“Ahh,” he said, “now that’s some good shit, am I right brother?” And I genuinely did agree. It was some good shit under this hot summer sun next to all these reflective car hoods, without a breeze or cloud or speck of shade to be found. Sure, alcohol and sunshine both act in a dehydrative manner, but that never stops the drinking. While the warmth is beating down, consequences are negligible.
He put up his hand for a high five and I wondered if LSD or Hepatitis could be transferred via palm to palm contact, but what could I do? I gave the hand a slap.
“Right on,” he said and I looked at my friends.
“So what’s your name man?” Rob came in. I was grateful, but at the same time wondered why he was being so friendly. The guy was clearly scum and I wanted him gone. It was me he was sitting next to, and it was our beer that he was drinking. Five dollars of that case was mine.
“I’m Derek.”
“That’s cool man,” said Rob. “Do you work here or something?” Derek laughed and gave a tug to his coat. Like I said, it was thick and bright orange, and he must have been sweating his balls off in the heat.
“Nope,” Derek replied, “I do not. The coat’s working though. It got you, and it got me in here for free.” He raised his pudgy wrist and waved it, laughing like a martian. A blue festival bracelet dangled around, nestling with thick, dark arm hair.
“Sick,” said Rob, and he took a sip of his beer. Derek did the same, and then asked for another, and Rob gave it up. The bastard. I looked across to one of my friends in the circle and his eyes widened. Derek cracked open the new can.
“So do you guys know where I could find any deemsters?” he asked. Immediately the silence of the group broke. One of the guys, Bill, laughed and darted his eyes around the circle as if this were the punch line to a joke. No one got it.
“DMT? No we don’t have any of that stuff,” Bill responded.
Derek laughed back, his throat gurgling like it needed to be cleared. “Damn, that’s too bad,” he said, “I’ve been looking for some deemsters all weekend. This place is dry.”
I looked down at Derek and tried to put some significance to the three letters. D.M.T. Dextro-morpho-something or another. A hardcore hallucinogenic drug that I’d never even seen on T.V. Damn. The drug was mysterious, like this Derek, so I decided to pull out my pad and pen.
“So yeah,” Derek continued and looked at me. I gave him a nod because I had no idea what he was referring to, and his glazed eyes lit up.
“You’ve done it?” he asked. It was like he’d found a brother, a co-conspirator, but I responded, “Me, no way,” and his eyes returned to their dull. He looked down and picked at a few grass blades and the group remained silent. No side conversations, no one flicking each other’s ear or horsing around, nothing. All eyes were on Derek.
“What’s that stuff like anyway,” said Bill, his voice small, but with an edge. The question was spurred out of curiosity, and probably voiced to ease the silence, but I could tell he was egging the guy on. The heat of the day called for some amusement. Reflective car hoods and tall grass, taken in by bloodshot eyes, in a beer after beer manner can get quite old. There were eight of us, and one of him. He would be our clown.
Derek looked up from the grass, but kept picking blades. On some he’d pull as deep as the roots and dirt would dangle in hair-like strands.
“You take life,” he said, “you know, life, it’s usually in 2-D. Well, a DMT trip is life in more than 3-D, it’s life in like, 3.7-D.” There were a few chuckles around the circle and that kept him going. “Yeah, I just love smoking deemsters man. It’s nice because the trip’s only like 15 minutes. But let me give you a word of advice. Don’t smoke em in your weed bowl. Your pot will taste like rubber forever. For-ever.”
“Now that’s some advice,” laughed Rob and we all joined in. Sips of beer were taken and the silence broke. Those sitting next to each other started talking, jump started out of their buzz and a warm wind picked up, comforting like a blanket, but loose like a sheet.
“If you want advice man, I’ve got it.”
I looked down at him and smiled, “Oh yeah?” I said.
“Of course,” he replied.
So I clicked my pen, found a fresh page in the pad, and gave it a heading: “Unconventional Wisdom?” Seated, Derek spread his arms, and began.
“Well first off, I don’t use any money, man. Everything is traded. For example, you stand on the corner of the street and hold up a sign that says ‘My family was raped and murdered by a clan of rival ninjas. Need money for Kung Fu lessons.’” His voice held an air of pride.
“Wwwhat!?” came suddenly from Stanley, the youngest of the group by three years. The kid’s mouth was agape, flashing bright-white teeth as he spoke. Feathery, blond hair shook with the shake of his head. “Does that work?”
“Yeah it works, we made fifty dollars off that one once.” Derek chuckled reflectively and leaned back, reclining on his arms. The belly that held all of our beer lay before him with a white crack revealed between tight shirt and shorts. I could see belly pubes. “But if you want to be more conventional,” and he said this right to Stan, “just run around the city screaming your ass off, banging a tambourine, setting off your friend’s car alarm – if you have a car – and hold up a sign that says ‘Will shut up for a dollar.’”
“That. Is. Awesome.” Stanley replied, wowed, and others in the group, older by those three years were wowed too, but wowed differently. Their wow showed its face in their silent cross leggedness on lawn chairs, in their white knuckled grip around beer cans that sweat like them in the sun and the heat and the situation. My wow, was a ‘Wow!’, explanation point and all in my pocket notebook. The breeze again blew, but now smelled of unwashed bedding. Of scum. Of Derek.
“Yeah, it is,” Derek crossed his hairy legs; they were caked in dried on dirt and I could hear the long grass scratch them. I didn’t know what would be said next, if anyone would question further, since the conversation had reached such an early climax, but then Rob pressed on. Rob, drunk off his big ass and silly. He said something to the effect of ‘so what do you do’/ ‘where are you from’ with the implicative laugh of ‘who the fuck are you, you strange, strange man?’ But that glossed right over Derek.
“I’m from Cali man,” said Derek, saying Cali like people from Illinois think people from Cali would say Cali, “but right now I’m living in West Lafayette, Indiana.” Immediately all eyes went from Derek to Dan, another kid in the group. He was wearing his school colors, black and gold, with the name, Purdue stamped across his chest. A connection had been made, and yeah it was intriguing, but apparently Dan didn’t see it as so. He was gazing with his head tilted back at the cloudless sky, responseless. I wasn’t even sure he’d heard what was said through that wild mop of hair of his covering his ears. Then Derek said, “You go there, man?”
