Kid A, Inc., Part 1

Secretary of Extrahuman Affairs, head of the Department of Extrahuman Affairs, was a cabinet position in the administration of President of the United States. It was created to manage all issues arising from the invention of cloning, which became a widely available commercialized technology thanks to various breakthroughs in bioengineering and genetics.

The major issue facing its era was regulating the creation and sale of custom-made children, particularly the largest corporation in the custom children industry, Kid A, Inc. The Secretary's main responsibility was to ensure that the industry operated safely for the benefit of society and the nation; to be blunt, the benefits were mainly the tax dollars generated for the federal coffers, and the sole safety consideration (the only topic that got the media's and thus the public's attention) the Secretary had to worry about was abortions, or "extrabortions" as it was commonly called. Some extrahuman rights activists objected to the term, although "extrahuman" had already been too widely and deeply ingrained in the lexicon to reverse.

It was perhaps a cruel irony that extrabortions could even be a problem for the custom children industry, yet there it was, year after year, a story or two would surface in the media, and always the same: parents change their minds, activist groups comment with some outrage, corporate spokesperson states policy of protecting client interests and never commenting on individual cases, and White House Press Secretary reads a statement from the Office of the Secretary of Extrahuman Affairs about its dedication to safety in the custom children industry for the benefit of society and the nation.

Kid A was particularly successful because they had a reputation for having the best "money" genes. Their children were engineered to be the best equipped at making money and being wealthy and successful in human society, and what parent wouldn't want such a meal ticket for later life and retirement? Of course, Kid A could basically charge whatever they wanted, because all LEE (Lifetime Earnings Estimates) for each custom child could only be given in ranges, and no guarantees at that. Kid A could rightly claim some of the most successful individuals of its time as its own, from multiquadrillionaire CEOs to some of the highest public offices, including a Secretary of Extrahuman Affairs (considered a great civil rights triumph by many extrahuman rights activists). With the lure of such promise, the highest average LEE and LEH (Lifetime Earnings Historical) in the industry, they could do all the business they could handle.

At the same time, peculiarly, Kid A was also responsible for the highest extrabortion rates in the industry. Only extrahuman rights activists really took the time to try to track and attribute extrabortion cases, and their efforts were generally considered educated guesswork at best. All companies were required to report these figures and other statistics to the Department of Extrahuman Affairs, but these were kept extremely confidential. The only public information in the industry was LEE and LEH. However, it was widely understood that although the extrahuman rights activists' absolute figures might be off, Kid A certainly had an unusually high annual extrabortion rate as a corporation given the quality and desirability of their product.

Kid A had been leading the industry for decades before whispers finally started surfacing regarding a second, and far more lucrative revenue stream for Kid A: the manufacture of children for their organs. Although the revenue per child for a high LEE product was certainly very high, it was also a highly costly engineering procedure, and the market was destined to be smaller and lower volume. Organs, however, were in constant need, and manufacturing a child, any child, with functioning healthy organs was much easier than painting the subtleties of personality and intelligence into the genes on top for a high LEE. The volume of this business for Kid A dwarfed the high LEE division, and returned far more dollars in profit as well; this was the secret strength of Kid A.

Right around when the first Kid A child in history was appointed Secretary of Extrahuman Affairs was when the rumors of the organ children emerged.

The Long-Faced French-Canadian, Pt. 1

She was one of those typically long-faced French-Canadian women with dark curly hair and a nose like a polished rock. The only reason I bring her up now is because the story she told me was unlike any I had ever encountered, then or since. Even after I found out that the whole story was made up -- false -- a lie -- the story has made such a strong impression on me that I almost believe in it more than the truth. Almost.

She walked into my office like so many other women before me, seeking help. Except I could tell immediately that something wasn't entirely normal about her. Her tone was all wrong. You see, normally, a first-meeting will go something like this: woman walks in with a heartbreaking story about man, some lover, whom she can't let go of for whatever reason (love, money, etc.), but man has disappeared (murder? cold-feet? another woman?), and she has to know the answer.

