This is where I rip my heart out of my own rib cage and show it ugly and dirty to the world where they will reject it and spit at it and turn away in disgust. Its also where I say funny things to sound witty.
When I was in high school, I decided to be interested in photography. There were many reasons behind this decision, but I think it's important to emphasize the fact that, even if I wasn't about to explain those reasons to you in a long, rambling, nearly incoherent narrative that I promise will leave you confused and unsatisfied in the end, you can be absolutely sure that those reasons had nothing to do with the artistic merits of the medium of photography, and had everything to do with – as do all my decisions, then and now – girls.
Dose anybody remember that episode of Growing Pains where Mike and Boner (…heheh) were trying to pick classes for college, and they settled on photography because the course description told them there would be nude modeling involved? Really? Nobody? Yeah, well, Mike ends up chickening out when the model shows up and takes her clothes off. But he still has to turn in something for class, so he takes a picture of himself naked and turns it in. Great episode. Classic Seaver.
Also, there was this movie called 18 Again. Anybody remember that movie? It was one of about 27 movies in the 80s that involved some sort of switching bodies phenomenon. Like, that one with Fred Savage and Judge Reinhold. What was that one called? I can't remember. But anyway, 18 Again starred the very old looking George Burns who during the course of the movie traded bodies with his 18 year old grandson. I assume the movie was just two hours of this young guy doing Burns shtick, which might be funny if you were a George Burns fan and one who fondly remembers the 40s. I am neither of those, and so all I remember is the one scene in the movie where the kid is in an art class and this girl comes in and takes her clothes off so that they can draw her.
This is a very solid memory in my mind, I think, because I saw this in like 4th grade, in my after-school care program. Yeah, and it wasn't the only movie they showed us with nudity. But that's a whole 'nother blog.
Anyway, so I was thinking about those things, and about this conversation I had had at one point with this guy one time at this Christian camp named L-Bar-C. For anyone who doesn't know anything about modern Protestantism, the last few decades have seen this surge of enthusiasm for the male experience within evangelical Christendom. It's an interesting social-psychological topic – to me, anyway. I think it grows out of both a rejection and an acceptance of the feminism that has begun to seep in from outside the church doors. But…that isn't really important.
But it came to be that I was getting my male bonding on in the L-Bar-C snack shop with this guy who had just graduated from North (where I was about to be a freshman come summer's end). He was telling me all the fun things I was going to be doing and I was pretending not to be pissing my Umbro shorts from fear.
I can't remember that guy's name. I but I remember he played football, and so did I, so we talked about that. I remember he wore a hat, a faded, worn out pink baseball cap. He always wore that. I think I remember he had cancer, and so had lost his hair from the chemo. Is that right? I'm not sure. I wonder what happened to that guy. He'd be like 32 or 33 now, which doesn't seem that much older, but in my memory the guy seems so much older, so much more adult. He looked like a man. I felt like a boy. He towers over me from the other side of the thick plastic table, checkered red and white, of the L-Bar-C snack shop, as we tentatively sip Cokes through straws and awkwardly search for common ground that exists only in our politeness. You can't wish a connection, but oh did we try.
But somewhere in our conversation, he mentions he had taken a photography class at North during his junior year.
"Yeah?" I said, feigning interest.
"Yeah," he said, "That's actually where I met Christy."
"Christy" is the name I decided to use for his girlfriend. I can't remember her name either. But she was…uh…she was hot. She was one of those girls that if you saw, you knew she had, at some point in her life, taken a photography class. And a painting class. And a sculpting class. Not that she was a real artist, but many of her friends would have described her as "artsy." "Free-spirited" also came up a lot when describing her. My imagination began to roam, and as I was thinking about dark rooms and classrooms hung with student art, and "free-spirited" girls with smiles as liberal as their politics, girls that smelled like flowers and never wore a bra, I decided that maybe I could be an artist.
I kinda forgot about for a little bit. But then when I decided I wanted to smoke cigarettes and be lazy and not run laps at football practice anymore, I thought I'd give it a try.
It didn't really work out. I sucked at photography. Like, really bad. Jones, the photo teacher, who I loved, asked me one day towards the end of the semester if I was planning on taking Photo II.
"Yeah," I said, bright eyed and full of hope (that's not true – this was my sophomore year and I had by then gone head first into my Gen X-loser-grunge vibe, I mean c'mon-- I was wearing Converse and flannel), "Yeah, I can't wait."
She put her hand on my upper arm. "Honey," she says. This is how she talks-- honey. "Honey," she says, "Maybe photography isn't for you."
And so ended my career as a photographer.
But all was not lost, because I soon discovered ceramics, and good ol' Brantman let me take that class as much as I wanted, no matter how much I sucked at it. Which I did. I was horrible. But I took the class four times.
Here are some things that I made that I still have.
See? Horrible.
One day, I think it was the second semester of my junior year, I made this…I dunno…this thing. It was like a plate, or a very shallow bowl maybe, but it had a stand and a handle. I don't know what it was. For most of that semester I was trying to find creative ways to make pipes and ash trays without Brantman knowing. I think this thing was probably supposed to be an ash tray.
This isn't really what it looked like, bit it's the best I could do on MS Paint.
After it was constructed, but before I had turned it in to Brantman, I looked at the surface of the half bowl and decided it needed something on it. I thought for a minute and then grabbed a knife. In the soft clay I scrawled out the following sentence.
HELLO MY NAME IS JIMMY POP
I don't know why. It's a song lyric, the opening line from Bloodhound Gang's "Fire Water Burn." But its not like that was my favorite line or anything. I don't know. It just seemed to fit. Satisfied, I turned it in to Brantman.
"Hello my name is Jimmy Pop," he read aloud. He looked at me, the piece balancing in his right hand. "Your name is Chris." I honestly think he was so confused that he thought for a second he had forgotten my name. Or maybe he thought I had.
"I know," I said.
"Well what does this mean then?" he asked. I shrugged. "Well then why did you write it here?"
"I thought I needed to write something."
"But it doesn't make any sense. Do you think it adds to the piece?"
"Not really," I said.
"Well then why did you write it?" he asked again.
"I thought I needed to write something," I repeated.
"So its just filler then?"
"Yeah. That's good. Filler."
"Don't you think that's a little unfair to your readers?"
"What are we talking about again?"
"Nothing."
"Ok."
"You want to submit this?" he said.
"Yes," I said.
"Ok," he said."Who am I to argue?" He put it on the shelf to be fired.
He didn't get it.
But then again, either did I.
It was just filler.
Time to go get drunk.
Hope y'all had a good summer.
Oh shit! That's Pauly Shore! Now I know this movie sucked.
At Disney World on My Birthday While Minnie Tickles My Belly
Category: Blogging
I can't blog.
