| As the cops are on their way to haul off mom and an ambulance is coming to haul dad away, and Alex is tied to the banister and Janie’s got a string of condom packages hanging out of her back pocket I can’t help thinking that Salvador Dali started all of this. Granted, I can’t blame this on the artist directly but if he wasn’t such an interesting painter, and dad didn’t like him so much, then he wouldn’t have bought Dali’s “Metamorphosis”, and the hole would have never formed. “A hole?” you ask. It’s a Word Hole, as we came to call it. I’m sorry to begin en media res like this, but you really have to see this to know where I’m coming from. Besides, I want you to know up front what opening a Word Hole can do. Let me tell you the whole story. Excuse me a moment. Janie! Button your shirt back up! The police are almost here! This isn’t going to be easy. Anyway, it was my first day back from school, summer vacation, when dad showed me his newly acquired “Metamorphosis of Narcissus”. “I just love the haunting pair of hands and the complete parallelism from bright to dark,” dad said, holding his beautifully framed print to his chest. It’s a good thing mom could appreciate Dali. She knew the kids hated that surreal style and so forced dad to confine his passions to his office and the bedroom, so to speak. You have to love “Persistence of Memory”, though, with all the melting clocks. “I’ll nail it up after dinner.” “Oh!” Mom yelped and ran to the kitchen. Dad walked back to his office as mom opened the oven, smoke escaping into the house. The fire alarm blared. “Alex! Take a towel and wave the smoke away from the alarm!” “But mooom, you’re gonna make me die!” “Do it!” He reluctantly did so. Janie cackled as she pummeled his video game character’s still body. Alex whined as he waved the smoke away and the alarm stopped. In retrospect, at least the alarm was one consistent note. Mom brought out the well-done steaks. “Sorry, Peter, I think the fat caught fire.” “Oh, here, let me take something.” “No no, just go tell your father that was the dinner bell. And Janie, put the game up. It’s time to eat.” I headed through the living room and knocked on dad’s office door under the stairs. “Dinner’s ready, dad.” “Okay, I’ll be right out. I’m just hanging this painting. I couldn’t wait.” “Ha, all right dad.” I headed back to the dining room, stepping over Janie along the way. I kicked her side lightly. “Come on, kid, food’s on. If you don’t move Alex and I’ll eat all the steak, right Alex?” “Yup yup!” he called. “Is your father – ” before she could finish the hammering started. “I can’t believe it. You’re gone ten months and on your first day back he’s in his office hanging his pictures.” She poured the three glasses of milk and two of ice water. “Oh, I understand how much he loves his Dolly,” emphasizing the pun for my siblings who giggled madly, “besides, I’ll be here for the next three months straight.” The hammering stopped and mom finished setting out the food: steak, rice, corn on the cob, and green beans. “You really should have come down for Christmas, Pete.” “Mom, you know I couldn’t afford it and neither could you guys.” “Mary, let the boy alone. It’s his first meal home,” dad said over my shoulder. Exasperated, mom sat at the table. We all smiled at her. She looked about us all and tried to hold back a smile. “Oh just sit down and let’s eat.” We all laughed and sat down and I ate my first home cooked meal since I left home. See? Things started off well, as they tend to do. Dad told me about his promotion and mom said she could finally stay home and paint because of dad’s extra money. I teased Janie about being such a beautiful young woman at fifteen years old and Alex couldn’t stop talking about his new Nintendo Gamecube. Then about halfway through a bowl of strawberry ice cream there was a crash from Dad’s office. He rushed there to find his new picture on the floor smashed and broken. All members of the house were present and accounted for so we knew it wasn’t any of us. Mom was the first to think to clean things up. Dad was beside himself but took the dustpan and brush from mom and started gathering it all up. Janie brought a trash bag. “Dad?” “Yeah, Pete?” He asked with a sigh. This is the part I wish I hadn’t noticed. “The nail came out, too.” “What?” “The picture fell but the nail also came out of the hole.” “So what?” “So, how often do you put a nail into a wall only to have it slip out? You could have nailed it nearly straight up into the wall and it still should have held.” “It’s not so uncommon that nails come out like that.” “But where is it?” I walked over to his desk and looked around. Alex followed me and moved the chair. The nail rolled off the chair when Alex moved it. “How often does a nail fly that far?” “You’re right.” He was