There’s something lacking in the paradigmatic, between the ‘Hey, you alright?’s of the purely locomotive days of brain floundering and the more arabesque meaningful choices sleeping in the shadow of the ‘What to say now?!’ Fuckleberry Finn of a conversational situation. Would I have bounded you to countless pages of the sound and the fury until I laid it out, call me wicked, but nobody rests under a peepal tree anymore. Just one conversing in this Cathedral, one anxious to psychologically project guilt and loathing onto others, menaced by what a tertiary thinks because certain jobs have the elusiveness of wildfires when it comes to spreading intriguing raillery. Everything went downhill from there, including my will to talk to anyone. I felt that all people talked about was their daily routine, including things they’re going on about that they shouldn’t tell others they’re doing, like going somewhere or filling yourself with soon to be discarded food; ’twas work, the measly adverb how throning over the SSDD’s here; ‘and hobbies slash religion. I’m sure we were meant, as a species, to practice sports until we’re of age, then intellectual conversations — reach breaking point, and then start having hobbies. Twenty-year-olds shouldn’t collect stamps or watch movies. They should argue their breath away and make proper use of that lung capacity. No 8 hours of labour prevents you from making others stress, and you still have the age exclusive impression that you hit the golden nail in truth’s casket, the kind of beautiful delusion that can only come with youth. Hobbies should be postponed until you’re 40, 50! But what about me? I went silent as a rock in my 20s.
Figured that the latter enterprise, movie watching, would fling me into an even deeper silence streak, as there as everywhere else I can see people confirming my hypothesis: we don’t seem to say much, as a species… We all pen our script, and then what do we talk about? Jim Carrey revamps Matthew Broderick’s living room so that everything hints at the TV set, rendering all possible conversations null. Then he tells Matthew what to say to Leslie Mann, because work and TV curtailed him into this hello-how’as’work-good-ok-see’ya word patcher that can’t seem to lift conversations off the ground. Inasmuch stupidity in wanting to have music in your ears all the time, like life’s a perennial zombotic transition by means of an elevator, random music in the background and you loving yourself in that mirror, sitting with your back to the door, the only way out of this juvenile dementia that is Facebook, Youtube, gaming, the makeup and fashion revolution, careerism, avarice and the willingness to sacrifice your 60-70 precious years of life for it.
What happened to me that I can’t articulate a single interesting phrase? Don’t project your guilt over others! I’m sure if there’s anyone to blame, it’s you, not that…
…time to knock on the witch’s door, as her hanging of the phone begot silence and anticipation.
‘Should I come in?’
‘Should you?! May you!’
I fucked it up already.
‘Let’s cut to it! It has come to my attention that you have enticed a group of boys to entertain the idea that they need to engage in sexual enterprise with 14 year old girls. And with the other incident that we had last week, because media is a spotlight we do not want to have hanging over our heads, we believe it is best if our collaboration came to an end and we parted ways.’
‘And you’re settled about this. There’s nothing I can say in my defence…’
‘It’s rather late for that.’
‘Well, why didn’t you call me to your office when it was rather early, so I can give you my side of the story?’
‘I’d prefer we finished this discussion in a civil manner.’
‘Ok… Let me know what you’d have me do. Continue the day and then gather all my stuff when the day ended?’
‘Yes, let’s not make a scene. Get the secretary’s phone number so we can arrange you got youryour final paycheck.’
‘Thank you, and I’m sorry I disappointed you.’
Fucking ‘hmm’! FUCKING ‘hmm’! With all the rage gathered in me over the past years, I’m sure to have done things differently then! I would have told her, you know, I think I do want the press covering what happened here! How ’bout it?! You commented on my looks, telling curious people on my first day I’m a woman with a package because of my muscles and my long hair. Well how about I told you I know about your silly ‘amor fati’ tattoo you keep hidden from everyone?! A 30 year old woman who looks like you didn’t quite digest the meals from the last 30 weddings you attended, I believe your tattoo should have read ‘I’mma fatty’, you baboon of a woman you, you rampaging cookie swallower you, you horrid triple chinned blob you! I should have caused a scene for the truth… but the accusation and the setting I found myself in, the thoughts that could have animated my verbal outburst were lackeyed so much to that formal demeanour that not even a tint of blood moved through my vessels.
I went home, after having smiled to everyone, partly thinking they somehow knew of my dismissal. I got into the car, started the engine, and there was this woman, a former colleague of mine, getting in-between me and the future, standing next to the passenger door looking like she just milked a cow. She was looking at me like I was a bus driver, bus full and shit and I was the only one who could yell to the other passengers, “suck your bellies, land lovers, we have another siren ready to board!”.
Made a “hop on” sign with my head. She didn’t get it. Told her, “hop on!”. She didn’t get it. I asked her partly bugged, “Hop?! Is that what you don’t understand?”. She nodded no. It was the fucking car door handle! It didn’t resemble her kitchen door handle! Let’s play the gentleman and open the door for the lady. Made a semi-circle around the car’s front, and as I was holding the door open, she made one swoop into the car, but, get ready, both feet at the same time, body still left outside. I caught her by the waist midair and positioned this alien inside. After I got back into the spaceship, she immediately said, “could we go faster?” The fuck, we didn’t even start the car and I was I already a taxi driver! The time it took me to pluck the keys in and make the engine purr was enough to help me decide she had to go. Fuck-a-one-good-deed-a-day, the day is still young, maybe I can help a cat off a tree or something; she had to go. I turned the key inside the ignition one more time knowing it’ll make a screeching noise and I immediately retorted her amazement with, “Car’s broken, we need to get out!” Stopped the engine, went round the vessel, grabbed her by the armpits, “Abandon ship!”, and left milady in the dirt.
Home I said I wouldn’t fret about my former job at all. The drive was mindless, never occurring to me how many intersections and stop lights I had passed, how many people’s stories might have become my own if I had cared, how many times I had travelled that route. After all, those people had their reasons to fire me and blaming it on them and creating this conspiracy theory where I was the wronged good guy was useless and an insult to my intellectual integrity. Didn’t remember telling a bunch of kids they should have sex with 14 year olds though. I guess the head needed to tell the legs what they could in order to make the dismissal seem worthwhile. There I went, though, conspiracy theory enthusiast.
No time for that, as I had another modern day slavery to tend to. After a short 7 to 13 and two hours of driving back to the surface of society, a dozen cows and ten possible farmer hitchhikers later, an office building with 20 people laying around computers awaited me. I was working part time here as a lyrics transcriber.
At the end of the day I laid into bed and did what today I know I shouldn’t do if I want to be diffusive with my words: I put my thoughts to rest.
The next day I went through everything in my head. This is what I came up with: