Even though yesterday was St. Patrick’s day we didn’t do much celebrating. Of Sammy, Boyce, and I, none of us are really sure of our heritage. When I used to ask my mother she would say, “You belong to your father,” so I don’t know what that meant in terms of ancestry. I don’t remember asking my father about it, though I do recall him saying a lot about us being from the ground and that’s where we’re all headed. So in the seventh grade, a couple years after my father had died, my teacher asked me what my background was. I repeated my father’s words: “I’m from the ground, and that’s where we’re all headed.” She thought I was trying to be silly and got mad at me, but the kid who didn’t have to sit through sex ed spoke up for me and said we're big balls of dust or something, and the teacher said, “Oh, Elijah,” and just moved on with her lesson about igloos or whales or whatever we were doing.
Since Boyce and Sammy come from farming families, they don’t know their ancestry either. In my experience the only white people who care about their ancestry are people who grew up without backyards. Also, it seems like people with Irish heritage get excited because they are the closest western Europeans come to being slaves, and it’s always great, if you’ve made something of yourself, to have an ancestor who got beat up on. People act excited when they learn they are related to a king, but in their brains they are really hoping they came from some sickly, impoverished, bullied group of people so they can think, “Wow, ancestor, I am so much better than you. And now I’m going to drink green beer till I erin go bragh the face of a guy who’s related to your dead master.” Rachel told me that one day I was going to get beat up for that opinion, and I should be careful. I told her I’ve been beaten up for much, much less.
Instead of going out to celebrate the holiday we were over at Boyce and Charlotte’s for dinner. Boyce tells us that Lancaster is an Irish name, but for all he knows he had a relative who was a fugitive Hungarian who pushed some crippled Irishman off the boat and just took his name. So Charlotte made a Digiorno pizza, which I’m just going to assume comes from Hungary. Go Magyars!
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
Auditions
This afternoon Sammy let me know that the local university put up its “Theater auditions this way” sign. He called and found out that they’re going on all week, so he wants to go on Thursday night. I told him sure. He texted Boyce, and although Boyce generally never participates in these things, he knew he had to go because of tradition.
Sammy and Boyce first met Rachel when she invited me to a lecture that was going on at the university. When she asked me to go to a lecture, I said, “Why would you do that? Are you a college student?” She said no. “Is it about birds?” Again, no. “Dreams?” “No. And it’s not about gambling either. I just want to go. Do you want to?” Of course I said yes, though when I found out the topic was going to be bioethics and robotics I invited Sammy and Boyce along, too. I knew that if it was just me and Rachel, then I would say something about how robots freak me out, and how if we get to the point of having robots in our culture, I could see myself being one of those vigilantes who goes around destroying them and spraypainting on their chests, “NOT HUMAN.”
So Boyce and Sammy came along, and actually so did a couple of Rachel’s friends. The whole talk was too boring for me to even pay attention to, so nothing embarrassing happened. On the way off the campus though one of Rachel’s friends pointed at the “Theater auditions this way” sign. They talked for a second and decided it would be funny to go audition for a show. I couldn’t understand why this would be funny, but Sammy as you can imagine was pretty gung-ho about it. So we went into the empty theater where the director, an academic douche-master, was sitting in the third row with a couple sycophants to each side of him writing down the notes he mumbled into his fist. He wore a turtleneck, which for me ranks right up there with robots who look like humans.
Rachel and her friends went straight up to one of the toadies, did a bunch of whispering and pointing back to Sammy, Boyce, and I, then came back smiling. They said it’s the end of the night, but the director was willing to hear our auditions. The sycophant Rachel spoke with called out Sammy’s name. He turned to Rachel and asked real loud, “Why am I going first?” Turns out they were getting a lot of women auditioning so the director wanted to see some males. Sammy got up on the stage and said, “I’m a bit nervous here, so sorry.” The director waved his hand and said not to worry like he was some kind of merciful god. Sammy held his hands out and then from out of nowhere performed the entire scene from Family Ties where Tom Hanks plays Uncle Ned the drunk and gets angry at Alex P. Keaton. I don’t know why the director didn’t say anything, but the rest of us were entirely in shock. When Sammy got off the stage Rachel gave him a huge hug and told him that was unbelievable. I said, “I’m the one with the alcoholic uncle,” and then called to the director that I would go next.
Of course, once on the stage I realized I didn’t know a single word of the Family Ties scene, nor could I match Sammy’s dead-on impression of a young, scared Tom Hanks. So I did the next best thing, which was to list all the birds I knew. The director stopped me and leaned forward on the chair in front of him. He asked me if I knew this was supposed to be a dramatic audition. I didn't even want to be there in the first place, so I asked him if he knew that the hanging nest of the Golden Crowned Kinglet was a whole lot more impressive than Shakespeare. He got confused and looked at his toadies like he was suddenly floating. Then he told all of us to get out of his theater. He didn’t point--he wiggled his entire hand. “Get out. You’re wasting my time. All of you.”