momentarily distracted from his grief and the others noticed as well. “Dude, that’s weird,” Alex observed. Mom and Janie concurred. Dad took the nail from me and pushed it back into the hole. It stayed put and we watched it. After a few moments we stopped watching and continued cleaning up. Dad talked of getting the picture reframed and said that he didn’t like the first one to begin with. He said it was too gauche for Dali. Otherwise, things went on as I figured they would. I was caught up to speed on the social lives of my siblings and the business dealings and vacation plans of my parents. I got all the dirt on their friends: who was backed up on credit card bills, who was suing someone for an accident, who was getting divorced, etc. The next morning, dad was the last to the table for breakfast. “The nail came out again. And I think I feel air now.” All at the table gave confused groggy looks. “You know, the painting last night? It crashed and you were all impressed that Pete here noticed the nail somehow flew out?” Remembrance flashed across our faces. “Yes, well, it fell out again. I put my hand up to the hole and felt a very slight stream of air.” We were all quite curious and so proceeded from the table to the office. That was the second time that bloody hole interrupted a meal of ours. Sure enough, the nail was out of the hole and we each took turns feeling the warm stream of air coming from it. “You didn’t hit some sort of pipeline, did you, Harold?” “No, sweetheart, I didn’t hit a pipeline. No pipes have air running through them in a house.” “Well is it a part of the ventilation then, Harold?” “No, I thought of that and I know there’s no vent behind here.” “So what’s going on?” “Well I don’t know.” All this time, Alex, Janie, and myself were taking turns feeling the air. Alex of course had to stick his finger in the hole as well. “Oh Alex, that’s dirty. Don’t do that,” mom chided. He pulled back and took a little more of the wall with him. Both mom and dad were about to scold him when we all noticed that more air came out along with a very slight but noticeable whining sound. Dad put his ear up to the hole as mom said, “Well, you need to get off to school, Janie, and your dad needs to get going as well. He doesn’t have any summer vacation.” That seemed to break our curiosity and we drifted from the office. Janie finished getting ready and as she opened the door mom asked, “Do you have all your books and pens and such?” “Yes mom” “And your lunch?” “Yes mom, I gotta go.” “Okay, sweetie, have a good day.” Janie exited the house in a hurry and dad soon followed suit. That left Alex, mom, and myself. That day, the first day, was fairly uneventful. I played several video games with Alex while mom spent much of the time working on her painting. She tended to steer from Dali, as she wouldn’t contribute to what she already had to put up with, and preferred the more placid tones of Monet and Van Gough. In the early afternoon, I offered to take Alex to see Star Wars: Episode I. Mom was happy to comply. Now as I understand it, mom was the first to explore the hole alone. The important thing to note about that first time was that she was the one to discover that the whine wasn’t a constant sound but resembled Alex’s complaining, except even less discernible. Dad, never one to leave a hole in a wall no matter what was coming out of it, had to cover it. Our curiosity wasn’t peeked enough for the Word Hole to take hold. It was when the hole reappeared through dad’s plaster and paint. What’s more, the hole got bigger in blasting through the seal. “So tell me, Peter, what exactly came out of the hole?” The detective asks. “Words, detective, words. I’d show you, but then you’d likely try to kill me, or something of the like. As I was saying, mom really was interested first so I’ll tell you how it affected her. But to preface, over the next several weeks, our desire to hear more from the hole drove us to open it to the size of a soccer ball.” “To hear more, son? You’re not making sense.” “It’s not important that there’s a talking hole in our house, but what it says.” Mom was so happy to be home again and chasing her passion unabated by burdens of money and heavy family responsibility as the kids could take care of themselves within the house. She was brave enough in college to get her BA in art and fortunate enough to marry a business minded man who could support them both while she painted. The kids caused a slow down in that dream. The Hole stuck in her mind first and out of sheer curiosity she went down to the office to really study it. I was out with Alex at the time. I found out later that when she examined it that time she could just faintly discern a few words, oddly enough, from the hole. As we all found out, it spat out words that meant