Dan didn’t move but said, “Yeah.” He, like Stanley was younger, but only by a year. I didn’t notice when he started looking at the sky, and with that pale skin of his I hoped that he’d applied sunscreen, he didn’t need a burn. All the other’s eyes were fixed, glued, to Derek, even mine, but Dan was looking straight up. ‘I thought I was the only one who looked up there,’ I thought, and in my notepad I drew a line. Under it I wrote: “Sky so blue, do you look down upon me too?” Then I joined Dan looking skyward and saw the sun much farther to the west than I’d suspected. How many hours? How many beers? When did Derek get here, and when will he leave? When will we leave, and when will it end? All the answers I didn’t have, but Derek kept talking, and I kept listening. If the others were too, I don’t know.
“I usually just travel from festival to festival,” he said, “but to make money to support my dog I make jewelry. You guys should check me out on Myspace, do you have Myspace?”
Stanley said, “Yeah, I’ll hit you up man,” and Rob said, “You’re dog?” Dog coming out like glitter, leaving a smile in its trail. Derek however, did not smile back. Instead he sat straight up from reclining and became rigid. He licked his lips and took a swig of his beer, looking Rob right in the eye.
“My dog has beautiful physique, I take her everywhere.”
I wondered where she, this dog, was now. This claim was clearly a lie, but still, I was curious as to how faithful to it he really was – and if he was, how he managed to do so. Across from me, Stanley wiggled and giggled, probably at the words “beautiful physique” and the rest of the group did that fast exhalation of air you do when you hear something truly ridiculous. Only Rob replied.
“A beautiful physique?”
And cross legged in that long, green grass Derek became poetic. The breeze picked up again and carried his words, “She’s beautiful man, so sleek, and slender, and jet black like the night. Sexy really. I put neon tape to her fur so she looks like a service dog so I can take her on the bus and stuff. My baby. Beautiful physique,” to all of our ears. Then, taking his own cue, he pulled a packet of neon stickers from his pocket.
“I should spruce this jacket up,” he laughed, and peeled off a hot green star. Stanley replied, “Hell yeah, man,” and Derek slapped it on his sleeve. When he looked down at it in examination, his whole body did a shrug, and the belly, his burden, wobbled. Satisfied, he took a finishing gulp of his beer and threw the can over his shoulder. Its emptiness landed with a soft ping.
“Could I get another one of those, brother?” He looked only to Rob when he asked, but he wasn’t the only one looking at Rob. I glared at him, Bill stared at him, and Stanley flashed a smile and nodded. Rob passed him another can. When Derek cracked it, I took a sip of my own, it was becoming warm from disuse, and as I swallowed it I put pen back to pad. “One can get very far on personality,” is what I wrote, and I began to think about executives and diplomats and Derek’s future. I shuddered.
“So Derek,” I finally said, but before I could continue a loud guitar screech wafted its way over from the festival grounds. Everyone jumped, and Derek said, “Sick.” This meant I had to wait to ask my question, as they all got riled up from the noise, and remembered why they were there, and started talking and laughing, but through the excitement I got his attention – which was again his blank, glazen stare.
“So Derek,” I said, “have you ever gotten into any trouble for all this stuff?”
“Trouble? Trouble? Trouble? Trouble? You think I’d get into trouble man?” he scoffed, and everyone stopped their talking and listened in. “You think I get in trouble for that stuff? Ha!” And he actually said ‘Ha’. “Everyone knows that as long as you’re two states away, they don’t mind.”
“What do you mean, they don’t mind?” Stanley asked.
“Like felony wise, man.” Is what he said back, and of course I wondered if it was true, and I guess everyone else stopped to wonder it as well. We each went through what seemed like another beer, which seemed like ten minutes, but the period was really indeterminable. It passed, and then it was gone, but I can remember glimpses, I can remember feelings. I remember a bird flying overhead and wondering what he saw as he soared. Eight kids in a circle, and one man, all clutching golden cylinders and raising and raising and raising them to their lips till they were through, then reaching for another till the case ran dry. The man begging for more from the kids and making himself their jester so they wouldn’t say no. His skin unwashed and hairy, his hair knotted from lack of treatment, his eyes dull from all he’d seen and done, but his smile still shone, flashing those familiar, bright white teeth. He sat and picked at the ground with ferocity and intensity, punishing it. Around him sat the younger, watching in wonder, but in a wonder that bordered fear. Were we all the same underneath the blue, or were we different, as we appeared atop the green? The infinite paths that could be trodden all produced variance, how did Derek come to be? Was he all that he said, or just a good story teller who liked beer?
I looked back up to the sky, joining Dan, who still held his head upward with a grin, and a few of those big, fluffy, harmless, summer clouds floated their way into view.
Then the one who spoke first was not an interviewer, but the subject himself.
“So you guys wanna hear a funny story?”
And of course we did. Had we said no yet?
“Ok,” he swayed, “so last night my buddy was like, looking for his Molly,”
“His Molly?” Stanley interrupted.
“Yeah man, his Molly, you know MDMA?”
Stanley turned a bit red, and it wasn’t from the sun. He said, “Oh yeah, my bad,” and wobbled his head back and forth. “I’m a little drunk, man. I know what that stuff is.”
Derek looked down at the grass again and smacked the ground, “Sooo yeah,” he said, looking to the others of the group with the smile of a wolf, haggard and hairy. “He was looking for his Molly and I was like here it is man!” He broke into a gruff laugh, a guffaw, and rubbed his beard. He took a big gulp of his beer.
The wind blew in response, and we sat in wait for the rest. Derek seemed to have forgotten what he was talking about, as he paused and looked to the horizon.
“Well did he do it, then?” One of us finally asked.
“Yeah, but it had been cheeked.” Derek awoke and stood up with a quick jump, dropping his beer can where he sat. “It had been cheeked guys - it had been up someone’s ass.” He clapped, and put the group into a disgusted fit of laughter. But then he changed, then, as we were all laughing, buzzed and amazed and young and lighthearted, he looked to the sky. No one really noticed; everyone was all too wrapped up in the afterglow of the joke, talking about it, imagining it, debating over whether or not it was worth snorting cheeked drugs, and wondering if the guy who did them ever found out, but I saw. I saw Derek looking skyward, grounded on his stout legs stilly. He closed his eyes and took a breath, taking in the sweetness, enjoying, not moving at all. I couldn’t help but watch him, and I saw that there was no smile. His lips were hard pressed shut and his brow was furled. His pose struck me, and I wanted to write something poetic, something meaningful in my notebook, but nothing, nothing came to mind. I wanted to ask him what was wrong, but couldn’t find it in me to speak. Around his neck, I saw a necklace made of intricately woven hemp, and garnished with three clear-blue glass bulbs in the center.