Rachel didn’t give me a hug when I came off the stage, but she did pat my back and tell me I did awesome. We all walked outside and it was raining. Rachel and her friends offered to take us all out to eat, I think since Sammy was so impressive and I got yelled at.
The next year Rachel said she and her friends were going to go audition again. We all went again, but this time only the ladies auditioned. Sammy and I had enough of that, and Boyce just didn’t want to. One of Rachel’s friends recited some speech by Shakespeare, but then in the last couple lines started talking about Oscar Meyer hot dogs. She got cut off and asked to leave. When Rachel went up there she just listed a whole bunch of birds. The director looked at her with a vaguely familiar look, but then he waved her off the stage and asked his toadies why people wanted to waste his time.
Obviously Rachel can’t do that kind of thing anymore, and we don’t see her friends these days. But the last two years Sammy and I have continued to go sign up for auditions, and Boyce has continued to wait on the side of the stage. Every time we go the director has no memory of who we are, and every year we are asked to leave. Then we go have some drinks and toast Rachel. I say, "Remember when she just listed birds? Because that's what I had done the year before!" And we all clink glasses.
Boyce said he might even audition this year if he’s prepared, which means if he’s got his Uncle-Ned on.
Sammy and Boyce first met Rachel when she invited me to a lecture that was going on at the university. When she asked me to go to a lecture, I said, “Why would you do that? Are you a college student?” She said no. “Is it about birds?” Again, no. “Dreams?” “No. And it’s not about gambling either. I just want to go. Do you want to?” Of course I said yes, though when I found out the topic was going to be bioethics and robotics I invited Sammy and Boyce along, too. I knew that if it was just me and Rachel, then I would say something about how robots freak me out, and how if we get to the point of having robots in our culture, I could see myself being one of those vigilantes who goes around destroying them and spraypainting on their chests, “NOT HUMAN.”
So Boyce and Sammy came along, and actually so did a couple of Rachel’s friends. The whole talk was too boring for me to even pay attention to, so nothing embarrassing happened. On the way off the campus though one of Rachel’s friends pointed at the “Theater auditions this way” sign. They talked for a second and decided it would be funny to go audition for a show. I couldn’t understand why this would be funny, but Sammy as you can imagine was pretty gung-ho about it. So we went into the empty theater where the director, an academic douche-master, was sitting in the third row with a couple sycophants to each side of him writing down the notes he mumbled into his fist. He wore a turtleneck, which for me ranks right up there with robots who look like humans.
Rachel and her friends went straight up to one of the toadies, did a bunch of whispering and pointing back to Sammy, Boyce, and I, then came back smiling. They said it’s the end of the night, but the director was willing to hear our auditions. The sycophant Rachel spoke with called out Sammy’s name. He turned to Rachel and asked real loud, “Why am I going first?” Turns out they were getting a lot of women auditioning so the director wanted to see some males. Sammy got up on the stage and said, “I’m a bit nervous here, so sorry.” The director waved his hand and said not to worry like he was some kind of merciful god. Sammy held his hands out and then from out of nowhere performed the entire scene from Family Ties where Tom Hanks plays Uncle Ned the drunk and gets angry at Alex P. Keaton. I don’t know why the director didn’t say anything, but the rest of us were entirely in shock. When Sammy got off the stage Rachel gave him a huge hug and told him that was unbelievable. I said, “I’m the one with the alcoholic uncle,” and then called to the director that I would go next.
Of course, once on the stage I realized I didn’t know a single word of the Family Ties scene, nor could I match Sammy’s dead-on impression of a young, scared Tom Hanks. So I did the next best thing, which was to list all the birds I knew. The director stopped me and leaned forward on the chair in front of him. He asked me if I knew this was supposed to be a dramatic audition. I didn't even want to be there in the first place, so I asked him if he knew that the hanging nest of the Golden Crowned Kinglet was a whole lot more impressive than Shakespeare. He got confused and looked at his toadies like he was suddenly floating. Then he told all of us to get out of his theater. He didn’t point--he wiggled his entire hand. “Get out. You’re wasting my time. All of you.”
Rachel didn’t give me a hug when I came off the stage, but she did pat my back and tell me I did awesome. We all walked outside and it was raining. Rachel and her friends offered to take us all out to eat, I think since Sammy was so impressive and I got yelled at.
The next year Rachel said she and her friends were going to go audition again. We all went again, but this time only the ladies auditioned. Sammy and I had enough of that, and Boyce just didn’t want to. One of Rachel’s friends recited some speech by Shakespeare, but then in the last couple lines started talking about Oscar Meyer hot dogs. She got cut off and asked to leave. When Rachel went up there she just listed a whole bunch of birds. The director looked at her with a vaguely familiar look, but then he waved her off the stage and asked his toadies why people wanted to waste his time.