something to each of us, but if we were all together it got muddled. This was after the initial shock of a talking hole-in-the-wall. When the hole was about the size of a dry erase marker, it whispered things into mom’s ear about her painting. That was when it was small. She told us that it told her that it was good that she was spending more time on what she loved to do for a change. The hole was clever like that. It flattered when it was small. It said that she put off her own personal work for long enough after taking care of a house, kids, and a husband. She said this with a laugh and we all tended to agree. In the days following, we noticed that she was spending a lot more time in concentrated study of her painting, and more was being produced, from one every week to one every twelve hours or so. It also told her that we should help out with the housework so she could work more. By the second month, I had to or nothing would have gotten done. July, the second month, the hole was about the size of a softball. It got suspicious by the second month. We had all spent time picking at it and chipping away to hear more and more clearly what the hole was saying and nobody really noticed that it got bigger, not by the second month. So mom was working away diligently on her painting. Meanwhile, the rest of us were taking turns, secretly, listening to the hole. In that first month, dad got an earful of flattery from the hole as he already spent much time in his office. In the first month we had sense enough left to tell each other what the hole was saying before we became so conspiratorial. He said that it told him his new job was to be his number one priority and we all agreed, as he was then the sole breadwinner. So he spent even more time in his office listening to the hole and working diligently at his computer. In June, that first month, he tended to go to bed every night. By the second month, he didn’t. But that first month meant another raise with the promotion so we were all supportive and appreciated the hole’s encouragement. By that time we all solemnly swore to not tell a soul about the hole. Otherwise, everybody would want to listen. Trust me, they would. The kids were affected slower but in quite unfortunate ways. Alex didn’t seem to change. Nobody was really interested in what it told him, but from what I can tell and what I’ve deduced, it told him simply to play more videogames, eat more candy, and generally have a good time. I thank God he’s not older. You can see what happened to Janie clear as day. Girls her age look for love and have no idea what it is. She was always very secretive about what the hole told her. At first I think it was telling her how attractive she’d become and what a true lady she’d turned out to be, in the hole’s opinion. She held her head high those first few weeks. She was, is, very pretty, but I didn’t think she’d be the kind to flaunt it so . . . much less get to the point she’s at now. But that came in the second month. And me? I was curious like the rest, but I guess I didn’t give in quite as much. It told me that I’m a brilliant musician and should focus on that in school. I was considering that, which is how I started deducing things about the hole. It also told me that I should seriously pursue an interest I had back in school, that she would fall in love with me. I remember it specifically telling me, “imagine her long blond hair flowing about your fingers and her amazing eyes which you’ve looked into so many times filled with love and tenderness for you her love and her desire and her body as you’ve stayed from picturing close to yours and willing and” You get the idea. That’s how the voice speaks. It’s an endless string of words that flow into each other like music really. Thinking about it makes me want to open it up again. “Tell me about the second month,” the detective asks, scribing more in his notebook. “The second month saw conceit and suspicion between my parents, rage from Alex, and a bizarre turn around for Janie. I stopped listening to the hole. You must see like I do that the hole taps into your desires, delusions, and suppositions.” July, the second month, saw my parents turning in on themselves. Not only did the hole tell my mom that she was good, but that her work was profitable, as it turned out to be. I praised her, but Alex was slowly going mad and Janie and Dad weren’t really home any more. Somehow I remained the sane one. All of my desires pointed back to school. Where could I go to feed into the hole’s delusional whispering if I wasn’t anywhere near there? So I managed to stay away, especially after witnessing my family become addicts. The hole, I believe, suggested to mom that dad was jealous of her success outside of business and so was banging his pretty secretary. His