I know, I know. I've said that before. How many of my blogs start out by saying "I can't blog?" A least half, right? And then I always end up blogging anyway.
But seriously, I can't blog. And I'll tell you why.
First off, I no longer have access to Myspace, because my roommate decided it would be fun to just let our cable/internet bill slip, and now my computer tells me it can't find a connection and my TV is dark and cold, which means I can't finish the LOST I recorded the other night and I'm going to have to start stealing internet from my upstairs neighbor, who I'm pretty sure tortures her cat on a regular basis.
Secondly, I am phenomenally busy. Phenomenally? Yes, phenomenally. I am moving out of my apartment in eight days. Eight. That's one, two three, four, five, six, seven, EIGHT. Eight fucking days, man! Eight days.
I really need to start packing.
Thirdly, I have no pen. My friend Sam, sitting next to me drawing pictures of racecars, wouldn't let me borrow one of his, even though he has like 27 of them in a plastic bag in his binder (he's mad at me right now because he wanted to draw a map of 103rd st in Overland Park – this is his favorite thing to do, draw maps – but this is science class and I'm trying to teach him about motion, force and kinetic energy, which is why I told him to draw racecars, also trains and airplanes and pizza slices – things that move), so I had to go borrow a pen from a teacher, which is always embarrassing. But there are no teachers in the library (we're in the library), so I had to go ask the librarian, which is even worse, because she's kinda mean and has an overdeveloped sense of importance (she's a high school librarian). Also, she so clearly doesn't like me, because I look more like a student than I do an adult, and she assumes that I therefore also act more like a student than I do an adult, because she is old and old people don't like people who act young.
The fact that she is right, and I do tend to act more like a student than I do an adult, is irrelevant and immaterial. She has no right.
So I walk up to her sitting at her desk, green cardigan sweater caressing her shoulders and a Patricia Cornwell novel in her hands. Could borrow a pen or a pencil, I ask her, polite and wispy, and she looks out at me through her bifocals and across her pointy nose, and her eyes seem to scowl, seem to say that of course, I would need to borrow a pen or a pencil. She blinks slowly, and in her mind she is probably cursing me silently; or, worse, saying a tiny little silent prayer for me in her tiny little silent head. Wordlessly, she hands me a pen.
"I trust I'll get it back?" she asks.
"Of course," I say, innocent and sincere.
I guess I should mention that three years ago I checked out seven books from the school library and just returned them last month. But still, way to hold a grudge lady.
I see Mrs. Brunghart coming around a corner and I try to flee. I dive into the Dewey Decimal forest, trying to hide amongst the books, but I am too late. She corners me, literally in a corner, caught between Albert Camus and Tom Clancy.
The school I work for has too librarians, which always seemed a bit excessive to me. I mean, why even have one? The only thing they have to do is bug me when I don't return my books, and give that one lecture every year to the freshman about how to properly use the library. She could be replaced by a tape player and a power point presentation.
But the job is apparently important enough to warrant two librarians. And, when one of them is sick, the district sends in a substitute. Really? Is the job so hard that one of them couldn't hold it down for one day?
Anyway, that substitute, more often than not, is the aforementioned Mrs. Brunghart, who, a long, long time ago, in a galaxy known as "Middle School," was my eighth grade English teacher. She likes to pretend she still is.
"So, what are you doing with your life, Chris?" she asks, when she catches me fleeing back to Sam. I look back over at him, maybe for comfort, maybe for assistance, but too he is busy laughing at nothing and squeezing the air in front of his face for no reason to notice I've been trapped.
"Oh, well, you know." I start, looking at her face for understanding. There is none. "You know." She doesn't know. Clearly, she doesn't know. Why did I say that twice?
"What is it you expect to do in life, Chris?" she asked. "What I mean is, is this it?" She waved her hands around, as if this library made up the entire known universe, and she looked at me like I had never ventured a guess at what was beyond it.
I hate these conversations. I don't want to talk to this woman. Life is too short to be involved in conversations I don't want to have. Why can't we just say so? It's an ego thing, right? She would be unbelievably offended if I just told her that I really didn't want to talk to her. It's nothing against her, really. Its just that I don't think either one of us has anything to benefit from it. She won't learn anything real from her questions, I'll feel inadequate and ill prepared for life, and both of us will lose five minutes that we can never get back.
We only get about 8 million of those in a lifetime.
She was still looking at me for an answer. Her question wasn't rhetorical. Think, Chris! Give her an answer!
"Working," I said quickly, not caring if it fit her last question or not. "Mostly, anyway. And writing. I'm writing a novel."
This line always works. I'm writing a novel. It seems important, progressive, praise-worthy. People, especially old teachers (almost always English teachers), who remember me well enough to ask how I'm doing (there aren't many), want me to tell them I'm writing. This is because every one of them secretly (or not so secretly) takes a little (or a lot) credit for my writing (some deservedly, mostly not). So when I run into them years later, it's the writing that they want to hear about, because teaching is an almost completely thankless job, and hearing that I am continuing the path that they set me on allows them to tell themselves they made a difference (because, besides my writing, I really was an awful student and never would have made anything of myself had they not seen the talent hiding there and coaxed it out with kindness or discipline or ridicule or candy or whatever that particular teacher used). I don't really know this for a fact, but I'm cynical enough to believe it.
Anyway, it doesn't matter, because this one isn't buying it. "Yes," she says. "But what else? This job can't pay enough to support you, can it?" She is still staring at me, still borrowing into my brain with her eyes. He slick grey hair helmet shines. Her brow is furrowed. I'm scared. I've been reduced to putty, dripping down the book shelves and seeping into the tightly woven red carpet, stuck here between The First Man on my right and The Bear and the Dragon on my left, unable to move or call for help.
"Well, I had another job for a long time, but I quit. I am still writing though." Maybe she didn't hear me the first couple of times I said it.
"Yes. You mentioned that. Publishing is hard though. What is your back up plan?"
Ok, couple thing. First off, shut up lady. Secondly, seriously, shut up. Thirdly, quit making me feel like I'm 14 again. It's really scaring me. I don't like you.
I think she sees the fear in my eyes, sees the terror on my face, because she takes a step back and smiles. She laughs. "Look at me, still trying to run your life 14 years later."
I laugh too, but its full of uncertainty. "Oh that's ok," I say. "I'm sure I could use the help." My words are bridging but my voice is collapsing. I am moving away from her as I speak. "Thanks," I say, and neither of us are sure what I meant.
Just a side note: Earlier, I said I couldn't blog because I didn't have a pen. I don't know how other bloggers do it, but I like to write these things ahead of time on paper. In fact, most of my blogs are the end result of a long process. There are parts of this blog that I might have written last week. Or maybe I didn't get around to posting this till next week and you're reading this on Monday or Tuesday (editor's note: oops), and the paragraph you're reading right now is the "part of this blog that I might have written last week." Who knows. Well, ok, I know. But it doesn't matter.