Obviously Rachel can’t do that kind of thing anymore, and we don’t see her friends these days. But the last two years Sammy and I have continued to go sign up for auditions, and Boyce has continued to wait on the side of the stage. Every time we go the director has no memory of who we are, and every year we are asked to leave. Then we go have some drinks and toast Rachel. I say, "Remember when she just listed birds? Because that's what I had done the year before!" And we all clink glasses.
Boyce said he might even audition this year if he’s prepared, which means if he’s got his Uncle-Ned on.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Things I Am Not Good At: Math and Cleverness
Sammy said he’s tried to get some of the customers at Arby’s excited about the Year of Charles Brockden Brown. Most people think he’s speaking to someone else or is just another frothing, psychopathic Arby's worker. Either way everyone ignores him. Except one gentleman who said, “I’ve read Wieland, you know.” Apparently Sammy told the man that it’s the 199th anniversary of CBdB’s death. The man asked Sammy why he didn’t just wait one year to celebrate on the nice round number, and Sammy informed him that CBdB died 200 years ago, so it’s only the 199th anniversary. It took more time for an Arby’s worker to fill the customer’s sleeve of curly fries than it did for the man to convince Sammy that if he died 200 years ago it was indeed the 200th anniversary.
Sammy came to the Sleep Center irritated with me: “The one guy who would even want to celebrate the Year of CBdB, and he thinks I’m an idiot because I followed your math.” Sammy was less annoyed with me when I backed over his grandmother’s cat with his mother’s car while his sister watched. I tried to explain to Sammy that it's only the 199th anniversary, but every time I tried it all got jumbled in my head. Sammy stopped me by putting his hand on my shoulder, like the school bus driver did when I was a kid: “I’m not going to make someone sit next to you."
Sammy must have felt bad about being irritated with me because when I went off shift he was waiting with a bag of Arby’s for me and the explanation, "It's been a long day, man." We caught the bus home together and played ping pong in my basement. When Sammy left he made a snowball from one of the last patches of snow and chucked it hard at the dead Camaro in front of my house. Sammy said it's a wonderful sound when a thick snowball hits a door panel. I told him to listen to the mourning doves singing above us. They're a wonderful sound, too.
Not long after Rachel and I first met and she heard a mourning dove, she thought it was an owl. I told her it was the dove, and it’s called a mourning dove not because of the time of day but because it sounds like someone it loved had died. She said, “Me and you, Cyrus, we’re mourning doves.” I wasn’t really paying attention so I said, “They can ruin people's gutters.” But then I realized what she meant because of my parents and her sister, but it was too late. She patted me on the shoulder kind of like Sammy, the school bus driver, and the garbage man who when I was a kid let me ride on the back of the truck: “It looks like you need a win, kid.”
The rest of that night I tried to say something clever like she did, but it always came out weird. When we rode the bus she had said something about time passing quickly. I tried to be poetic and said, “I’d rather be dead than not have any legs.” I must have been staring at the handicap entrance to the bus or something. Rachel didn’t get mad or laugh at me, though. She just said she highly doubted I believed that, and in a few minutes had me convinced that I’d want
to be alive no matter how many appendages I had, just so I could say I shared the same planet as one of my favorite birds, like the Great Crested Flycatcher. “And it doesn’t even have arms,” Rachel said. And I laughed because it was funny, and because it was Rachel there next to me.
Sammy came to the Sleep Center irritated with me: “The one guy who would even want to celebrate the Year of CBdB, and he thinks I’m an idiot because I followed your math.” Sammy was less annoyed with me when I backed over his grandmother’s cat with his mother’s car while his sister watched. I tried to explain to Sammy that it's only the 199th anniversary, but every time I tried it all got jumbled in my head. Sammy stopped me by putting his hand on my shoulder, like the school bus driver did when I was a kid: “I’m not going to make someone sit next to you."
Sammy must have felt bad about being irritated with me because when I went off shift he was waiting with a bag of Arby’s for me and the explanation, "It's been a long day, man." We caught the bus home together and played ping pong in my basement. When Sammy left he made a snowball from one of the last patches of snow and chucked it hard at the dead Camaro in front of my house. Sammy said it's a wonderful sound when a thick snowball hits a door panel. I told him to listen to the mourning doves singing above us. They're a wonderful sound, too.
Not long after Rachel and I first met and she heard a mourning dove, she thought it was an owl. I told her it was the dove, and it’s called a mourning dove not because of the time of day but because it sounds like someone it loved had died. She said, “Me and you, Cyrus, we’re mourning doves.” I wasn’t really paying attention so I said, “They can ruin people's gutters.” But then I realized what she meant because of my parents and her sister, but it was too late. She patted me on the shoulder kind of like Sammy, the school bus driver, and the garbage man who when I was a kid let me ride on the back of the truck: “It looks like you need a win, kid.”
The rest of that night I tried to say something clever like she did, but it always came out weird. When we rode the bus she had said something about time passing quickly. I tried to be poetic and said, “I’d rather be dead than not have any legs.” I must have been staring at the handicap entrance to the bus or something. Rachel didn’t get mad or laugh at me, though. She just said she highly doubted I believed that, and in a few minutes had me convinced that I’d want
Monday, March 8, 2010
The Year of CBdB
This weekend Sammy declared 2010 to be The Year of Charles Brockden Brown. He said it’s the 200 year anniversary of his ancestor-writer’s death. Since his writer-ancestor died in 1810, it’s really the 199th anniversary of his death, since the first anniversary didn’t occur until a year later. Sammy was willing to concede the point, but nevertheless claims that 2010 is the Year of CBdB. Personally, I think Sammy was just wandering through Wikipedia one day and figured out that his ancestor died two hundred years ago. On February 22nd Sammy never mentioned a thing about any of this even though that’s the day CBdB died.
Just to make fun of Sammy, Boyce has declared 2010 to be the Year of Tom T. Hall. Boyce has recently uncovered an album called "In Search of a Song" by Mr. Hall, a country music singer in the 1970’s. Boyce asked Sammy to interpret the album cover for him, but Sammy refused on grounds that Boyce won’t ever read Charles Brockden Brown. Instead, I tried to give Boyce a reading of the album cover, but I can only interpret dreams so mine was pretty shaky.
I told him that the only thing I noticed is that Tom T. Hall seemed pretty pleased with how that black guy was fishing under the overpass. He doesn’t seem to be in fishing gear himself and his car is parked just above, so he’s probably just coming to check on how the black guy is doing. The album is called, “In Search of a Song,” so maybe Tom T. Hall is hoping the black fisherman pulls out a singing fish. It’s hard to tell how Tom T. Hall would feel if the black fisherman claimed the singing fish for his own.
The fact that under his coat he’s wearing an all-red suit probably makes him prone to violence. Or maybe the devil, and he’s asking the black fisherman to make a deal for his soul in exchange for a singing fish.
I didn’t give that interpretation for Boyce’s sake since he just kept looking at the album cover and saying how beautiful it was. I did it more for Sammy who was just steaming about it all. He finally took the album and said, “My God, that’s a work of beauty.” A few years ago Charlotte bought Boyce an old record player for all his albums so she put it on and we sat back and listened. It all made Boyce pretty happy so he told Sammy that he’d never read his ancestor, but in honor of the Year of CBdB he’d sign all petitions, credit card offers, and wedding guest lists as Charles Brockden Brown. Sammy said that’s all he could ever ask for, and we went back to admiring the album cover.
Just to make fun of Sammy, Boyce has declared 2010 to be the Year of Tom T. Hall. Boyce has recently uncovered an album called "In Search of a Song" by Mr. Hall, a country music singer in the 1970’s. Boyce asked Sammy to interpret the album cover for him, but Sammy refused on grounds that Boyce won’t ever read Charles Brockden Brown. Instead, I tried to give Boyce a reading of the album cover, but I can only interpret dreams so mine was pretty shaky.
I told him that the only thing I noticed is that Tom T. Hall seemed pretty pleased with how that black guy was fishing under the overpass. He doesn’t seem to be in fishing gear himself and his car is parked just above, so he’s probably just coming to check on how the black guy is doing. The album is called, “In Search of a Song,” so maybe Tom T. Hall is hoping the black fisherman pulls out a singing fish. It’s hard to tell how Tom T. Hall would feel if the black fisherman claimed the singing fish for his own.
I didn’t give that interpretation for Boyce’s sake since he just kept looking at the album cover and saying how beautiful it was. I did it more for Sammy who was just steaming about it all. He finally took the album and said, “My God, that’s a work of beauty.” A few years ago Charlotte bought Boyce an old record player for all his albums so she put it on and we sat back and listened. It all made Boyce pretty happy so he told Sammy that he’d never read his ancestor, but in honor of the Year of CBdB he’d sign all petitions, credit card offers, and wedding guest lists as Charles Brockden Brown. Sammy said that’s all he could ever ask for, and we went back to admiring the album cover.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Murder!
When I got to work last night Marcel was there, even though he wasn’t scheduled to work. I knew what that meant: Virgil Ray would be coming in for his sleep analysis. The entire week I tried to put it out of my mind, but the fact is he’s a murderer who I called out for being a murderer. Marcel doesn’t believe me and thinks I’m being irrational. As you can see, the whole thing was setting up to be a movie where you are all rooting for me. Do you hear that? You were all rooting for me. Though of course in the movie I would probably die because the real hero was Marcel.
I pretty much stayed in the utility closet working on sketches when it came time for Virgil to show up. I had worked it out in my head that I never knew Hazel Ray, Virgil’s wife, so it wasn’t my business that Virgil killed her. Besides, she was killed 20 years ago, so if it were by business I would have long since been fired for incompetence, and it would therefore no longer be my business. Either way, I was staying in that utility closet.