secretary was an older gentleman named Jonathan. The hole told dad that while he was away, mom was doing the mailman, the UPS man, her agent, and every gallery owner. The hole was subtle, but this was what I gathered from hearing the fighting. You know what the ironic thing is? As much as they argued about who was doing whom, they didn’t notice that Janie was on the internet quite a lot lately looking for other guys her age and older in town. In the second month, the hole started telling her that if she wanted guys to love her then she would have to put her exquisite body to use. That’s what enraged me the most about the hole. Can you imagine having thirty-year-old guys showing up to your door asking to see your fifteen-year-old sister? You police didn’t hear about any of my fights because what man wants to hear he’d been beat up by a high school sophomore’s big brother? Dad’s work started slipping along with mom since they were so concerned with each other. Alex’s tantrums broke up the fighting most of the time sending mom and dad into the bedroom turned studio and office respectively. “I’m afraid to ask what happened in August. Things hadn’t gotten physical yet I can see.” “You’re right on that account, detective. Today is August 13th. If I hadn’t put in such a concentrated effort to seal the hole, I don’t know what state we’d all be in now.” August, the third month, was a sad one. Depression was my cup of coffee. Keeping my little brother from destroying the house and doing the laundry, dishes, and dinner kept me busy, though. I almost wish I would have given in and lulled myself to sleep on the Word Hole. The others became as bad as the Hole, too. Mom would yammer to me about how my father was a ridiculous workaholic finding his pleasure in fellow employees’ beds. She said the private detectives only noticed bizarre behavior but no women. She didn’t believe them and accused them of being paid off by dad, my father. Dad, when he was home, told me my own mother was a slut, wretched word, and probably painted erotica of her and various lovers. I wish I could have kept track of Janie. I pray she doesn’t have any diseases or a child. I tried to keep her in the house, but she was so anxious to get out and get used. I think at that point the hole was telling her that the sex was really positive and didn’t it feel so good? She was old enough for it to feel good, right? “Son, calm down.” “Janie! Put your shirt back on and get upstairs or so help me I’ll slap all that make up off your face in one blow!” The argument that resulted in the first scene started in the office, of course. Dad was in there working on his computer as usual. Mom marched downstairs as Alex was sitting on the kitchen floor, in his underwear, scooping out what was left of the ice cream and ice cubes. Janie was walking out the door with that package of condoms hanging out of her too tight jeans, braless, halter-top too small, wanton. I threw her back into the house and started yelling. I’d become another Hole trying to keep everyone together. “You want a piece of this, big brother? Incest is best. That’s what the Hole tells me.” I didn’t know whether to cry or vomit when she touched my chest like I imagined Valerie doing when the Hole told me about her. You imagine what the Hole tells you and it sounds so good. It’s such a clear picture in your mind that you can just taste it. I bet you could find my sister on the Internet in several sites and downloadable movies. Anyway, mom stormed into dad’s office accusing him of being a bad father and poor provider and adulterer and whatever else horrible a father and husband can be. I was busy trying to keep Janie in her room so she wouldn’t escape into malevolent hands. Alex of course had to start screaming for more food and a new game system since his sticky fingers damaged the controllers. Mom and dad were screaming at each other and the hole was feeding them both. I didn’t see it happen, but as far as I can tell, mom used some of the glass from dad’s broken “Metamorphosis” to stab him. “I heard the scream from upstairs and ran to a phone to call you all. The first thing I did after that was to stuff Alex’s old soccer ball into the Hole. It spit it back out while I tried to control Mom. Dad came back at her, but doubled over bleeding in pain. I tossed mom out of the office and into the arms of one of your men. When I realized you all had things in hand I stuffed the soccer ball back into the hole.” “So that brings us up to speed. What happens now?” “Well, I figure we’ll all spend lots of time together away from the hole and in some good counseling.” “But now, what about now? You can’t stand guarding that soccer ball forever, son. Now just give me the gun and we can work this all out downtown.” “I don’t think you believe me much less