Fourthly, did I mention I have no time yet? Did I use the word phenomenally? I really wanted to use the word phenomenally.
Did I tell you I'm moving in five days? What? I said five? Yeah, well, that was back on Friday, when I had eight days and the world made sense. Eight days was a long time. Eight days was forever.Now I have only five. FIVE!!!
I'm going to back up here a sec, cuz I realize there is a story here I haven't told.
Do you remember, patient subscriber, a few blogs ago, where I wrote about the first girl I ever kissed? And do you recall how, at the end, I re-met her on myspace?
You do?
Yes, well, turns out she's getting married. To my roommate.
I know! Weird, right?
Now, Phil (aka "said roommate") was already planning on moving out anyway – he told me many, many times how much he hated it when I snuck into his bed in the middle of the night when I was cold (oh Phil – so afraid of affection!). So we decided to part ways. I'll be moving back to my parents house for the summer, because I work at a school (which doesn't pay me when its hot outside) and I don't want to get another job. Phil, seeing a bleak future ahead of him, one without a bed or a roof or a roommate to keep him warm, did what he had to do – he found a woman with a house and warm feet. In other words, he went and "fell in love."
Whatever. She'll never be as good to him as I was.
But I'm happy for them and stuff.
Yeah, so, I'm moving back to my parents house. Because I'm 28 and that's what cool people do at 28. I'm moving back home. Back to the place I grew up. Back to the place I called home for so many years. Back to my old room, which used to be the coolest room ever but the got ruined by my sister after I moved out.
This is where I'll spend the summer, and prolly the fall too. And this is where I'm going to write that novel that Mrs. Brunghart didn't believe I could.
Its going to be an awesome summer.
I'm such a loser.
Lastly, I can't blog because I'm essentially happy. Happy like I had hope. Happy like I have a reason to live. Happy like I'm at Disney World on my birthday while Minnie tickles my belly. I'm happy because things are changing and they might be changing for the better. I'm doing what I can to resist, but things are moving beyond my control. I'm happy because its spring, and spring brings happiness and allergies. I don't know which is worse. They have medication for allergy. There is no happiness shots.
Ok, yes there are. But I've already packed my vodka.
And I'm happy for reasons that are hard to put into words. For the most part, its just this uncontrollable queasiness in my stomach, an inexplicable nervousness. What can be put into words, what can be comprehended and described, I can't put here. Happiness and hope are intertwined, and hope makes me believe something might actually work out. But if it can work out, then it could also fail. All of which leads to restrictions of what I can and can not say. There are people reading this, you know.
At exactly one minute past midnight, last Friday, there was a soft rap on my apartment door. My guest had said those exact words, "exactly one minute past midnight," and here she was, right on time. I was surprised. Not at her immaculate punctualness – when you arrive at your destination via the method she employed, I suspected tardiness was never an issue. No, I was surprised at the circumstance of her arrival, surprised at the spectacle. Or rather, the lack of spectacle. I’m not sure what I expected; visions of lightning streaked skies, deafening sonic booms, flaming tire tracks running up and down the parking outside, her materializing, naked and powerful and menacing, in the middle of my living room, telling me in booming, unemotional tones, "COME WITH ME IF YOU WANT TO LIVE."
I got none of those. What I did get – the soft, now impatient rap on my apartment door – was not nearly grand enough to satisfy a lifetime of science fiction consumption. I needed the bells and whistles. I needed lights and flashes. I needed another drink.
I arose from the spot on the couch that I had occupied for the past hour, having forced myself to sit there and do nothing. I was so nervous. I was scared to move. I thought if I did I would runaway, or simply collapse. But now, here I was. Here she was. It was time.
I approached the door cautiously. I was still expecting something to happen. Maybe the door was going to explode inward, and through the thick grey smoke it left behind would step some metallic monster with giant claws, firing lasers, witty one liners.
But there was no explosion. No smoke. No killer robot. Only the continuous knock on the other side of the door. I had come this far, had I not? I had overcome disbelief, overcome inadequacy, overcome anticipation, overcome the weight of the world that this guest had placed squarely on my shoulders; I could now just as easily overcome fear, couldn’t I? I grabbed the door knob. It was cold. I took that as a good sign. I took a deep breath and opened the door.
The woman that now stood in my doorway was certainly something to look at. Very tall and very thin, I had to look up to meet her gaze, which was hard anyway because she wore enormous purple sunglasses. Her hair was long and stringy and a fiery reddish brown. Her features were well-defined, casting shadows across her face and giving her an intense, angled beauty. A bright, intricate tattoo ran down her upper right arm, from shoulder to elbow. I couldn’t make out the image. She wore clothes that seemed well fit for this time – shirt and skirt that tastefully exposed long legs and pale midriff. She none-the-less gave off an air of another world, a discreetly powerful disposition that gave me pause, and I suspected that even those that met her in the right time would feel it just as strongly.
"Good evening, Mr. Atkins," my guest said, as I opened the door. "My name is Katie Kaboom." She offered her hand and I took it. It was lighter than air. I was shaking.
"And," I started. "And you’re from the future." I wondered why that didn’t feel weird to say anymore.
"Yes, I am," she said, nodding. Not smiling. Matter-of-fact. "The year 2192, as we discussed on the phone."
Discussed. That we had, if you’d see fit to call that. I wouldn’t. It was more…well, to be perfectly frank; I’m not sure how to describe it.
I won’t go into how she, this woman from the future, told me she was in fact from the year 2192 and was to travel back to "exactly one minute past midnight," last Friday, so that she could ask me five questions and record the answers for a paper she was writing in her university history class. I won’t go into how she explained that they were studying prominent 21st century writers, and she had chosen me for a report. I won’t go into how she explained that this was a common practice for studying history in her time, and had been for at least a century. I won’t go into how she had convinced me of the truth, convinced me that she was neither a lunatic nor a liar, and was who she said she was. I won’t go into these things, mostly because you wouldn’t believe me, you would think me the lunatic or the liar (and no doubt the majority would choose the former) but also because I am not allowed. Time travel, as I suppose one might suspect, is governed by a tremendous amount of regulation. I guess it would have to be, if it is as common in the universities of the future as, say, Internet access is on the campuses of today.
"Please, come in," I said. She did. "Can I get you something to drink?"
"No thank you," she said, looking around me apartment. She seemed to approve. Then she turned back to me, still holding the door open. "We’re actually not allowed to consume anything."
I nodded, as if I understood. I didn’t. "Sure," I said. "Afraid if you drink some water that was meant to go somewhere else then you’ll change the future?"