The utility closet is as large as a room. It has all our cleaning supplies, the time clock, and a desk where Rex does the scheduling. The left half of the desktop was once a tablet for Rex to scratch new possible nicknames for me. It reads:
This morning, just before I went off shift I heard one of the rooms open. There was Virgil Ray, just as large, bearded, and hairy as last week. He smiled at me but I didn’t smile back. Marcel came down the hall and he and Virgil walked into one of the conference rooms to talk about the readings. They were in there for a few minutes. When the door opened Marcel invited me inside. I told him I needed to go check on the owl nesting box out back. Marcel just waved me inside, though.
The only chair was next to Virgil. Marcel sat across from us. I don’t know much about marriage, but I bet if marriage counselors were as good looking and charming as Marcel LeFarge no one would ever get reconciled. They would keep going to marriage counseling, though. After a couple moments of silence, Marcel raised his hand and Virgil turned to me.
Marcel asked me, “Cyrus, do you know how Virgil’s wife passed away?” I said, “I’m not sure, but he looks like a strangler.” Marcel asked Virgil if he wanted to tell me. I said I didn’t need anyone to tell me the dirty little details. I stood up and said, “You asked me to find out what was wrong. I did. This man murdered his wife. I know because he told me so.” I imagined Rachel watching me, and when I do that I try to act really noble and smart. So I knew not to say anything more and walked out.
I went straight to the utility closet and shut the door. It opened though, and Virgil Ray stood in the doorway. He pulled on his big gray beard a bit, then looked me directly in the eye and said, “I murdered my wife. I know that.” Then he shut the door and walked out of the Sleep Center. For the last twenty minutes of my shift I sat at Rex’s desk and thought about how my dad would have been proud of me. He always said, “Truth is a black-toothed bitch, but you better marry her anyway.”
When I puched out on the time clock Marcel offered to give me a ride home. He wasn’t on-shift, so he could leave whenever he wanted. That means he was waiting for me. We made the drive home in silence until Marcel pulled into my driveway and asked me if that was my Camaro. I told him no, but he could have it if he wanted.
When I got out of the car Marcel rolled down his window and called me back. He said, “Virgil and his wife had a really bad fight one night and she left him. Got in her car and drove away. She was broadsided by a tractor trailer. Severed her spine. She spent her last week in the hospital, conscious but blind. Just waiting for each of her organs to shut down. Virgil blamed himself. Still does. So much he can’t even get himself to walk into that cemetery.”
I realized there were a few ways I could respond. If I were thinking about Rachel I would have said something noble, but I was thinking about how Marcel got me into this mess even though all I ever did was tell the truth. So I said, “In your face,” and went inside.
I pretty much stayed in the utility closet working on sketches when it came time for Virgil to show up. I had worked it out in my head that I never knew Hazel Ray, Virgil’s wife, so it wasn’t my business that Virgil killed her. Besides, she was killed 20 years ago, so if it were by business I would have long since been fired for incompetence, and it would therefore no longer be my business. Either way, I was staying in that utility closet.
The utility closet is as large as a room. It has all our cleaning supplies, the time clock, and a desk where Rex does the scheduling. The left half of the desktop was once a tablet for Rex to scratch new possible nicknames for me. It reads:
Virus ButterbeeThe utility closet also shares a wall with one of the rooms for the patients. Virgil wasn’t in this room so I couldn’t hear what Marcel was saying to him. Once I figured Virgil was asleep though I got out and did some cleaning.
Spirus Die Rus Die for Us
Typhus
Spineless Wondergeek
Wintergreen Winterbee Bitterdeed
Syphlus Buttertree
You spelled that wrong
WHO TOLD YOU YOU COULD LOOK AT MY DESK?
Rex Tugwell Sucks
I HATE BIRDS AND CYRUS WETHERBEE
Rex is an odd name too
REX MEANS KING IN LATIN WHAT DOES CYRUS MEAN?
Cyrus means gentle bird-lover
IN BED!
You are out of space.
This morning, just before I went off shift I heard one of the rooms open. There was Virgil Ray, just as large, bearded, and hairy as last week. He smiled at me but I didn’t smile back. Marcel came down the hall and he and Virgil walked into one of the conference rooms to talk about the readings. They were in there for a few minutes. When the door opened Marcel invited me inside. I told him I needed to go check on the owl nesting box out back. Marcel just waved me inside, though.
The only chair was next to Virgil. Marcel sat across from us. I don’t know much about marriage, but I bet if marriage counselors were as good looking and charming as Marcel LeFarge no one would ever get reconciled. They would keep going to marriage counseling, though. After a couple moments of silence, Marcel raised his hand and Virgil turned to me.