Derek looked down to the can at his side and kicked it. He turned to me and said nothing. We had a moment, eyes locked, him reading me, I reading him, then it passed.
“Well I gotta go guys,” he said. Everyone broke their conversations and looked to him, each differently. Rob smiled, and reached for another beer – a parting gift. Bill remained still and watchful. Others piped in with a collective, “Later man,” or “Peace” and Dan un-bent his neck to say “SEE YA DUDE,” with mock enthusiasm.
Stanley stood up and shook his hand.
“Thanks for the advice, man” he said. His lanky, youthful figure, light and playful, met with Derek’s bulk, and when Derek got hold of the hand he held onto it for a time longer than expected. Stanley shook it up and down, like you’d see in a silent movie, and added, “Take it easy,” as a polite way to say, ‘Okay let go’, but Derek did not. He held on, he clung, and his glazen eyes dove through Stanley’s skin.
“You guys want some real advice,” he said in monotone of voice and figure. No one said a word, and I looked to Bill two seats over. His eyes were fists.
Derek let out a sigh laugh and dropped Stanley’s hand.
“If you want some real advice,” he said, “it’s this. If a girl ever tells you to come inside her, don’t. Just don’t”
We all laughed, again, like every time before this guy had said a word, and Derek smiled like before, but this time, this time I knew it was forced. As I wrote what he said in my notebook, he turned and walked away, giving a blind wave and saying some sort of mumbled farewell, and everyone again said buhbye. I could hear him, from behind, crack open that last beer we’d given and I imagined him draining it in one chug, walking through that tall grass, under that hot blue sky, navigating the make shift parking lot back towards the festival. Back towards those hippies, back towards the noise.
The Process
I walk into the laboratory - white, shiny, clean, and authoritative, like the comforting cleanliness of a hospital. Like a hospital it emits a sterile smell that makes you feel the power of controlled circumstance. It is a circular auditorium with progressively raised seating; the encompassing white walls are windowless, but the room is lit from above by spotlights that dot the slant of the ceiling from down at the lab bench, all the way up to the last row of seats. At the bench The Professor is seated on a stool in his white lab coat and goggles. His head is shaved bald, and waxed to a shine. His upper lip, greyly and neatly mustachioed. He sits pensively before the bench, hands folded on his lap and eyes focused on the members filtering in through the door behind me at the top of the isle, as I walk down it and take a seat in the middle of an upper row. (I hate when people sit at the ends of rows, because then you have to squeeze past them to get to unoccupied seats in the middle. People who sit at the ends of rows are assholes of the highest degree. Furthermore, why would anyone want to put up with people squeezing past them anyway? It results in either a crotch or an ass to the face, so in addition to being an asshole, an end of row seater is most likely a pervert as well. I wonder if they sniff as people squeeze by). The digital clock above The Professor’s head stands out against the white wall, with its large green numbers, and milliseconds tick away. They will continue to do so until 18:00:00, when time stops (symbolically), and The Process begins.
The retractable cord set into the seat in front of me beckons, and I reach down and pull it out. The plug at the end goes into my hand, and I’m connected to the sub-Network that will be used. The last time I was in one of these, the last time I went to an actual Process, must have been right before I told them I didn’t want to do my First Titration. 3, 4 years ago. Nostalgia, the random firing of memoronic neurons in the gray matter of my skull, that’s what I’m feeling.
“Status: Processing,” I try to type into the screen in my hand to update my homepage, but the connection to the cord prevents it. Once taking part in a Process, one must devote their entire attention to it, and the Network is full of distractions, so they block it. Instead of my homepage, I am confronted by a Procedure for today’s Process.
1. opening audio: a postulation for the population
2. first lecture: the chemicals that control you
3. secondary audio: you can never really know
4. second lecture: physical predestination
5. Titration and Consumption
6. group recitation of The Hypothesis
The spotlights begin to dim. The clock reads 17:58:46. A few last people shuffle in the back door and a silent murmur floods my ears. People talking to one another before the Process, while I am alone, in the middle of all the sound. Professor O’Brien remains still before his lab bench and all his instruments. His head shines in the spotlight that focuses on him and the bench. The titration burette, filled with carbonic acid awaits step five. Below it, the solution to be titrated sits clear, and unknown to all among the audience. Erlenmeyer flasks, glass stirring rods, and a Bunsen burner accompany the titration set, along with various other instruments I would probably know the names of if I were more devout.
The back door locks shut behind one more member who enters, now at 17:59:30. She rushes to a row, my row, and sits down right next to me, when there are about six other seats available. I look forward, pretending to focus on the lab bench, as if I don’t notice her presence, but she whispers to me.
“Hello Karth.” And immediately the smoky seductive emission reveals her identity, even as the dimness of the room hides it.
“Megan,” I reel to my left, and whisper in response, now becoming a murmur among the crowd. “What are you doing here?” I continue quickly, but before she can answer, the clock stops at 18:00:00, and Professor O’Brien rises. The crowd falls silent.
“Welcome everyone, to this week’s Process,” he begins in a soft, trembling voice, “I reason that you are all ready to expand?”
“Precisely,” the crowd, myself included, responds strongly, as we all know we’re supposed to.
“Very well then,” his voice becomes a bit more steady, “we shall begin,” and he lowers his head and spreads his arms to maximum width. His lab coat unfurls like two giant, white, dove wings, glowing underneath the spotlight. He stands for a moment, the room is silent in anticipation. I look over to Megan, she’s watching with eyebrows raised.
Clap. The Professor flaps his wings once, ending with a single clap above his head. The room goes dark, except for the green glowing digital 18:00:00 above the lab bench. Then the music, an erratic, electric piccolo melody, starts in an unexpected blast, coming from the circular wall that surrounds. A bass thump works its way in so loud that it probably alters the crowd’s heart beat, as we all bob our heads to its command. On the wall behind the lab bench a red blur illuminates, and it too starts to beat with the bass, like a giant heart. The blur then comes into focus, and forms the shape of a giant pair of lips. The lips open, and start to rap to the music. At the same time, my left hand vibrates, and I look down - the lyrics appear on my screen. The same is true for the rest of the crowd, and together, with the red lipped leader, we all stand and rap the opening song, all whilst Professor O’Brien skips back and forth before the lab bench, flapping his lab coat wings like a pleasant dove.