understand. If I move, the hole will open again. I think Alex wants to try to crawl inside and waste away into oblivion. This hole has to remain covered and sealed or the same thing will happen to the next family.” I think I know how the hole came about now. I did some research over the summer during the first and second month and found a way. I can’t tell you, though. The curiosity would drive you to do it then the Hole would drive you mad. I fear I’m gone, despite having so little contact with the hole. I can’t tell you how to make one, I won’t. it’s easy to do really all you have to do is tell them how to make the hole that’s all that you have to do i swear it will be of great benefit to you if you make the hole the hole is good and quite a pleasant attraction to any household and makes for a marvelous conversation piece if only you would tell them peter please tell them i know you can do it i know that valerie would love you if you would because you are a helpful sort like that and doesn’t that revolver feel so pliant in your sturdy hand peter so very comfortable and cool and doesn’t that barrel need to be looked at oh yes indeedy do it does peter it does it |
Thursday, January 4, 2007
The Word Hole
It was a dark and stormy night
| It was a dark and stormy night. A twenty-three year old small beautiful blond anxiously raps on the heavy oak door of a large Victorian home on a hill. She pulls her tight sweater tighter around her in the rain and quickly knocks again. An angry wind whips ‘round her, freezing her legs. A lightning flash reveals a silhouette approaching the door. It opens. She rushes inside and another gust blows the door shut behind her. An older man, well built with full dark hair hugs her close. He holds the candlestick out to the side. “Oh Tiffany I’m so glad you made it okay.” He helps her get out of the wet sweater. “Oh Ron, will we ever be able to meet without having to avoid your parents like the plague?” She asks desperately. “It shouldn’t be much longer, my love. As soon as my ship comes in we’ll be able to marry no matter what my father tries.” A breeze whips in through a crack in the window and the candle, the only light in the house, goes out. “Blast this infernal storm!” Ron cries. He spins around back in the direction of the kitchen to look for more matchsticks. Lightning flashes and Tiffany catches his arm. “Don’t go! I can’t see a thing.” She says. She shakes her wet hair out a little. “Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He says. In another lightning flash, the silhouette of a man holds the silhouette of a woman. She lays her head against his chest. “I love you, Ron.” She says. “I love you too, Tiffany.” He says. He pulls her close and presses his lips against hers. Thunder strikes and she jumps, pulling tight around him. He laughs a little and she play hits his chest. “You jumped, too.” She says. “Did not.” He says. “Are you gonna stand there and argue or offer to take my wet clothes off?” She asks. “Oh. I guess I – “ “Shh.” She says. She touches his lips and then kisses them. He touches her cheek. “You’re wonderful, love.” He says. “So are you, sweetheart, so are you.” She replies. “This is ridiculous.” She says. “I know, but you know how my dad – “ “No, I mean all of this.” “What?” “This dark and stormy night, come on. And so what, did I come over here just for sex? Nobody even knows what your parents’ problem is with me yet. And what’s with the ‘Oh Ron, I love you soooo much.’ It’s sickening.” “Um, I don’t think we can talk like that.” “Oh, I suppose you were ready to just take me to the mat, huh?” “A woman would jump to that conclusion. I think this is a trite as you do.” “Well, I’m sorry then. It’s just frustrating, you know?” “Hey, I was about to forward the ‘he whore’ stereotype. But I really don’t think we should be - ” “There’s got to be somebody we can talk to.” “Be careful, this dangerous talk here.” “Oh settle down. Hey.” “What?” “No, not you. Hey!” She shouts to no one in particular. “No I’m not shouting, but I will if I don’t get some attention here.” . . . “Oh, ellipses, very clever.” Ron wondered whom she was talking to. He began questioning the whole evening’s plans. “Hey, don’t get me in on this. She started it.” “Oh, thanks for the back-up.” “Well, he . . . you know, you just can’t do this. Tiffany, my love, won’t you join me upstairs.” “Okay, you need to stop talking like that.” “Look, let’s just cooperate.” “No! This is stupid!” Do what he says. “Oh, he speaks.” Tiffany begins unbuttoning her sheer white blouse. “No I’m not.” Just cooperate, will you? “Okay, I’m quitting, too. This is just in poor taste.” “It’s bad writing is what it is.” Look, both of you just do what I say. “No, she’s right. I’m not taking part in this hack work anymore.” Fine. If you two think