Marcel asked me, “Cyrus, do you know how Virgil’s wife passed away?” I said, “I’m not sure, but he looks like a strangler.” Marcel asked Virgil if he wanted to tell me. I said I didn’t need anyone to tell me the dirty little details. I stood up and said, “You asked me to find out what was wrong. I did. This man murdered his wife. I know because he told me so.” I imagined Rachel watching me, and when I do that I try to act really noble and smart. So I knew not to say anything more and walked out.
I went straight to the utility closet and shut the door. It opened though, and Virgil Ray stood in the doorway. He pulled on his big gray beard a bit, then looked me directly in the eye and said, “I murdered my wife. I know that.” Then he shut the door and walked out of the Sleep Center. For the last twenty minutes of my shift I sat at Rex’s desk and thought about how my dad would have been proud of me. He always said, “Truth is a black-toothed bitch, but you better marry her anyway.”
When I puched out on the time clock Marcel offered to give me a ride home. He wasn’t on-shift, so he could leave whenever he wanted. That means he was waiting for me. We made the drive home in silence until Marcel pulled into my driveway and asked me if that was my Camaro. I told him no, but he could have it if he wanted.
When I got out of the car Marcel rolled down his window and called me back. He said, “Virgil and his wife had a really bad fight one night and she left him. Got in her car and drove away. She was broadsided by a tractor trailer. Severed her spine. She spent her last week in the hospital, conscious but blind. Just waiting for each of her organs to shut down. Virgil blamed himself. Still does. So much he can’t even get himself to walk into that cemetery.”
I realized there were a few ways I could respond. If I were thinking about Rachel I would have said something noble, but I was thinking about how Marcel got me into this mess even though all I ever did was tell the truth. So I said, “In your face,” and went inside.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Dreams from Boyce and Rachel
Sammy and Boyce know they are free to contact me in the middle of the night in order to report a dream. Dream communication, whether to a person or a journal, must be done quickly upon waking in order for the dream to be remembered. First, I encourage everyone, upon waking, to stay still for a number of minutes with their eyes closed. You’ll be surprised how much of your dreams come back to you. I can't say you'll be pleasantly surprised, as the dream may simply be a quasi-coded message to you that your life completely sucks.
Boyce called me last night to report what I can only describe as a truly unique dream. Very few times are dreams in no way laden with anxiety or suspicion. Boyce seems to have had a 100% positive dream with very little opportunity for doubt or dread. He said Sammy and I were in the dream, too (always exciting to hear). The three of us heard about a treasure that was hidden somewhere in an old western town.
Thus far, the dream has a lot opportunity for threat or anxiety. Will we search forever and never find the treasure? Will we find it only to discover the treasure is really just the putrefied corpse of our childhood dreams? Or, as is always possible, will someone simply start chasing us for absolutely no reason. (I will one day write a book called Awesome Dreams I Had That Were Ruined by a Random Murderer Chasing Me For No Good Reason.)
Boyce told me, “So Sammy said he knew where the treasure was. We got in a car and went to the house. I mean, straight there. No detours with big snakes or earthquakes. We just drove up to the house. Sammy directed us to an upstairs room where the floor was dirt. We began to dig, and about six inches under the surface—it wasn’t even hard to get to—were all these money bags. Like from the cartoons, with the symbol on them and everything.”
The only potential fly in the ointment was when as we celebrated finding the treasure a young woman came to the door of the room. She said, “You can’t take that money. I won’t let you!” But unlike the majority of the population, Boyce addressed this potential threat: “Get out of here. You can’t do shit.” And that’s exactly what she did, in tears no less. We piled the treasure into our car and drove away, laughing and celebrating. Boyce woke up happy. When he called me a few minutes later he was still happy. When he looked at his wife in bed as we talked, he was still happy. He called me this morning to say that when he woke up Boyce Jr. for school he was still happy. When he took him to the bus stop in the freezing cold, he was still happy.
That dream can have no other interpretation than, "I am content." Clearly Boyce is unlike the masses of Americans whose zombie-nature, born from mindless consumption of gadgets and snack crackers, is the only thing stopping them from feeling the depths of a joylessness that ends only in death. Way to be, Boyce!
Of course, not all seemingly nominal dreams have such interpretations. Once, not long after Rachel and I had met, she told me about a dream where she was driving around with her brother, who sat in the back seat. They drove around town comparing gas prices. “I must not have very much on my mind,” she said. I asked her if she knew how much gas their car had in it. She said it was funny I should ask that: "The gauge was actually where the rear view mirror generally is. It was almost empty.” I got quiet for a few minutes and finally said, “If you want to speak with your brother again, you should.” She walked out of the room, but when she came back a couple seconds later she was crying and put her arms around my neck. I could really feel her shaking against my body as she sobbed, and when she whispered, "I don't know why I can't forgive him...I don't know why," I could feel her breath on my neck. All in all, a pretty awesome moment.