I got a postulation for the population
What?
It’s in your left hand, did you feel the vibration?
What?
Now you may say to me that that was just a sensation
What?
But sense is all you’ve got in this life’s duration
Yeah!
Yeah, sense is what you feel, it lets you know what’s real,
But what’s real for me, you might not see,
So it might not be, the same reality
We nothing mo’ than cells, in which a conscience dwells
By the facts that is supported, but it’s just what’s been purported
And one day we might abort it, so don’t be too quick to just retort it.
Yeah!
And the song ends as abruptly as it began, and it feels good to have sung it with the crowd. It feels good to be a part of something, so I look over to Megan and smile. She smiles back, but it’s forced – judging, or maybe off put by the Truth. The lights come back on and O’Brien stops his skipping and takes his place before the lab bench.
“Members,” he trembles, only this time a little louder than before, “that was a very accurate rendition of The Postulation. I feel that feeling of pride, and you should feel it too, but if you don’t, don’t feel the feeling of worry, for worry gets you nowhere, except in an early grave.”
“Precisely,” we respond in unison.
“It is a grave thought, to think about the grave, a thought that can perhaps evoke the feeling of fear, am I right?”
“Yes,” about half the crowd responds in an unofficial, offset unison.
“But you’ve got to realize that fear, like pride, and worry, and any other feeling that you may feel, is just a product of the chemicals.” He pauses, and his tremble fades away to a stronger, clearer tone. “The chemicals, that control you. What’s funny, or should I say, what creates the chemical reaction that makes something feel funny, is that even the realization that you are being controlled by chemicals inside of you, is just another product of those very chemicals. The chemicals that control you, are you. And what are we, but what we believe! And what is a belief, but a chemical reaction!”
“Precisely,” the entire crowd lets out to relieve the mounting tension of the lecture.
“And what is your response?” O’Brien probes.
“A reaction!” We, the crowd react, or respond, or in other words, let the Professor know that we’re still on the same page (whatever being on the same page means) and we still comprehend (chemically) the message that he’s trying to get across. I, contained within this crowd, within this Process, am just a process myself. It’s a lot to process, and as a younger man, I couldn’t handle it, and left, but now, well now, I’m more familiar with uncertainty.
“All so apparently true,” O’Brien goes back to a tremble, “But remember, what we now call chemicals, they once called elements. They once believed the Sun was their maker, then they believed it was God. Now we, we simply say, we don’t know, but we know how it works, and maybe one day, we’ll know what makes it work.”
“Precisely,” and with that the room goes dark, and our left hands once again rumble. A spot light shines on O’Brien, and he spreads his lab coat. This time, instead of flapping and skipping, he decides to do the Can-Can, and he kicks his black booted feet chest high as the song opens up with a sitar, jumping around a tambourine beat. The rhythm reminds me of what I believe India must be like, and the red blur comes up on the wall above the 18:00:00 and starts to beat much faster, as the sitar twangs with a panic. The red lips form, open, and move, as do mine and the crowd’s.
Ooooooooooooooo
You neva, no you neva, no you neva really know.
No you neva, no you neva, no you neva, can really show
That what you think, is how it is
That what you say is true
What’s hers is mine, what’s yours is his
The sky ain’t even blue
Cuz you neva, no you neva, no you neva really know.
No you neva, no you neva, no you neva can really shoooooooooooooooooooooooow!
This song takes about 30 seconds to sing, and when I say about, I mean I really have no idea, because time has been “stopped” within The Process. Maybe it lasted a minute, maybe it stretched to two; for all I know it was an hour long, but it did seem rather quick and my heart is beating rather fast. People around me are even sweating. Yes, people are sweating. From a song. I don’t know what disgusts me more, the very sight of the glistening sweat, or the fact that the people who are sweating must be so incredibly out of shape that they break a sweat from singing (what I assume to be) a 30 second song.
Megan and I sit back down, she’s not sweating, but when I look to her, she looks back and shakes her head. She reaches down to her hand, as if to text me what the shake means, but is automatically frustrated when she realizes that texting, like Network access is blocked. I lean over into her personal space, a bold move, and my heart rate picks up faster than anyone else’s in the room. I start to sweat from my pits more profusely than the fattest bag of human chemicals in the whole laboratory.
“What is it,” I ask her in a quick whisper.
“You have a weird religion,” she looks me right in the eye from two inches away. The brevity of her statement doesn’t hit me until after I stop fantasizing about kissing her again. Her plump, pink lips mask the message that her mouth has conveyed, and for a moment we’re back in her single, Hooked-Up to a Program, and the suction pouch is suctioning away. Then I snap out of my adolescent sex fantasy, only to be fully offended by what she has actually said.
“Religion? You think this is a religion…” And I’m about to get into a full fledged whispering tirade, but an electric shock works its way from my left hand up into my entire body, completely paralyzing me.
“Mr. McCarthy,” The Professor rages. He knows my name by the same reason he can selectively shock any chattering audience member – we’re all connected. His bald head is beet red, and from all the way up in my upper row I can see multiple veins surging between his skull and thin scalp skin. The auditorium turns in my direction, and I can feel myself turning a similar shade of red, completely mortified, and paralyzed by the voltage pumping throughout my body. I want to get up and run, I want to say, “I’m sorry sir, but this girl just called the Truth a religion,” I want to cry and grovel and go back in time and not whisper to Megan, but time has been stopped (kind of) in this laboratory, and my tear ducts are in a state of paralysis.
“Do you understand the concept of time,” he asks as his tremble gives way to a tremendous boom that’s just as immobilizing as the electricity. The question is rhetorical, yet he waits for a response as if a response is his expectation, when we both know that I cannot physically provide one. Sitting here, writhing before him, while his head gets redder and the veins on his scalp pulsate faster and grow larger, I have no idea what to do. Our gazes are locked and O’Brien is either a) theorizing as to why I have chosen to speak out of turn during a Process or b) completely overwhelmed by the “feeling of anger” and is about to make an example out of me.