I look for answers. Maybe I sleep with her in-between, maybe not. Curiously, that always depends entirely on how well the case is going, nothing to do with her or me. She could profess all the undying love in the world for this man I'm supposed to find, but if the case is going well and it seems like we have a good shot at some kind of reunification, she will sleep with me. She could be as furious as scorned women can get -- I hear it's like hell -- at the man, but if it looks like he's gone for good, I usually get nothing. Women are indeed curious creatures, I have learned this much. Men? They just barely make a little more sense, I think (running away is a natural and understandable animal response, isn't it?), but I suspect that I feel this way entirely based on my own bias. Perhaps men and women are both equally crazy.

Anyway, this French-Canadian woman's tone was completely wrong. I don't travel much, so I don't know that much about Canada, or Quebec, or French-Canadian culture, or French-Canadian women, so maybe there was nothing with her tone at all. But I still felt like something was amiss. This is what happened.

"Hello, detective."

"Have a seat."

"Merci. I have never done anything like this before. Please tell me how to begin."

"The beginning works."

A smile. "Oui, the beginning. When I was born, my father was an architect in Europe --"

"Hold on, hold on. I didn't mean THAT beginning. I meant the beginning of what brings you here."

"But monsieur, I only know of this beginning, and no other. This beginning and this beginning only could have brought me to you."

An interesting perspective on things. "OK, continue."

"My father was an architect in Europe, designing football stadiums. He was kind of obsessed with them. Naturally, he had no idea how to relate to me, a little baby girl. I was probably like a bewildering alien creature to him when I was born. He tried to be a good father, I think, but I don't think he was capable of it. Baby daughters can be difficult for certain men, I believe. Do you have any children?"

I wanted her to cut to the chase already. I wasn't used to long David-Copperfield expositions from my clients. They usually get right down to the emotional whallop of how they got hurt, first thing. This woman was slowly, deliberately, methodically building me up.

"No children. No time for them."

"Of course. Well, my mother worked just as hard as my father, two jobs, doing phones during the day and waitressing on weekend evenings. Yet I found she always seemed to have time for me in a way my father didn't."

"Stop right there. If your dad was a commercial architect, he probably could support all three of you with no problem. Why did your mom have to work so hard?"

"I see I have found the right man for the job. You are very keen. Yes, it was entirely unnecessary for my mother to be working two, even one job. I believe she did it because she wanted to set an example for me, on how to be a strong woman independent of a man. More than that, I know she believed in this principle for her own life because her father, my grandfather, never supported her in any way. He was an alcoholic and a philanderer and he died when my mother was still young."

"Typical boozer-schmoozer, huh?"

"Do you like to drink, monsieur?"

"Yeah, sure, I enjoy a scotch every now and then."

"Do you like women, monsieur? I am not asking if you are a homosexual. I know you are not, because your secretary is very pretty. But do you like women?"

"Only in very controlled doses."

Another smile. "You are an interesting man."

Warehouse 5 Treatment

LOGLINE:

Trapped in a mysterious warehouse containing all of time and the history of existence, a lonely video store clerk discovers meaning and meaninglessness in the universe and his own life.

SYNOPSIS:

David, who has just turned 33, works at a rundown, hole-in-the-wall video store which doesn’t even carry DVDs, only VHS tapes. He and his co-workers, Artie and Jon, take pride in their indie hipster cred while bickering about classic and obscure cinema. However, David secretly harbors longtime desires of becoming a great filmmaker one day, leading to his perpetual unhappiness. This malaise is manifested in his ambivalent relationship with longtime friend, Hannah.

Skeptical of coincidences and the other vagaries and mysteries of life and unable to relate to the world through any other lens besides the films he worships, David one day stumbles upon a strange warehouse he has never seen before, with a large red hand-painted “5” on the side. He steps inside to discover a lobby with a receptionist, Virginia, waiting.