you can do any better, go right ahead. I’m going to bed. I’ve got an early day tomorrow. “Um . . . is he gone?” “It sorta looks that way.” “Can you think of a way to check?” “Well, I don’t see any more ‘he said’s or ‘she said’s.” “Good point. So now what?” “I don’t know . . . I guess that’s up to us.” “You’re kidding.” “Well, do you have any ideas?” “Lots, but you know, I’m worried he’ll come back then write something drastic.” “Well, I don’t think he’s coming back, at least not for a while.” “So now what?” “Well . . . I guess that’s up to us, really.” “Wow. I was just pissed about the melodrama. I didn’t expect this.” “Yeah, but I get a good feeling from it. It’s like when you graduate from high school and you feel like you can do anything or nothing.” “I can see that, yeah. Boy, Ron, we really do have the world open before us.” “So what should we do then?” “Everything.” I, the “beautiful blond” reply. |
Last Time Jogging
| A man in an expensive looking orange jogging suit paused from his morning ritual to sit on a bench and have a drink. This was his escape, his place of solitude. On the blacktop in the cool of the morning he didn’t hear the jabber and complaining of the Employee. The Corporation wasn’t breathing down his neck about the impossible things he had to accomplish. And here the Family would leave him be, no questions of “when will you be home tonight?” and “why don’t we ever see you any more?” There on the empty road he was alone with his thoughts and contemplated this while he turned the plastic thermos in his hand. A nostalgic smile crossed his lips as he looked at the different images of Superman battling evil around his thermos. He swished the apple juice around before removing the lid for a drink. “Not everyone has to know that.” He carried that thermos to remind himself to remember his youth and those innocent good times. “Hey, I’m talking to you, the little punk with the bad handwriting announcing to anyone that I have a children’s thermos with apple juice in it.” He began to feel the old familiar urge to rant come on. “You’re darn tootin’! Hey, don’t edit me. I’ve worked long and hard to become as wealthy and successful as I am today. Bla bla blada bla bla bla! Stop that! I didn’t say that. Look, I don’t need some juvenile college boy spilling my dirty secrets to the world.” Dirty secrets? I haven’t gotten to any dirty secrets yet. “Listen, boy. I can play this game, too. You’ve invited me, nay, forced me in your head.” And? “And I know for example about the time you and that girl in the park-“ Just then a college softball team jogged by and he lost his train of thought. “You can’t distract me. Your little classmates will hear every juicy . . . heavy breathing . . . blond bobbing . . . hey, don’t write that either! If my wife ever read this-“ Or mistress. The last jogger slowed and blew him a kiss. “That’s not fair! I’ll sue you for slander after all this!” Suddenly, a hand struck up from the earth, in the middle of the dirt path. Then another. They hoisted out the decayed corpse of the exec’s long dead father. “Give us a kiss, son,” it said. As the man ran away in surprised fright, the corpse said, “Your readers won’t like this ridiculous abrupt ending.” Well I need something for class. “Yes, and that other one wasn’t very good, but I bet you’ll be eager to read both.” Shut up, you’re dead. |
Epidemic
| A hunkered-down lioness slowly pawed through the tall yellow grass of an African plain. She unwittingly crouched exactly in the middle of a gun sight. Her tail whipped back and forth lightly and her hips wiggled twice just before pouncing. Teeth and claws sprang out of the grass and an empty “thunk” sound sent them to the earth just as fast. A panting man put the barrel of his rifle to the ground and leaned on the stock. “I can’t possibly be getting too old for this.” He panted out. A black man passed him on his left and slapped his back. “I wouldn’t think of it, my friend. Excellent shot.” The black man kneeled next to the lioness and pulled the dart from the sleeping predator and replaced it with a tag. “But the next one is mine.” “But of course, Monsieur Louise.” A younger black man took a picture of the two of them with the cat. “Merci, Lavon. Would you like a shot with her?” Louise asked. “Oui, papa!” Lavon answered. The white man took the camera from Lavon as he passed. He snapped a shot of the two. Long ago, Daniel Archer decided that there was a difference between hunting and killing. His father was a big game hunter in the woods of Montana, but Daniel never liked all the death: the heads in the house, the pelts everywhere, all the blood and smell of flesh in cleaning the animals. But he still loved to shoot. His father told him on his nineteenth birthday that he could probably outshoot an experienced Army