He chooses Option B:
“Because if you did, you’d realize that you’re wasting the time of every single person in this auditorium by speaking during The Process, including your own! It’s utterly appalling! If you wish to speak to the young lady on your left, you should do so on your own time. You didn’t come here to chatter, now did you?” He pauses for a breath, and the irony of the situation, the fact that during a Process, as is clearly shown by the giant green 18:00:00 above the lab bench, time is supposed to be irrelevant, hits me. “You are aware,” he continues, now becoming a time waster himself, “that you only have so much of it, hmm?” And I notice that the electric shock is gone, and probably has been for a few seconds. My paralysis is now a product of fear, but the fear subsides. I break his gaze, look over to the young lady on my left, who is equally mortified, and look back to O’Brien. He meets my eyes with his, and waits for a response, one that has the potential to be “Fuck You,” but takes the form of, “I’m sorry Professor.”
“Sorry means nothing, Karth. Sorry is to atone for a past event, but we all know atonement is not revision. You must think of the future, for…”
“The future is now.” The crowd reverently responds, now transfixed by the exchange between a small, pale, man boy, and a fuming, beet red, cue tip. I remember number four on today’s lab procedure, O’Brien hasn’t wasted a moment, he’s going to incorporate me into the lecture.
“Karth,” he continues, as if he’s addressing me and only me. I want to run down the auditorium stairs and punch him in the head. “You, and I, and everyone, and everything, Everything is a piece. Everything is connected. Everything is subject to the Laws,” he says this and everyone in the room lowers their head and interlocks the fingers of their hands before themselves as if they’re performing a solitary intimate hand holding, “and all that is matter, is all that matters! You are matter, therefore you have a trajectory!” He proclaims this as if he’s just made a brilliant discovery; the hidden personal frustrations at his own less than genius, but certainly intelligent mind coming through in the tirade. At this point, telling me I have a trajectory, a destiny, he’s probably realizing that he does as well, and it’s teaching Chemistry and preaching to college kids at a state university, not unlocking the mysteries of the universe through theorem like the scientists he idolizes and worships.
But I’m still curious what mine is, and as O’Brien turns to the screen behind him, and starts to calculate, I’m feeling very intrigued – but maybe that’s just because I’m supposed (those damn chemicals). I take the break in his gaze as he turns as a chance to look over at Megan. The calm composure of her relaxed green eyes has turned strained, her fake tan turned to a pasty pale white. Any chance that I ever had with her, let alone any chance I ever had of Hooking-Up with her again, is as gone as the moments that have just passed in which the previous events have unfolded. Although what is happening now, this crazy display of Truth, will fade into the past, I’m sure Megan will never forget it. She will dwell, and if she does wish to forget, she will have to forget me as well, to completely erase the trauma. Crazy songs, crazy ideas, the electrocution of a member, it must all seem too much.
“Mr. McCarthy. Karth McCathy, what an amusing name,” Professor O’Brien professes as he turns from the calculation board. The crowd chuckles and he allows it, watching me motionlessly writhe in anger. I want to run down the aisle and cause his gleaming bald head an incredible amount of pain. To take those goggles in a hand and snap them back into his face while forcing a strong guided toe into his sac, all the while cackling in rage. Or to punch him square in the jaw, something I’ve never actually done to anyone, but am confident I could pull off professionally before this crowded auditorium. Either of these actions, along with a multitude of other equally violent acts that race through my brain as he mocks my name would satisfy my bloodlust, and would probably shock the fuck out of entire room, but I am no shocker. I sit, cemented to my seat as O’Brien continues, on the brink of what I presume is an anger induced heart attack (that probably can be hypothesized to be the current condition of both of us, as O’Brien is still beetishly red).
“You’re familiar with Physical Predestination, I take it? The prediction of future events through Physics?” I nod in agreement, imagining a laser beam shooting from my forehead and hitting him in the chest, blowing a hole through it with the fire of thirty-seven suns. “As one can predict the final destination of a rolling ball, given its attributes, the same can be done with the fate of a human life. And I stress fate, everyone, I stress it. Free will is a conjuration! A side effect of the human mind, which persists in believing that it is more than it really is!”
“Precisely,” the crowd responds as he addresses them. The explanation was unnecessary, as I did clearly nod that I knew what he was talking about, but O’Brien’s fate is that of one who enjoys to hear himself talk.
“Anyone can know their Physical Predestination, their ‘fate.’ It’s nothing more than a calculation. Granted, one must remain truthful of their actual attributes when plugging them into the formula, but if tabulated honestly, a person can know what they will be doing at any given moment of their life, up until death.” His voice trembles as it did before. Such a pathetic quiver, such a pathetic man, delivering his lecture as if he were the one who discovered the Truths he preaches, and not merely a man deriving pleasure from making an example out of a misbehaving youth, like he were a grade school teacher disciplining a rowdy child. He’s calculated my future up there on that white screen, his math, plainly there for everyone in the audience to see, and for the astutely mathematic to interpret without his aide, but he’s going to continue lecturing until ultimately delivering his final blow – a glimpse into my future.
“Using the Predestination Formula, I have taken a moment in the future and derived where you will be and what you will be doing. The math behind the formula is beyond the scope of this lecture,” he adds condescendingly. “To simplify it however,” with an emphasis on “simplify”, implying that I am nothing more than a simpleton, “I have merely mapped the trajectory of your matter, this is your wavelength, and it is what you interpret as your life.”
By code of the Truth of Science, O’Brien is not allowed to reveal this moment to me without my consent. He knows this, I know this, the whole damn room sans Megan knows this, and we all know that we all know it. One’s fate is some pretty heavy shit, you know? But I Karth McCarthy, the silent rebel, want to show O’Brien and this whole gawking room just how strong and rebellious and cool I can be. I’ll say, “Sock it to me motherfucker, I want the whole thing,” and maybe it will salvage Megan, and maybe it will even make me some friends, because we both know I need some of those.
“Would you like to know it, Karth, would you like to see your future, knowing full well that it is unchangeable…and most likely pathetic?” Some crowd members gasp at this insult. It’s apparent that O’Brien’s a little wrapped up in the feelings of contempt and hateful anger, perhaps derived from self loathing, and with that last syllabic tic, they were a little too much revealed. Emotion is a scientist’s worst enemy, and this is a fact that I use to my advantage.