Boyce called me last night to report what I can only describe as a truly unique dream. Very few times are dreams in no way laden with anxiety or suspicion. Boyce seems to have had a 100% positive dream with very little opportunity for doubt or dread. He said Sammy and I were in the dream, too (always exciting to hear). The three of us heard about a treasure that was hidden somewhere in an old western town.
Thus far, the dream has a lot opportunity for threat or anxiety. Will we search forever and never find the treasure? Will we find it only to discover the treasure is really just the putrefied corpse of our childhood dreams? Or, as is always possible, will someone simply start chasing us for absolutely no reason. (I will one day write a book called Awesome Dreams I Had That Were Ruined by a Random Murderer Chasing Me For No Good Reason.)
Boyce told me, “So Sammy said he knew where the treasure was. We got in a car and went to the house. I mean, straight there. No detours with big snakes or earthquakes. We just drove up to the house. Sammy directed us to an upstairs room where the floor was dirt. We began to dig, and about six inches under the surface—it wasn’t even hard to get to—were all these money bags. Like from the cartoons, with the symbol on them and everything.”
The only potential fly in the ointment was when as we celebrated finding the treasure a young woman came to the door of the room. She said, “You can’t take that money. I won’t let you!” But unlike the majority of the population, Boyce addressed this potential threat: “Get out of here. You can’t do shit.” And that’s exactly what she did, in tears no less. We piled the treasure into our car and drove away, laughing and celebrating. Boyce woke up happy. When he called me a few minutes later he was still happy. When he looked at his wife in bed as we talked, he was still happy. He called me this morning to say that when he woke up Boyce Jr. for school he was still happy. When he took him to the bus stop in the freezing cold, he was still happy.
That dream can have no other interpretation than, "I am content." Clearly Boyce is unlike the masses of Americans whose zombie-nature, born from mindless consumption of gadgets and snack crackers, is the only thing stopping them from feeling the depths of a joylessness that ends only in death. Way to be, Boyce!
Of course, not all seemingly nominal dreams have such interpretations. Once, not long after Rachel and I had met, she told me about a dream where she was driving around with her brother, who sat in the back seat. They drove around town comparing gas prices. “I must not have very much on my mind,” she said. I asked her if she knew how much gas their car had in it. She said it was funny I should ask that: "The gauge was actually where the rear view mirror generally is. It was almost empty.” I got quiet for a few minutes and finally said, “If you want to speak with your brother again, you should.” She walked out of the room, but when she came back a couple seconds later she was crying and put her arms around my neck. I could really feel her shaking against my body as she sobbed, and when she whispered, "I don't know why I can't forgive him...I don't know why," I could feel her breath on my neck. All in all, a pretty awesome moment.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Updates!
I asked Boyce at his son’s party if he’d check online about how the Ragin’ Emus were doing in the Old Dominion Athletic Conference Women’s Basketball Tournament. He just stared at me and said, “Am I completely wasted right now because all your words sound really funny.” It seems he’d forgotten about our loyalty to the Hollins University Ragin’ Emus, though he was reminded when I told him it was an all-girls school. Sammy suggested that I recap a couple of the different things I’ve discussed on this blog. It’s a good idea, since to be completely fair I don’t remember much either. Last week Sammy told me he’d ordered an anti-United Nations periodical for Dr. Keegman’s office and I thought I was having a stroke because nothing Sammy said made sense. Update away, then!
Sammy continues to order free things for Dr. Keegman’s office. He can no longer personally deliver expired Arby’s products because the office secretary told him if he ever came back she’d call the police. Sammy had an industrial-size tub of horsey sauce and tried to explain to her that if she called the police they might ask why the good doctor was ordering so much. “Or maybe you’re the one who needs the horsey sauce?” Then she picked up the phone so Sammy left. In the parking lot he heaved the tub on top of the roof. Whenever we drive by the office he gets really excited because it’s still stuck in one of the gutters. “That’s about three pounds of expired horsey sauce!” he shouts. He asked me if it would be possible for a bird to pierce through the plastic tub to get to the sauce. I told him a bird would have no reason to do that. "Under no conditions?" Sammy asked. I told him if the bird was mentally deranged and his original nest had been lined with horsey sauce packets it's possible, though no more possible than the psychotic bird simply ramming itself into a wall. "Maybe a squirrel, then," Sammy said.
In regards to the Hollins University Ragin’ Emus: I have come to find out that the comically bad Emus were not even invited to their conference’s women’s basketball tournament. This is what a 1-19 conference record will do for you. The girls are undoubtedly pessimistic about their chances to win athletic events when the mascot meant to rouse the crowd is the eternal abyss of non-existence. We must get the word out that they have a mascot. It’s an emu, and it’s ragin’.