sniper. The EPA was Daniel’s natural decision. Track big game in Africa and tag them. Shooting actually would help increase the population of endangered big cats and therefore keep those predators’ game from over-populating. Forty years on the trail was wearing thin, though. He knew retirement would come soon and decided he wouldn’t argue when it did. Men who hunted past their prime often wound up lining a cub’s belly. Daniel removed his safari hat and wiped his aged and tanned brow. His leather skin glistened of perspiration in the sun. “You okay, Daniel?” Louise asked in his adult Cote d’Ivoire accent. Lavon drove the two of them back to their village. “Yeah, but I think I’m about done with this game, Louise.” Louise patted his shoulder. “They say a man who knows when he is done is a man who knows himself well.” Daniel smiled and scratched a mosquito bite under his dusty khaki shorts. He thought of his daughter Lil and wondered if a career in social services would truly fulfill her, like his career has. That night in Daniel’s hut, when he decided his career had come to an honorable and dignified end, something else began. He woke up to the same mosquito bite on his thigh. This was much more irritating than any other he’d received. Mentally he ran through his vaccinations and knew his shots were up to date. You don’t forget a thing like that being in Africa off and on for thirty-five years. He scratched furiously. This was ridiculous. The light inside the mosquito netting flicked on and he pulled his shorts above the bite. A pure white spot shone. This was new. As he scratched some more, the irritation died down steadily. The spot grew. Not only did his skin turn a pure white color, but all the hair over the spot fell off. Pores even filled in. In a panic, he tangled himself in the mosquito netting trying to get to Louise’s room. Finally he burst through the door. “Louise!” “What is it, man? Ugh, I’m bloody tired.” Louise rolled over and as his eyes adjusted he sprang to his feet. Daniel was fifty percent covered now. “Look!” Louise quickly put his glasses on and peered at Daniel’s skin. Whiteness spread slowly over Daniel’s face. Over the eye, all was white: the iris, the lashes, and the red corners. All white. After turning white, the lashes and eyebrows fell off, like the rest of his hair. Had he not been bald already, that too would have fallen off. Over the course of the night, Daniel helplessly watched his body turn a pure white color, from his tongue to the bottoms of his feet. Louise had called the doctors and furiously spoke in French. Daniel had a working knowledge of the language but his current situation ruined his usually sharp mind. “They tell me the hospital is swamped with such cases, Daniel. Daniel, look at me. Do you hear me? They say the hospitals are swamped, but everyone is healthy, my friend.” Daniel, barely recognizable turned to his friend. “Do I look healthy?” Louise grabbed his shoulders. A doctor leaned over the two. “You’re breathing normally. Your heart is beating properly. The blood of everyone we checked has come back clean, Monsieur Archer, although you’re the first non-businessman to come down with this bizarre disease.” “What are you talking about?” Daniel asked, calmed a bit now. “It is a strange thing. All of the men who came into the hospital were white businessmen, but they rambled so about their clothes. We at first figured a whole convention had caught some strange new disease, but that seems not the case now.” After much discussion, Daniel decided to go back home. He assured the doctors that if the others were okay, then he would be just fine staying where he was until he could catch a flight. Louise assured him he would follow, to check up on him as soon as the government would give him some time off. The next morning, Daniel awoke, ready to dress, pack, and go home. He opened the close door and stepped back startled. They were gone, his set of varied khaki, green, and brown clothes were gone. But clothing was in the closet, however. There was hanger upon hanger of longed sleeved shirts, black pants, and a black jacket. Louise entered his room with a somber face. “Come with me, my friend.” He led Daniel to the jeep and they drove to a “If you’re just joining us, this is the latest on the bizarre epidemic that is baffling the medical community and the world at large. White men around the world are waking up to lost hair, a bone white complexion, and pure white eyes and strangest of all, their clothes have been mysteriously altered, apparently over night. Experts suggest a sort of rapidly contagious albinism, but how to explain the bizarre clothing switch? There is one relief; all appear healthy. But it seems that every white man around the world today has been painted white by some unknown force and clothing changed to black suits with white shirts. Stay with us on this world epidemic for the latest reports.” Daniel took two steps back. He swallowed hard and turned off the television. The whiteness coating his face could not hide its terror. |