“Yes I wooo-huld.” I attempt to vocalize firmly, as a man without fear of the repulsive red quack quacking before him about Physics and fate, but my voice cracks and I sound more like a scared boy asking his little crush to the 6th grade dance. (I’m afraid to tell her how I feel mom, and I’ve got this zit on my chin, and there’s just hair in strange places, and for the first time in my life I’m feeling the constant perception of myself by my peers!) The auditorium is silent though, not a single giggle at my crack, as would have happen in any high school classroom. I’m sitting among the silent and mature. I’m among those who have a solid grounding and know where their lives are going, and all that adult shit, but, as I ask for my fate, as I ask O’Brien to tell me where my life is going, all these young adults look as though they’ve seen a ghost. “The ghost of Christmas future! Hell no, keep that ugly son of a bitch away from us!” they (somehow) think (as half of them probably don’t even know what Christmas is). O’Brien freezes too. His mouth quivers instead of his voice, the lower lip vibrating up and down below the upper, making a soft patting noise – the only noise in the whole laboratory. He has turned from beet red, to a shade of pink, and his eyes bulge, bug like underneath his lab goggles.
I’m a god. I think I’ll make that my Status when, or should I say if, I leave this Process.
“Mr. McCarthy…” he responds, thinking for something to say, looking for some way to describe this anomaly, a scientist confronted with an exception to theory. “This has gone on long enough. We must move on.” He exhales and remembers that there are about 200 hundred other sacs of matter in the room, but as he looks away he leaves me with a contemptuous little smile. “We shall continue. Members, let us titrate.”
And while the electric shock has stopped and his eyes have moved on, I refreeze.
I can’t believe it.
Such build up and no resolution.
A roaring tirade ending with a casual brush to the side, as if nothing happened at all.
As if nothing happened at all.
I look to my left, to Megan, for some form of consolation, explanation, sympathy, or even a confused stare.
But she is gone.
The retractable cord set into the seat in front of me beckons, and I reach down and pull it out. The plug at the end goes into my hand, and I’m connected to the sub-Network that will be used. The last time I was in one of these, the last time I went to an actual Process, must have been right before I told them I didn’t want to do my First Titration. 3, 4 years ago. Nostalgia, the random firing of memoronic neurons in the gray matter of my skull, that’s what I’m feeling.
“Status: Processing,” I try to type into the screen in my hand to update my homepage, but the connection to the cord prevents it. Once taking part in a Process, one must devote their entire attention to it, and the Network is full of distractions, so they block it. Instead of my homepage, I am confronted by a Procedure for today’s Process.
1. opening audio: a postulation for the population
2. first lecture: the chemicals that control you
3. secondary audio: you can never really know
4. second lecture: physical predestination
5. Titration and Consumption
6. group recitation of The Hypothesis
The spotlights begin to dim. The clock reads 17:58:46. A few last people shuffle in the back door and a silent murmur floods my ears. People talking to one another before the Process, while I am alone, in the middle of all the sound. Professor O’Brien remains still before his lab bench and all his instruments. His head shines in the spotlight that focuses on him and the bench. The titration burette, filled with carbonic acid awaits step five. Below it, the solution to be titrated sits clear, and unknown to all among the audience. Erlenmeyer flasks, glass stirring rods, and a Bunsen burner accompany the titration set, along with various other instruments I would probably know the names of if I were more devout.
The back door locks shut behind one more member who enters, now at 17:59:30. She rushes to a row, my row, and sits down right next to me, when there are about six other seats available. I look forward, pretending to focus on the lab bench, as if I don’t notice her presence, but she whispers to me.
“Hello Karth.” And immediately the smoky seductive emission reveals her identity, even as the dimness of the room hides it.
“Megan,” I reel to my left, and whisper in response, now becoming a murmur among the crowd. “What are you doing here?” I continue quickly, but before she can answer, the clock stops at 18:00:00, and Professor O’Brien rises. The crowd falls silent.
“Welcome everyone, to this week’s Process,” he begins in a soft, trembling voice, “I reason that you are all ready to expand?”
“Precisely,” the crowd, myself included, responds strongly, as we all know we’re supposed to.
“Very well then,” his voice becomes a bit more steady, “we shall begin,” and he lowers his head and spreads his arms to maximum width. His lab coat unfurls like two giant, white, dove wings, glowing underneath the spotlight. He stands for a moment, the room is silent in anticipation. I look over to Megan, she’s watching with eyebrows raised.
Clap. The Professor flaps his wings once, ending with a single clap above his head. The room goes dark, except for the green glowing digital 18:00:00 above the lab bench. Then the music, an erratic, electric piccolo melody, starts in an unexpected blast, coming from the circular wall that surrounds. A bass thump works its way in so loud that it probably alters the crowd’s heart beat, as we all bob our heads to its command. On the wall behind the lab bench a red blur illuminates, and it too starts to beat with the bass, like a giant heart. The blur then comes into focus, and forms the shape of a giant pair of lips. The lips open, and start to rap to the music. At the same time, my left hand vibrates, and I look down - the lyrics appear on my screen. The same is true for the rest of the crowd, and together, with the red lipped leader, we all stand and rap the opening song, all whilst Professor O’Brien skips back and forth before the lab bench, flapping his lab coat wings like a pleasant dove.
I got a postulation for the population
What?
It’s in your left hand, did you feel the vibration?
What?
Now you may say to me that that was just a sensation
What?
But sense is all you’ve got in this life’s duration
Yeah!
Yeah, sense is what you feel, it lets you know what’s real,
But what’s real for me, you might not see,
So it might not be, the same reality
We nothing mo’ than cells, in which a conscience dwells
By the facts that is supported, but it’s just what’s been purported
And one day we might abort it, so don’t be too quick to just retort it.
Yeah!
And the song ends as abruptly as it began, and it feels good to have sung it with the crowd. It feels good to be a part of something, so I look over to Megan and smile. She smiles back, but it’s forced – judging, or maybe off put by the Truth. The lights come back on and O’Brien stops his skipping and takes his place before the lab bench.
“Members,” he trembles, only this time a little louder than before, “that was a very accurate rendition of The Postulation. I feel that feeling of pride, and you should feel it too, but if you don’t, don’t feel the feeling of worry, for worry gets you nowhere, except in an early grave.”
“Precisely,” we respond in unison.
“It is a grave thought, to think about the grave, a thought that can perhaps evoke the feeling of fear, am I right?”
“Yes,” about half the crowd responds in an unofficial, offset unison.