"No," she said. "You can’t change the future. If I was meant to drink the water then I will drink the water, and I would drink the water, and I will always drink the water." I nodded, as if I understood. I didn’t. "Its all very complicated. And I’m not really supposed to talk about it."
"Sure." I closed the door and walked into the living room. "Well, this is my apartment. Would you like a tour?"
"I don’t really have the time. We should get started." She sat on the couch.
"Sure. Of course." I sat down next to her. "How exactly does this work?"
"I’m going to ask you five questions, and I want you to answer them as honestly as possible."
"Ok"
"Then I’m going to put you to sleep and erase your memory."
"Right. About that…"
"It is absolutely safe."
"I assume. If you killed me, then I wouldn’t have been able to write anything for you to come back for, right?"
"Something like that."
"But why is it necessary?"
"Its protocol. You can’t – don’t know anything about the future."
"And I won’t remember anything?"
"Impressions remain. Feelings are harder to erase than memories. It’s possible you might remember fragments, but they’ll be like a week old dream. Barely there. Or it might surface, I suppose, like your ideas for writing do. A few days from now you might suddenly think of a great idea for a science fiction story."
She laughed at this. Giggled even, like there was some very funny, secret joke. Maybe there was. Maybe I would write about this later, and maybe she knew it. I didn’t dare ask.
"Anyway," she continued. "Regardless, anything that remains will be vague. And it will mix with other ideas and memories. It will have no connection to its original source."
There was silence between us for a moment. I tried to look like I was pondering some seriousness that I didn’t really feel. Her laughing had thrown me for a moment.
"Well," I said. "Lets get to it then. Do you need, like, paper or pen or something?"
"No, she said. "Our conversation will be recording."
"What are you, wearing a wire?"
"Something like that. First question?"
"Shoot"
"Begin recording," she said to no one. "Historic personality interview number one-nine-two-point…"
INTERVIEWER: Historic personality interview number 192.7888562446512. Subject is one Mr. Christopher Atkins, author, 21st century. Interviewer, Katie Kabloom. Time/Space Locator ID number 582129572904.
SUBJECT: What the hell did all that mean?
INTERVIEWER: Mr. Atkins, who is your favorite author, and why?
SUBJECT: Ok then. Serious time. Who is my favorite author and why. Well, that’s tough. I like a lot of writers. David Eggers, for one. Do you know him? His book, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, changed the way I viewed writing. Changed the way I viewed life, in a lot of ways. It was every bit what his title suggests it is. Um, who else? C.S.Lewis? He was a major influence on me. He was instrumental in the way I understood the world during a time when faith and God and all that were important to me. He’s still kind of an intellectual hero of mine.
INTERVIEWER: Ok, but who’s your favorite?
SUBJECT: When you get down to it, there’s really only one author I can really say is my favorite.
INTERVIEWER: Who?
SUBJECT: Stephen King. He’s the reason I kept reading past kids books. I knew I wanted to be a writer before I was reading him, but he has been the biggest influence on that dream. Reading King taught me almost everything I know about storytelling. He is an inspiration, and he is responsible for a near lifetime of joy in my youth. I would get lost in his world. I think his Dark Tower books are one of the greatest literary accomplishments of the 20th century. At least in genre fiction. No one knows about them, but I think they stand with the Dune books, The Chronicles of Narnia books , even Lord of the Rings. Seriously, any series, any great monolith of storytelling, he stands with them, if not above. Hell, in terms of storytelling, even Star Wars. Story telling is an art, and King is a master. He is what I want to be.
INTERVIEWER: What is your best feature or trait?
SUBJECT: What are we talking about? In terms of writing? Or me, my personality? Or, well, do you mean physically?
INTERVIEWER: Whatever you want the question to mean.
SUBJECT: Ok. Well, um. I don’t know. Um. I guess, I guess I like the way I think. I don’t know if I’d call it being, uh, being smart, exactly. But I like the way I can kind of think outside the box, I guess. My intellect and imagination mesh well. And I don’t see things the way a lot of people do. I’m a little off. Sometimes that’s bad, but I don’t really care. Because it helps me see different angles. And it helps me see where other people are coming from. I see both sides, most of the time. And then a third side. Does that sound weird? Does it sound arrogant? I’m not really good at talking about my good traits.
INTERVIEWER: What about your bad?
SUBJECT: I’m better at that.
INTERVIEWER: Good. Question number three. What is your worst quality?
SUBJECT: Oh jeeze. Where do I start?
INTERVIEWER: Alphabetically?
SUBJECT: Did you just make a joke, future woman?
INTERVIEWER: I believe I did.
SUBJECT: Wow. They have humor in your time?
INTERVIEWER: We’ve come a long way in 184 years.
SUBJECT: I bet you have. Who’s the funniest guy in your time?
INTERVIEWER: Ignack, from a moon in the Ryson V system
SUBJECT: Oh my god seriously?
INTERVIEWER: No. Can we get back to the question?
SUBJECT: Funny. You are funny.
INTERVIEWER: I really don’t have a lot of time.
SUBJECT: Right. Sorry. Worst trait. Um. I. Am. Uh. I am pretty bad at. Um.
INTERVIEWER: Answering this question?
SUBJECT: Nice. No, I am bad at. What am I bad at? Well, I think I missed out on some fundamental lesson in life. It seems that way anyway. And maybe this is some how related to my best trait. What I said earlier, about being a little off. I am. And I don’t get things sometimes. I don’t understand money. It means nothing to me. I seem to be physically unable to pay bills on time. Or arrive anywhere on time. Or stick to a routine of any kind. I never, ever, read my mail. And I don’t understand why I can get in trouble for that. Why is it that if someone sends me a bill, then they assume that I’ve gotten it and read it. Most of my mail sits in my apartment for months without ever being read. I don’t know how to live life. And most of the time, I’m disinterested in it. It takes a lot for me to be excited. This isn’t really a trait that I find to be my worst, but it’s the one everybody else does. It’s the one I get in the most trouble for. Its the one most likely to get in the way of my happiness.
INTERVIEWER: Question four. What is your quest?
SUBJECT: Oh wow. That’s a good question. That may be THE question, really, right? I don’t know. what is my quest. To find the Holy Grail, I guess. Isn’t that the nature of every quest? But I guess the question then becomes, what is the holy grail? To me, anyway.
INTERVIEWER: What is it then, your Holy Grail?
SUBJECT: I don’t know, for sure. It’s too deep in the forest still, I guess. But it calls to me. Everyday, I hear its siren call, you know?
INTERVIEWER: Tell me.