In other news, Rex Tugwell came to work with his fourteen year old son yesterday. He said, “Typhus, you’ve met my son.” So I shook hands with the kid, but I couldn’t remember his name so I said, “Good to see you again, Trigger.” Later Rex asked if I didn’t even know his son’s name. I said of course not: “I don’t even know your wife’s name, and she’s the one who made him.” I thought of Rachel when I said that because she always said things like that. She’d smile and touch my arm after she said them, so I reached out to touch Rex’s arm, too. He just swatted it away and said, “It’s Rex, too. We’re all named Rexford. Maybe if he was a bird, right Virus?” Maybe if he was a bird, indeed. If he was capable of flight and complex migratory patterns I might bother to remember his name. Though even if Rex's son could fly, I'd probably always hope he flies into a windmill or something. He'll always be a Tugwell.
Sammy continues to order free things for Dr. Keegman’s office. He can no longer personally deliver expired Arby’s products because the office secretary told him if he ever came back she’d call the police. Sammy had an industrial-size tub of horsey sauce and tried to explain to her that if she called the police they might ask why the good doctor was ordering so much. “Or maybe you’re the one who needs the horsey sauce?” Then she picked up the phone so Sammy left. In the parking lot he heaved the tub on top of the roof. Whenever we drive by the office he gets really excited because it’s still stuck in one of the gutters. “That’s about three pounds of expired horsey sauce!” he shouts. He asked me if it would be possible for a bird to pierce through the plastic tub to get to the sauce. I told him a bird would have no reason to do that. "Under no conditions?" Sammy asked. I told him if the bird was mentally deranged and his original nest had been lined with horsey sauce packets it's possible, though no more possible than the psychotic bird simply ramming itself into a wall. "Maybe a squirrel, then," Sammy said.
In regards to the Hollins University Ragin’ Emus: I have come to find out that the comically bad Emus were not even invited to their conference’s women’s basketball tournament. This is what a 1-19 conference record will do for you. The girls are undoubtedly pessimistic about their chances to win athletic events when the mascot meant to rouse the crowd is the eternal abyss of non-existence. We must get the word out that they have a mascot. It’s an emu, and it’s ragin’.
In other news, Rex Tugwell came to work with his fourteen year old son yesterday. He said, “Typhus, you’ve met my son.” So I shook hands with the kid, but I couldn’t remember his name so I said, “Good to see you again, Trigger.” Later Rex asked if I didn’t even know his son’s name. I said of course not: “I don’t even know your wife’s name, and she’s the one who made him.” I thought of Rachel when I said that because she always said things like that. She’d smile and touch my arm after she said them, so I reached out to touch Rex’s arm, too. He just swatted it away and said, “It’s Rex, too. We’re all named Rexford. Maybe if he was a bird, right Virus?” Maybe if he was a bird, indeed. If he was capable of flight and complex migratory patterns I might bother to remember his name. Though even if Rex's son could fly, I'd probably always hope he flies into a windmill or something. He'll always be a Tugwell.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Boyce Jr.'s Birthday
February 28th was Boyce Jr.’s birthday, so Sammy and I spent Sunday over at the Lancaster house. Boyce Jr. had some kids over there for a little party, so Sammy and I spent most of the time learning their names:
As the pattern generally goes, Boyce starts out as the master of ceremonies, but rather than having the kids play games he generally spreads out games on the floor and says, "There. Don't lose any of the Risk pieces." That's when Sammy steps in and plays something with them and Boyce locks himself in the bathroom.
Boyce Jr. is nine now, or in other words finally old enough to own his own copy of Winged Migration. I also put a little to the Boyce Jr. Guitar Fund which Sammy and I contribute to every Christmas and birthday. I’m not sure what Sammy got him because while Boyce Jr. opened it I was engrossed in how kid #4 ate a sloppy joe.
I don’t ever want to see something like that again.
1. Weird kid too into superheroesAt parties like this for his son Boyce generally steps in as the master of ceremonies. Charlotte likes to stay behind the scenes and bake the kids something, or make sloppy joes. She’s always making sloppy joes at these parties. For a couple years Rachel came to the parties, and she and Charlotte made sloppy joes together. Charlotte is good, so after the party she wouldn't ever say anything to me. She'd put her hand on top of mine and put her forehead on my shoulder.
2. Weird kid too into cats
3. Weird kid with no definable weirdness but still weird
4. Big haircut kid
5. Kid with the big mole on the back of his neck
6. Girl
As the pattern generally goes, Boyce starts out as the master of ceremonies, but rather than having the kids play games he generally spreads out games on the floor and says, "There. Don't lose any of the Risk pieces." That's when Sammy steps in and plays something with them and Boyce locks himself in the bathroom.
Boyce Jr. is nine now, or in other words finally old enough to own his own copy of Winged Migration. I also put a little to the Boyce Jr. Guitar Fund which Sammy and I contribute to every Christmas and birthday. I’m not sure what Sammy got him because while Boyce Jr. opened it I was engrossed in how kid #4 ate a sloppy joe.
I don’t ever want to see something like that again.
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