“But you’ve got to realize that fear, like pride, and worry, and any other feeling that you may feel, is just a product of the chemicals.” He pauses, and his tremble fades away to a stronger, clearer tone. “The chemicals, that control you. What’s funny, or should I say, what creates the chemical reaction that makes something feel funny, is that even the realization that you are being controlled by chemicals inside of you, is just another product of those very chemicals. The chemicals that control you, are you. And what are we, but what we believe! And what is a belief, but a chemical reaction!”
“Precisely,” the entire crowd lets out to relieve the mounting tension of the lecture.
“And what is your response?” O’Brien probes.
“A reaction!” We, the crowd react, or respond, or in other words, let the Professor know that we’re still on the same page (whatever being on the same page means) and we still comprehend (chemically) the message that he’s trying to get across. I, contained within this crowd, within this Process, am just a process myself. It’s a lot to process, and as a younger man, I couldn’t handle it, and left, but now, well now, I’m more familiar with uncertainty.
“All so apparently true,” O’Brien goes back to a tremble, “But remember, what we now call chemicals, they once called elements. They once believed the Sun was their maker, then they believed it was God. Now we, we simply say, we don’t know, but we know how it works, and maybe one day, we’ll know what makes it work.”
“Precisely,” and with that the room goes dark, and our left hands once again rumble. A spot light shines on O’Brien, and he spreads his lab coat. This time, instead of flapping and skipping, he decides to do the Can-Can, and he kicks his black booted feet chest high as the song opens up with a sitar, jumping around a tambourine beat. The rhythm reminds me of what I believe India must be like, and the red blur comes up on the wall above the 18:00:00 and starts to beat much faster, as the sitar twangs with a panic. The red lips form, open, and move, as do mine and the crowd’s.
Ooooooooooooooo
You neva, no you neva, no you neva really know.
No you neva, no you neva, no you neva, can really show
That what you think, is how it is
That what you say is true
What’s hers is mine, what’s yours is his
The sky ain’t even blue
Cuz you neva, no you neva, no you neva really know.
No you neva, no you neva, no you neva can really shoooooooooooooooooooooooow!
This song takes about 30 seconds to sing, and when I say about, I mean I really have no idea, because time has been “stopped” within The Process. Maybe it lasted a minute, maybe it stretched to two; for all I know it was an hour long, but it did seem rather quick and my heart is beating rather fast. People around me are even sweating. Yes, people are sweating. From a song. I don’t know what disgusts me more, the very sight of the glistening sweat, or the fact that the people who are sweating must be so incredibly out of shape that they break a sweat from singing (what I assume to be) a 30 second song.
Megan and I sit back down, she’s not sweating, but when I look to her, she looks back and shakes her head. She reaches down to her hand, as if to text me what the shake means, but is automatically frustrated when she realizes that texting, like Network access is blocked. I lean over into her personal space, a bold move, and my heart rate picks up faster than anyone else’s in the room. I start to sweat from my pits more profusely than the fattest bag of human chemicals in the whole laboratory.
“What is it,” I ask her in a quick whisper.
“You have a weird religion,” she looks me right in the eye from two inches away. The brevity of her statement doesn’t hit me until after I stop fantasizing about kissing her again. Her plump, pink lips mask the message that her mouth has conveyed, and for a moment we’re back in her single, Hooked-Up to a Program, and the suction pouch is suctioning away. Then I snap out of my adolescent sex fantasy, only to be fully offended by what she has actually said.
“Religion? You think this is a religion…” And I’m about to get into a full fledged whispering tirade, but an electric shock works its way from my left hand up into my entire body, completely paralyzing me.
“Mr. McCarthy,” The Professor rages. He knows my name by the same reason he can selectively shock any chattering audience member – we’re all connected. His bald head is beet red, and from all the way up in my upper row I can see multiple veins surging between his skull and thin scalp skin. The auditorium turns in my direction, and I can feel myself turning a similar shade of red, completely mortified, and paralyzed by the voltage pumping throughout my body. I want to get up and run, I want to say, “I’m sorry sir, but this girl just called the Truth a religion,” I want to cry and grovel and go back in time and not whisper to Megan, but time has been stopped (kind of) in this laboratory, and my tear ducts are in a state of paralysis.
“Do you understand the concept of time,” he asks as his tremble gives way to a tremendous boom that’s just as immobilizing as the electricity. The question is rhetorical, yet he waits for a response as if a response is his expectation, when we both know that I cannot physically provide one. Sitting here, writhing before him, while his head gets redder and the veins on his scalp pulsate faster and grow larger, I have no idea what to do. Our gazes are locked and O’Brien is either a) theorizing as to why I have chosen to speak out of turn during a Process or b) completely overwhelmed by the “feeling of anger” and is about to make an example out of me.
He chooses Option B:
“Because if you did, you’d realize that you’re wasting the time of every single person in this auditorium by speaking during The Process, including your own! It’s utterly appalling! If you wish to speak to the young lady on your left, you should do so on your own time. You didn’t come here to chatter, now did you?” He pauses for a breath, and the irony of the situation, the fact that during a Process, as is clearly shown by the giant green 18:00:00 above the lab bench, time is supposed to be irrelevant, hits me. “You are aware,” he continues, now becoming a time waster himself, “that you only have so much of it, hmm?” And I notice that the electric shock is gone, and probably has been for a few seconds. My paralysis is now a product of fear, but the fear subsides. I break his gaze, look over to the young lady on my left, who is equally mortified, and look back to O’Brien. He meets my eyes with his, and waits for a response, one that has the potential to be “Fuck You,” but takes the form of, “I’m sorry Professor.”
“Sorry means nothing, Karth. Sorry is to atone for a past event, but we all know atonement is not revision. You must think of the future, for…”
“The future is now.” The crowd reverently responds, now transfixed by the exchange between a small, pale, man boy, and a fuming, beet red, cue tip. I remember number four on today’s lab procedure, O’Brien hasn’t wasted a moment, he’s going to incorporate me into the lecture.
“Karth,” he continues, as if he’s addressing me and only me. I want to run down the auditorium stairs and punch him in the head. “You, and I, and everyone, and everything, Everything is a piece. Everything is connected. Everything is subject to the Laws,” he says this and everyone in the room lowers their head and interlocks the fingers of their hands before themselves as if they’re performing a solitary intimate hand holding, “and all that is matter, is all that matters! You are matter, therefore you have a trajectory!” He proclaims this as if he’s just made a brilliant discovery; the hidden personal frustrations at his own less than genius, but certainly intelligent mind coming through in the tirade. At this point, telling me I have a trajectory, a destiny, he’s probably realizing that he does as well, and it’s teaching Chemistry and preaching to college kids at a state university, not unlocking the mysteries of the universe through theorem like the scientists he idolizes and worships.