SUBJECT: Well, it’s like, I got this one story to tell. Metaphorically, and literally. My life and my art intertwine, and they are both, as yet, untold. I guess. Does this make any sense? I don’t know. I feel this push towards something big, something great. Or pulled. I can’t tell. Its all around me. In the past. In the future. In this very moment. Its everywhere. I used to think it was God. No, actually, that’s not quite right. It was different from what I felt was God. I used to think it was heaven. That perfect place, you know, calling out to me. It was home. But I don’t really think that anymore. But whatever it is, its push, its pull, is sometimes so strong I can do anything but listen to it whisper. And I don’t know if the voice is telling me a story I need to tell or a story I need to live. Maybe its both. But I know deep down in my marrow, I’m a writer. I was born to write. Like I was chosen for it, you know? But I’m also a person. A human being. I want to live that life of joy. But mostly I just want to write it. And I feel like I could so easily give up a lifetime of joy, just to be able to tell that one story that keeps on burning in me. So. Yeah. That’s. About all I have to say about that. I think. Did I even answer your question?
INTERVIEWER: Sure.
SUBJECT: Good. Question five?
INTERVIEWER: What is the airspeed velocity of a sparrow?
SUBJECT: Huh?
INTERVIEWER: What is the airspeed velocity of a sparrow?
SUBJECT: Oh. Like in Monty Python? Funny. Except I think it’s the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow, isn’t it?
INTERVIEWER: What are you talking about? I was serious. In my time the planet’s atmosphere has thickened from centuries of pollution and so I’m collecting data on the physics of bird flight for my science professor.
SUBJECT: Wait. What?
INTERVIEWER: I’m joking. I just love that movie. And I knew its from your time, and since you mentioned the Holy Grail.
SUBJECT: Seriously. You are just on a roll, aren’t you? I can’t believe Monty Python is known, almost 200 yeahs from now. I love that movie. You know, I own it, actually.
INTERVIEWER: Oh my god, are you serious? Can I have it?
SUBJECT: Ok, sure. You can take it back with you?
INTERVIEWER: Yes. Oh wow. To have an actual copy of the greatest of all the historical records. This thing is taught to students in the earliest history classes.
SUBJECT: Wait what?
INTERVIEWER: Again, I’m kidding.
SUBJECT: Awesome.
INTERVIEWER: Ok, I think we’re done.
SUBJECT: Wow. Ok then.
INTERVIEWER: Are you ready?
SUBJECT: Ready for what?
INTERVIEWER: For the memory wipe.
SUBJECT: Oh crap, right now?
INTERVIEWER: It will happen automatically when I end the recording. And I have about two minutes before my pickup. So, yeah. Right now.
SUBJECT: Wait! Hold on. Gosh, I have so many questions.
INTERVIEWER: None of which I am allowed to answer. Prepare yourself.
SUBJECT: Wait! Err. Well. Seriously though. If you are going to erase my memory, why can’t you answer them?
INTERVIEWER: I’m just no allowed. It’s complicated. I have to go!
SUBJECT: Ok. Ok. Fine. Just answer me one thing
INTERVIEWER: What?
SUBJECT: Why me? Why did you choose me?
INTERVIEWER: You’re my favorite author.
SUBJECT: Really?
INTERVIEWER: Really.
SUBJECT: Can I ask why?
INTERVIEWER: A lot of reasons. But mostly, your first book.
SUBJECT: What about it?
INTERVIEWER: I can’t tell you. But you’ll know when you write it.
SUBJECT: I hope I didn’t disappoint you.
INTERVIEWER: What do you mean?
SUBJECT: Meeting me, I mean. Answering these questions. I hope it’s what you were hoping. Or expecting, at least. I guess.
INTERVIEWER: I had no expectations.
SUBJECT: Really?
INTERVIEWER: Really.
SUBJECT: How can that be though? If, as you say, history knows me. How can you not have expectations? Am I the person you knew from the books?
INTERVIEWER: Of course not. You aren’t yet the person that history knows.
SUBJECT: Then what am I?
INTERVIEWER: That’s not for me to decide, Mr. Atkins. That’s up to you.
SUBJECT: But what if I choose wrong?
INTERVIEWER: Right or wrong, you are going to choose what you choose. Take comfort in the fact that you never really had a choice.
SUBJECT: That is comforting, actually.
INTERVIEWER: Thank you for this opportunity, sir. And thank you for what you will do.
SUBJECT: When?
INTERVIEWER: Soon. Goodbye now.
SUBJECT: Yes. Of course. Thank you. Good bye.
INTERVIEWER: End recording.
End transcript
---
A couple of weeks ago I responded to an "interview" blog. I volunteered to answer five questions in a blog. Then I put it off for a while. Then I got bored, couldn’t sleep, and decided to add a lot of other crap to it.
Katie Kaboom was the one who gave me these questions, but, for the record, I do not actually know her. She is not (as far as I know) from the year 2192. She also isn’t (as far as I know) anything like how I portrayed her in this story. All I did was look at her picture and then make everything else up. I hope she isn’t upset or offended by anything I said. If you are, Ms. Kaboom, I am sorry. I don’t even know if that’s her real name. I assume its not.
If you would like to continue this tradition, please follow these instructions. I won’t make you add all the extra crap. You can just answer them like a normal person. Try not to let your imagination and your ego get the best of you.
1. Leave me a comment saying "interview me." 2. I will respond by e-mailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions. 3. You will update your blog (so you have to have a blog) with a post containing your answers to the questions. 4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post. 5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five new questions.
I hate being sick. Sort of. Actually, there is something kinda neat about missing work and wrapping yourself up in a blanket while you watch The Price is Right and eat cough drops and drink too much NyQuil. Besides the whole feeling like crap thing, it’s kinda fun.
But I do feel like crap. And I feel guilty for missing work.
I hate spring. I do. I don’t know why either. Sometimes I think it’s the sun coming out again. I don’t like heat. I prefer the cold. Sometimes I think it’s the fact that my allergies awaken from their winter hibernation and return with a savage hunger…but that’s not really it either. It’s something deeper, I think. But I can’t quite see it.
There are some good things about spring. Spring Break, for instance. But of course, that’s over already.
The following is a conversation I overheard in the boys locker room the first day back from Spring Break, while I was waiting for a student to get ready for his weights class. It was just me, my student and these two kids from that same weights class. Except for us, the locker room was empty and quiet.
Blonde Haired Kid: What’s up dude? How was break?
Other Blonde Haired Kid: Oh dude, I was so fucked up the whole week.
BHK: Yeah? Nice.
OBHK: Hell yeah dude! I feel like shit today though.
BHK: Fuck yeah dude! That just means you had a kick ass week.
OBHK: Fuck yeah I did. I swear to fucking god I cut myself this morning and bled tequila.
BHK: Nice!
(There is a slapping sound as they high-five -- I assume, they’re in a different row and I can’t actually see them anymore)
OBHK: Seriously dude. I was so fucked up.
BHK: I was sick this whole week.
OBHK: Aw nu-uh dude. That blows.
BHK: Blows a big fucking dick, dude. I fucking had AIDS all week.
OBHK: Fuck dude.
BHK: Yeah, it sucked balls.
OBHK: Yeah, everything sucks.
(There is a short pause here. Both lockers close.)
OBHK: Life is weird.
BHK: What dude?
OBHK: Nothing. Let’s go lift weights.
BHK: Fuck yeah!
(Exit stage left. Lights down.)
Aaand, scene.
That’s word-for-word, faithful reporting there, folks. Is "AIDS" now a slang term for regular old getting sick? Kids today…
Spring also has baseball, which might be its only redeemable quality. Behind me, on the TV, my Royals are taking a three run lead into the ninth against the Tigers. My sister is at that game. I am not. I am sick and lonely and not at a baseball game. Life sucks.
Spring is rebirth, but it feels like death to me. It feels like the end. I can’t help it.
I volunteered to help coach the freshman softball team. They don’t technically let paras coach (you have to be a teacher), so I don’t get paid and I have to correct the girls when they call me coach, but its still fun. I needed something to do that was outside. Plus, I love softball. My dad coached. My sister and I both played. It’s in my blood.
I feel bad because I missed a game yesterday, and am missing practice today.
I quit my other job, the one at Godfather’s Pizza. I had been there almost 12 years. I was going to write a blog about it, but I couldn’t really think of anything to say. That store hasn’t held any emotional attachment since April of 2005, but that’s a whole ’nother story.
But here is a copy of the very last order I ever made.
That’s a large Hot Stuff (Pepperoni, Italian Sausage, Beef, Onions and Jalapeños) on original crust, and a cheese stick. And yes, in case you noticed, I do sign my tickets with "Orb."
"Last order ever!" I yelled as I took it out of the oven.
"Where’s the cheese stick?" Cherra asked (Cherra, my boss, was also quitting that day too – it was mostly her decision to quit that convinced me it was time to go).
"Crap," I said. "I forgot. Last mistake ever!"
Now that I think about it, maybe I should have blocked out the phone number on the order. Oh well. Sorry Dan.
Royals just won. Yipee!
I had a dream a couple of nights ago that I’d like to relate to you, faithful reader, if you don’t mind.
After my grandmother died in 1994, I had really terrible dreams about her for a long time. They mainly consisted of me wandering around in her house in the dark until she popped out of nowhere and scared the piss out of me. They lasted for six or seven years. Maybe longer. It was so bad that I couldn’t even go near her old neighborhood, I was so moved by this irrationally fear. Fear of what? I never really asked.
I don’t know what made them stop, but ever since they did, she’s been absent from my dreams and I’ve been able to drive through her neighborhood, even drive by her house, without getting chills. A few nights ago, I dreamt of that house.
I was at her house, and so were a lot of Godfather’s people. Phil. Cherra. Tiffany. Eric. Kelli. Charles. Those are the ones I remember. Some other guy was there. He was apparently "with" Cherra. They were there remodeling my grandmother’s house. I was very upset because they didn’t even ask. They just came in and took over this place that had once meant so much to me. But because I hadn’t even thought about the place in a long while, I didn’t even notice they had moved in.
Everything had changed. They tore down the deck. They had finished the basement, turning it into a game room. They added huge windows to the kitchen. I was so sad and so upset.
I confronted Cherra about it. She didn’t really care, being too busy with this other guy. So I threw a fit and left. I drove out to magical California where my friend Carly, wearing this flowing white dress and a glowing halo around her head, met me at the ocean.
For anyone who knows me well enough, this is a pretty easy dream to interpret. It also explains the real reasons why I left Godfather’s. I don’t think I’ve ever had a dream that was so clear as to what it meant and where it came from.
Yeah, well, anyway, I don’t know where I’m going with this blog, so I’m going to just end it. Sorry. I’m sick.
Oh, one more thing. I cut my blog subscriptions from 748 to 89. That took a long, long time. I’m sorry if I unsubscribe from your blog. Most of you prolly won’t even notice. But it was just a bit too much. And just because I unsubscribe doesn’t mean I won’t still read.
I was working on another blog and it kind of died. So I set it aside and decided to tackle another issue I’ve been meaning to address.
Lately, I’ve noticed my blogs have tended towards subject matters that I’m not entirely comfortable with certain people (i.e. parents) reading. My dad told me once that he reads my blogs, and I kinda cringed (yeah, like you do Tiffany). He quickly jumped in with, "I won’t read them if you don’t want me to," but I assured him that no, its ok, as long as we never, ever speak of them.
But I’ve written a few that I’m not sure I’m ok with anymore. So, instead of somehow blocking my parents, or calling them every time I write a blog they can read, I’ve devised a rating system, both general and specific to content, that will help everyone get a better idea what each blog is about before they read it.
Oh, and its based on characters created by Jim Henson.
GENERAL RATING
First off, I’ve rated each blog with one of four ratings. They are as follows.
Big Bird -- Any blog rated Big Bird is suitable for anyone to read. Think of it as rated PG. I prolly won’t have a lot of these. Except this one.
Kermit -- Any blog rated Kermit is suitable for pretty much anyone on myspace as well. There might be some cussing. There might be some adult themes. But not a lot. Think of it as PG-13.
Gonzo -- This is where things start to get weird. The cringe factor goes up. Mom and Dad, you prolly shouldn’t read these. There will be language. There will be...other stuff. Consider any Gonzo blog as rated R.
Animal -- No one should read these blogs. Seriously. No one.
Specific Content Markers
These are added icons to give you an idea about content, so you can decide if its even worth your time. Aren’t I helpful?
Snuffleupagus -- A Snuffleupagus icon means the blog is fiction, either poetry or prose. See, originally everyone thought Snuffleupagus was just an imaginary friend of Big Bird’s, hence the fiction. He’s real though. Really real. So I’m gonna quit with the "Bad Poetry VIII" and all that, mmmkay?
Miss Piggy -- Miss Piggy means the blog is about girls. I put this here really for one specific person, just in case its still necessary. I don’t think it is though.
Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem -- Yeah that’s right. I know the actual name of the Muppet band. For the record, that’s (clockwise from the top) Dr. Teeth, Janice, Floyd Pepper, Zoot and of course, Animal. This icon means the blog is about music, TV or any other sort of entertainment.
The Count -- I never liked the Count. I always thought he was boring. So his icon means the blog is about boring stuff, like math or science or politics. Also, if I ever write a blog about the undead, I may use him too.
Fraggle Rock -- The Fraggles are all about having a good time. So their icon represents...havin’ a good time! I’m not really sure what that means, maybe I’ll write a blog about a party or something. I just really wanted them on here.
Oscar the Grouch -- Oscar means I’m angry, ranting and complaining. Or maybe talking about things that are dirty. Like, dirt dirty. Not...you know. You might see him a lot.
The Martians -- Also known as the Yip-Yips, these two aliens were my all time favorite characters on Sesame Street. They came from space and really, really did not like phones or clocks. There icon represents blogs about weird stuff that prolly know one will get except for me.
Cookie Monster -- C is for cookie, and that’s good enough for me. I so get you, Cookie Monster. Cookie represents desire and obsession, unrequited love and unfulfilled dreams. Yeah, you’ll see him a lot.
Bert and Ernie -- Such good friends they were. Their icon represents sexual content and adult themes within the blog. Yeah, don’t ask. Just cringe and move on.
Elmo -- An Elmo icon present means bad language. Why? Because I really hate Elmo and he makes me want to cuss at him. Moving on.
Beeker -- I love Beeker. His icon is a catch-all. It either means I have no idea what the blog is about, or its about something that has no category at all. Or maybe I was drunk.
Grover -- Grover always played second fiddle to Kermit. When Kermit was around, he tended to be ignored. This icon is present when I feel a particular blog can safely be ignored. I either wrote it for my own amusement or blogged it just to blog.
This is for Shawna so she doesn’t have to look it up. And for my dad, who loves to quote the first two lines to me.
Kubla Khan
OR, A VISION IN A DREAM. A FRAGMENT.
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree : Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round : And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover ! A savage place ! as holy and enchanted As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover ! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced : Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail : And ’mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean : And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war !
The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves ; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice ! A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw : It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she played, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight ’twould win me,
That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome ! those caves of ice ! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware ! Beware ! His flashing eyes, his floating hair ! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise.
I need love and some aspirin for my head. Though neither will endure, the illusion seems to keep long enough for me to fall asleep.
I need stranger medicine, like death or oxycodone, redemption in a little white pill.
I’m not one to wear my heart on my sleeve (though if you ask I’ll gladly take it out and show you). Today however, it seems to have muddied up my cuffs.
Non-sequitur writing blurb VIII: The Doorman
Category: Writing and Poetry
This is an excerpt from something I'm working on. It seems presumptuous to call it a novel. Anyway, it's pseudo-autobiographical. Whatever that means. Basically, I'm in it, but everybody else is pretty much made up. The events may or may not have actually taken place.
Speeding through the dark and desolate emptiness of the far southern suburbs of Kansas City, I saw a faint spark of neon purple just above the tree line like some approaching alien sunrise, and for the first time it hit me: we were actually going to do this.
Really? It seemed so…not me.
"That's gotta be it," I said from the back seat of Suzie's black Mercury Cougar. It smelled like peaches and beer. And pizza. But it only smelled like pizza because Ben smelled like pizza, having just gotten off work, and he was sitting next to me looking out the tiny backseat window. I was jittery, nervous. I think my voice cracked, but no one noticed because the radio was up entirely too loud and we were all, admittedly, a little drunk. Prince, his voice the same color as that far-flung neon, coiled out of the speakers like soft serve ice cream. The little man in purple was a particular favorite of Suzie's. I could take him or leave him, but I wasn't paying attention at the moment. I was trying to get a handle on what was happening.
"Where?" Suzie asked from the driver's seat.
"I think he means those lights over there." That was Josh, sitting in the passenger's seat. He pointed in the general direction. The four of us leaned into the momentum of the car as Suzie veered the car right and onto an empty road. This empty road, this highway of dirt and rock, was as well traveled as it was poorly maintained. Unpaved and pock-marked, the car rattled badly, kicking up clouds of cold dust as we ground our way through to the parking lot which was our destination, where the distant neon purple had swelled to a persistent throbbing glow.
Suzie veered again, and we were in the parking lot. It was sparsely populated, which seemed an ominous sign somehow, but I had never been to one of these places and so had no idea how this crowd compared to the average Saturday night crowd. We stopped and parked; Prince, and the Cougar's steady engine purr, faded into the night.
Ben and I exchanged a glance as he got out of the car. I searched his eyes for a sign of shared apprehension – I knew he felt as weird about this as I did – but there would be no fraternal sympathy from him, not tonight. A plague of butterflies ate at my stomach.
Suzie was out of the car, holding her seat forward and waiting for me to get out of the two door Cougar. Her impatient foot tapped out of rhythm with the car's door-ajar BING! I got out. The night was cold. I lit a cigarette.
This was all so surreal.
The actual building was pretty much exactly what I thought it would be – square and windowless, unremarkable in design but covered in those gawky neon signs. Running along the exterior, perhaps where there might be windows on a normal building that housed, say, an insurance company, instead of beer and naked women, was a series of silhouetted female figures made of metal, like those you might see on the mud flaps of semi trucks, or in the opening credits of James Bond movies.
I finished the cigarette quickly. It was cold; Josh and Ben were already at the club's front door. Suzie came up from behind me and grabbed my arm.
"Happy Birthday, Atkins," she said.
"You too, Suzie," I said. Her birthday had been two days previous. Coming here had been her idea.
"Are you excited?" She playfully punched my shoulder and then stumbled a bit, put her arms out like a surfer or a gymnast would, and steadied herself. "I'm cool," she said.
"That's good," I said. And then, "Are you sure about this?" I motioned towards the building.
She stopped. We were fifteen feet from the door. Josh and Ben were involved in their own conversation and didn't notice us.
"Do you not want to do this?" She had her hand on my arm again, squeezing it hard, knuckles white, her small hand like a vice poking out of her black leather jacket. Beneath the jacket she wore a dress, which was odd – Suzie was not a dress-wearing kind of girl – but tonight seemed special, seemed like a dress-wearing night. The dress, a terrifically flattering red evening dress with a black lace overlay, seemed to highlight the special, seemed to highlight the night, and seemed to highlight parts of her that tended to receive little attention underneath her usual concert tees and giant hoodies.
"Honestly, I don't know," I said. My breath was visible, and hid her face from me for a moment. I didn't know how to tell her how weird this was for me.
She straightened herself around, face to face, and put both her hands on my shoulders. Her eyes, like storm clouds, threatened. "You're not going all Christian on us again, are you? 'Cause no one wants to see that," she said. I laughed. "The old Chris would have been all weird. The new Chris wants to see some T & A." She hit me again. It was starting to hurt a little.
"Dude! What the fuck?" Josh was yelling from the door, still smoking underneath the awning, impatient. His voice was nasally and flat, and What the fuck! came out sounding like What the fack! His eyes were two slanted slits on his forehead and he wore a cartoonish frown. He flicked his cigarette in our direction. "Lets go, it's fuckin' cold."
"Your mom's fuckin' cold," Suzie yelled across the parking lot.
"That doesn't even make any sense." That was Ben.
To me, Suzie said, "Can we do this?"
"Yeah," I said. "I guess we can."