When You Gotta Go
| I’ve always hated using the library bathrooms. They’re not exactly well kempt, and standing outside the bathroom door I try to figure out if I need to go bad enough to risk it (whatever "it" I might be risking), or if I can casually make my way to another building. If I stand here too long, I’ll look retarded or perverted, not that I generally care what people think, but still. The door is a normal oak color with a picture of a little generic man in a square. There’s the ventilation screen and that odd metal plate along the bottom. What’s that for? Is that to protect the door from all those people who kick their way in? Okay, I’ll take my chances. There’s nobody in here. That’s good, or at least better. By now I think I’m over my discomfort of being in a bathroom with other people. I think everybody goes through that for a while. A friend of mine had the unpleasant experience of having the bathroom door yanked open by a bully on several occasions in the middle of class. Sure, a bathroom connected to a classroom would be convenient, but little did they know they’d be creating the perfect environment for future mental scarring, eh? Well, there’s only one stall. Here we go. I drop my bag on the relatively clean floor and pull the door closed. Oh, this isn’t right. The lock is missing. It’s actually not here, in the door. If it had been a maintenance person, they would have replaced it immediately, right? I pull the door closed, let it go, and it slowly swings open again. Marvelous. Who would steal the lock on a door? This isn’t the first door I’ve found like this, either. There were always damaged and missing locks in high school. Nobody seemed to notice. I wonder now if I was crazy, if I was just imagining missing door locks out of some repressed paranoia, as if most teenagers are not paranoid about something. And now the lock gremlin has followed me here whose goal is to annoy and humiliate at all costs. I used to have urges to write this problem down, to create a story about a kid who tracks down the bathroom door lock gnome or gremlin or whatever it is. Ferret, I don’t know. He’d find a network of tunnels just behind the bathroom walls where these creatures ran their bathroom lock black market and expose the whole operation to the world at large. Maybe they also stole that one missing sock. Maybe somebody would call Orkin, and then the locks could be replaced. But this isn’t a story. I’m standing here, now five minutes later, staring at the broken lock inside this stall. Forget it. I gotta go. I just hand my bag on the hook and . . . there’s a hook? There’s a fancy clothing hook inside the door, but not a lock. Whatever. As I open the stall door, somebody walks in the bathroom. We avoid making eye contact and I turn to the sink as he goes into the stall. I begin washing my hands and casually look forward. There’s no mirror. I’m taken aback. There’s no mirror? I stare at the wall that’s not looking back at me and wonder. Missing locks I’ve experienced. They’re just annoying, but a missing bathroom mirror. This is just weird. It’s funny how you expect certain things in life, certain menial meaningless things like bathroom door locks and bathroom mirrors, but then they go missing and suddenly you’re out of step with the world. I can’t help staring at the non-image of myself. It’s almost like I’m invisible, or a vampire. I've become so used to seeing myself that when I don’t, I feel like a part of me is missing. Then I realize how self-centered (unconsciously even) I am. I used to also consider writing a story where a kid’s reflection turns evil and torments the kid every time he sees him. Then the reflection would either pull him through to some anti-verse where things look the same but are wholly different, or the reflection gets out and runs amok with the kid’s life. Never did I picture the reflection simply not being there. I dry my hands and look back again at wall tile. The guy in the stall apparently doesn’t care about bathroom gremlins. The door is open about an inch or two. Wait ‘till he finds out he’s invisible. Maybe he won’t care about that either. Maybe most people don’t care that they’re invisible. I shoulder my leather bag and try to kick the door open by the metal panel along its bottom. Ow. Ah, this door only opens in one direction. I look back to my reflection for reassurance and to get a sympathetic laugh. Oh yeah, I’m not there. I close the bathroom door and look back at the generic, faceless, white man in the square. Maybe that’s a proper reflection. |