But I’m still curious what mine is, and as O’Brien turns to the screen behind him, and starts to calculate, I’m feeling very intrigued – but maybe that’s just because I’m supposed (those damn chemicals). I take the break in his gaze as he turns as a chance to look over at Megan. The calm composure of her relaxed green eyes has turned strained, her fake tan turned to a pasty pale white. Any chance that I ever had with her, let alone any chance I ever had of Hooking-Up with her again, is as gone as the moments that have just passed in which the previous events have unfolded. Although what is happening now, this crazy display of Truth, will fade into the past, I’m sure Megan will never forget it. She will dwell, and if she does wish to forget, she will have to forget me as well, to completely erase the trauma. Crazy songs, crazy ideas, the electrocution of a member, it must all seem too much.
“Mr. McCarthy. Karth McCathy, what an amusing name,” Professor O’Brien professes as he turns from the calculation board. The crowd chuckles and he allows it, watching me motionlessly writhe in anger. I want to run down the aisle and cause his gleaming bald head an incredible amount of pain. To take those goggles in a hand and snap them back into his face while forcing a strong guided toe into his sac, all the while cackling in rage. Or to punch him square in the jaw, something I’ve never actually done to anyone, but am confident I could pull off professionally before this crowded auditorium. Either of these actions, along with a multitude of other equally violent acts that race through my brain as he mocks my name would satisfy my bloodlust, and would probably shock the fuck out of entire room, but I am no shocker. I sit, cemented to my seat as O’Brien continues, on the brink of what I presume is an anger induced heart attack (that probably can be hypothesized to be the current condition of both of us, as O’Brien is still beetishly red).
“You’re familiar with Physical Predestination, I take it? The prediction of future events through Physics?” I nod in agreement, imagining a laser beam shooting from my forehead and hitting him in the chest, blowing a hole through it with the fire of thirty-seven suns. “As one can predict the final destination of a rolling ball, given its attributes, the same can be done with the fate of a human life. And I stress fate, everyone, I stress it. Free will is a conjuration! A side effect of the human mind, which persists in believing that it is more than it really is!”
“Precisely,” the crowd responds as he addresses them. The explanation was unnecessary, as I did clearly nod that I knew what he was talking about, but O’Brien’s fate is that of one who enjoys to hear himself talk.
“Anyone can know their Physical Predestination, their ‘fate.’ It’s nothing more than a calculation. Granted, one must remain truthful of their actual attributes when plugging them into the formula, but if tabulated honestly, a person can know what they will be doing at any given moment of their life, up until death.” His voice trembles as it did before. Such a pathetic quiver, such a pathetic man, delivering his lecture as if he were the one who discovered the Truths he preaches, and not merely a man deriving pleasure from making an example out of a misbehaving youth, like he were a grade school teacher disciplining a rowdy child. He’s calculated my future up there on that white screen, his math, plainly there for everyone in the audience to see, and for the astutely mathematic to interpret without his aide, but he’s going to continue lecturing until ultimately delivering his final blow – a glimpse into my future.
“Using the Predestination Formula, I have taken a moment in the future and derived where you will be and what you will be doing. The math behind the formula is beyond the scope of this lecture,” he adds condescendingly. “To simplify it however,” with an emphasis on “simplify”, implying that I am nothing more than a simpleton, “I have merely mapped the trajectory of your matter, this is your wavelength, and it is what you interpret as your life.”
By code of the Truth of Science, O’Brien is not allowed to reveal this moment to me without my consent. He knows this, I know this, the whole damn room sans Megan knows this, and we all know that we all know it. One’s fate is some pretty heavy shit, you know? But I Karth McCarthy, the silent rebel, want to show O’Brien and this whole gawking room just how strong and rebellious and cool I can be. I’ll say, “Sock it to me motherfucker, I want the whole thing,” and maybe it will salvage Megan, and maybe it will even make me some friends, because we both know I need some of those.
“Would you like to know it, Karth, would you like to see your future, knowing full well that it is unchangeable…and most likely pathetic?” Some crowd members gasp at this insult. It’s apparent that O’Brien’s a little wrapped up in the feelings of contempt and hateful anger, perhaps derived from self loathing, and with that last syllabic tic, they were a little too much revealed. Emotion is a scientist’s worst enemy, and this is a fact that I use to my advantage.
“Yes I wooo-huld.” I attempt to vocalize firmly, as a man without fear of the repulsive red quack quacking before him about Physics and fate, but my voice cracks and I sound more like a scared boy asking his little crush to the 6th grade dance. (I’m afraid to tell her how I feel mom, and I’ve got this zit on my chin, and there’s just hair in strange places, and for the first time in my life I’m feeling the constant perception of myself by my peers!) The auditorium is silent though, not a single giggle at my crack, as would have happen in any high school classroom. I’m sitting among the silent and mature. I’m among those who have a solid grounding and know where their lives are going, and all that adult shit, but, as I ask for my fate, as I ask O’Brien to tell me where my life is going, all these young adults look as though they’ve seen a ghost. “The ghost of Christmas future! Hell no, keep that ugly son of a bitch away from us!” they (somehow) think (as half of them probably don’t even know what Christmas is). O’Brien freezes too. His mouth quivers instead of his voice, the lower lip vibrating up and down below the upper, making a soft patting noise – the only noise in the whole laboratory. He has turned from beet red, to a shade of pink, and his eyes bulge, bug like underneath his lab goggles.
I’m a god. I think I’ll make that my Status when, or should I say if, I leave this Process.
“Mr. McCarthy…” he responds, thinking for something to say, looking for some way to describe this anomaly, a scientist confronted with an exception to theory. “This has gone on long enough. We must move on.” He exhales and remembers that there are about 200 hundred other sacs of matter in the room, but as he looks away he leaves me with a contemptuous little smile. “We shall continue. Members, let us titrate.”
And while the electric shock has stopped and his eyes have moved on, I refreeze.
I can’t believe it.
Such build up and no resolution.
A roaring tirade ending with a casual brush to the side, as if nothing happened at all.
As if nothing happened at all.
I look to my left, to Megan, for some form of consolation, explanation, sympathy, or even a confused stare.
But she is gone.
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