"Finally," Josh said when we stepped under the awning, and laughed a giant horse laugh. "God, you know?" He flashed Ben a look that said Right? Ben frowned.
"Ok," he said, and opened the door.
Directly on the other side of the front door was a very small black room. The four of us crowded in, shoulders and hands touching inadvertently. To the left was a closed sliding wooden window. To the right was a glass door that had been painted over with a thick layer of black paint. They weren't giving anything away for free.
The front door closed behind us and I heard the faint ring of what sounded like a doorbell. Immediately, the window to our right slid open, and we were face to face with a tall black man in sunglasses. He had a very round, very kind face, with a protruding nose, a salesman's smile, and hair that fell from his head in great curls of midnight black and starry silver before disappearing beneath the window's wooden frame. Here was the concierge, it seemed; Saint Peter at the gates of this fleshly paradise, the doorman at the entrance to Oz, ready to show us a horse of a very, very different color. He was luminous. He was supernatural. He was magic.
"What's up y'all," the magic man said, his voice like a waterslide, his voice like a four-lane highway, his voice like a fucking monsoon. "Welcome to Outlander Gentleman's Club. The ladies are lookin' hot too-nite!" He smiled wide, showing giant three story teeth as white as his skin was black. He raised a hand in greeting, a hand as big as a basketball, fingers like tree branches. "Are you gentleman members?" All four of us shook our heads in unison. "Alright then. Its fifteen bones for a membership, and that'll get you in for a year." He turned to look at Suzie. "You, young lady, are always free, but you need to be escorted by a gentleman member, mmkay?" Again, in unison, all of us nodded. "Excellent. I'll need $45 then, and IDs from all of you."
We gave him what he wanted, and he looked at each ID carefully, then typed our names into the computer.
"What kind of database is my name gonna end up on," Ben wondered out loud. The magic man laughed deeply. Walls shook.
"Don't you worry 'bout it, Ben," he said. "Nothin you don't want to be in, I tell you." Ben's facial expression seemed to doubt that.
He got to my ID and stopped. "Christopher Atkins." He read my name out in long, drawn out syllables.
"Yeah," I said.
"How you doin', brother?"
I looked around at the other three in this tiny black room, not knowing what to say. "I'm uh good, I guess."
"That really you." Not a question so much as a statement of a surprise but undeniable truth.
"Uh. Yeah." I said.
He glanced around the room outside his window, our room, for a moment, turning his head to look at the three walls he could see, plus the ceiling. "Yeah, I guess you is you."
"Do I know you?" I asked.
"Not yet you don't. For sure." He laughed again. CDs in the next room skipped. "Not even in the back o' yo' mind."
"I don't get it." I didn't.
"Nah man, don't worry 'bout it," he said. "I loved you in the Blue Lagoon."
Understanding dawned. "Oh. Right. Cool." That was weird. I rarely get that reference anymore. I laughed nervously.
The man flipped a switch and somewhere a buzzer buzzed. There were two thick audible clicks, and the painted-over door behind us opened.
"Y'all have an ev'nin' to remember, mmkay," the magic man said. "I'll be seein' you around." With that, he shut the wooden shutter and we were once again alone in that tiny black room.
"That was weird," Ben said.
"Yeah, what the fuck?" Josh said.
"Lets go get a beer," Suzie said. She muscled through Josh and Ben, pushed open the door and lead us onward, into that fleshy paradise, into that house of sin.
Today in my first gym class ("Team Games") they combined two classes and played a massive game of dodge ball. The student I was with got hit twice very hard. Once in the face, which made him cry, and then again in the crotch, which made him fall down, turn green and laugh hysterically. Then everybody else started laughing when he said, "Mr. Atkins (that's me), I got hit with the ball," but it sounded like, "Mr. Atkins, I got hit in the balls."
In my next gym class ("Weights"), there was a sub, so we didn't really do much. The student I'm with in this class is in a wheelchair, so he can really do is the dumbbells. He loves it though. He'll spend twenty minutes lifting the 10 pounder over his head, and then he'll switch to the 15. Then back to ten. He tells me how strong he's going to be. He'll even take a break in the middle, lean his chair back as far as it will go, and do a hundred crunches. The kid is awesome. My only job is to hand him a new dumbbell every twenty minutes. So in the meantime, we talk football and video games. He tells me about his homework and what teachers I should ask out. I give him a lot of time to talk to his friends, and while he does that, I sneak off to the locker rooms and find a place to blog a little.
I love my job.
One time (and stop me if you've heard this before – I have two people, Phil and my sister, who tell me often that I have no new stories to tell, and that's an awful thing to say to a writer), a student came up to me, a freshman girl with down syndrome, and started rubbing her hands on my beard. She's a fun kid. She likes to dance around in the classroom listening to Hannah Montana on her CD player.
Anyway, rubbing my cheeks she says, "You have a beard and mustache Mr. Ak'ins."
"I know I do," I say, pulling her hands off my face.
"You're pathetic," she says, and runs away.
Ouch.
I really do love my job.
On Tuesdays (that's today), I have gym classes all day long. First is Team Games, as I said, and then comes back to back weights classes. After lunch I go swimming with the SMD (Severely Mentally Disabled) kids. I don't really like gym. I don't really like Tuesdays.
But I don't have to work at the pizza place tonight (btw, I've got news on that front coming soon...feel the excitement!). And there might be a new House on tonight (I haven't looked though). I know there are new Daily Show and Colbert Report on tonight. Plus there's the debate, which is always fun. Call it, Hilary's Last Stand.
I got some leftover chicken and waffle fries. I'll watch TV, blog a little dick around on the computer, eat, do some laundry. I can't complain. It'll be a good night.
Why is beard hair different from mustache hair? Lip hair is short and straight and hard to bend. It's like leaves on a coniferous tree. They're tough. If you bend them the wrong way, they bite back. Why is my beard hair so much softer?
AAAGH!
Now, I can complain.
First, I just checked and there is no new House on tonight. Damn American Idol. But that's ok, I still have the debate. Except I don't, because my roommate Phil just texted me to tell me our TV is broken. It's gone all blue, he says.
He sent me a picture.
Crud.
I think if my beard had a name, it'd be Bosco. If it were a drinker, it would drink whisky. Straight. Some obscure brand from Scotland. Sometimes beer. Every once in a while a whiskey cocktail, if he was feeling wispy. But mostly just straight whisky.
My beard is twice the man I am.
I'm eating lunch and listening to iPod and writing and enjoying life and this student comes up to me and asks, "Shoot me with a laser." So I make a gun with my hand and shoot him with a laser and he pretends to get shot. He laughs. Then this other student in a bright yellow sweatshirt, with giant headphones over his ears, waves and says, "Sup Mr. A," because that is what cool kids in movies do. Then another one says, "You're fired chicken," and tries to hit me on the he