Virginia explains to David the nature of this mysterious place: it is a warehouse that contains all of time and existence, from the beginning of the universe to the end of the universe. She brings David through a maze of clean, white hallways before they arrive at one infinitely long hallway, with black door after black door. She tells David that the length of this hallway represents his entire life, and that each door represents a moment in his life. The rest of the warehouse similarly houses every other moment in time, from the Big Bang wing to the 42-billion-years-later endpoint of the universe’s existence. Finally, she tells him that he is free to explore the whole place as extensively as he wishes, in all time for all time. There are only two restrictions: he can never leave, and he must never enter one special door in the very center of the warehouse, the door of the Present, or his mind and soul will be ripped to shreds. She then hands him a brochure highlighting popular Warehouse 5 destinations and points of interest, replete with alien civilizations and visually spectacular cosmic phenomena, before disappearing down a hallway.

David begins by checking out the room of his death, which is utterly normal. Hannah and Jon cry. Moving words are said. No wife, no children. David can’t even concentrate on this pitiful, unwatchable, utterly unspectacular scene. He decides to follow the more exciting tour itinerary in the brochure.

After exploring everything in the brochure, David can’t figure out what to do next. He seeks Virginia for guidance, asking her if he must remain a space-time tourist his whole life, and she tells him that all people inevitably end up in the same place, which is the room in their own lives where they were the happiest, the most content, without a worry or desire in the world. She tells him that finding this room is like finding home.

David proceeds to examine room after room, trying to find his perfect moment, but as each room fails the test, he finally discovers that he has never had a completely happy moment in his entire life, that something has always been not-quite-right. Lost in the ultimate existential quandary, he mentally breaks down, choosing to relive painful memories and even reverting to the room of his infancy for a period of time. As he obsessively, psychotically relives his birth over and over, he suddenly snaps out of his condition, resolving to put an end to everything once and for all.

He marches nervously toward the room of the Present, glancing around to make sure Virginia isn’t around to catch him. He figures this suicide will be more honorable than the cosmic limbo he currently lives, and boldly opens the door and steps in. The room plunges him into total darkness. He waits. Nothing happens. Confused, he opens the door again and comes out. Everything is still there, nothing seems different. He goes back in tries again. Darkness. Nothing. He comes back out again.

Bewildered, he looks for Virginia, to ask her why the room doesn’t do anything. When he finds her, however, she wears a different hairstyle, and doesn’t recognize him. After trying some rooms, he realizes that the contents of his life have changed entirely. He returns to the room of the Present and tries it again, and discovers that his life is once again completely different. David believes he has discovered the true nature of the Present, as a variable “t” which unlocks the sole portal to an infinite array of alternate parallel universes, an infinite number of warehouses, from Warehouse 1, 2, 3, … and so on, each one housing a different set of choices and random outcomes, resulting in a unique universe. Here, he can find the perfect room in the perfect hallway of his life of the perfect warehouse, where he is a world-famous, critically-acclaimed film director. He happily enjoys many moments, from a dream-like wedding with a beautiful actress to winning Sundance and the Oscars in the same year.

However, as he encounters as many different Virginias as universes, none of them can fathom how he is able to accomplish this feat, when so many others before him have died, simply removed from existence for this transgression. The Virginia of David’s happiest universe continues to question and pester David on this mystery, and eventually comes to believe that David has achieved some kind of godhead or transcendent nirvana state. Where others like her only have omniscience, insofar as knowing the unchangeable past and future, David can move through the present, affecting the choices individuals make and the outcomes of random variables. In short, David has omnipotence as well as omniscience, the ultimate director, God himself.

Virginia posits this theory to David, who cannot begin to understand what he should do if she is correct. There is no direct way he can intervene in people’s lives and help people with this power, yet there is no way he can simply go back to living his happy director life with the knowledge that he could be a deity. He asks Virginia for help, but she has no answers. She, too, has never witnessed such an occurrence. But she has faith that as God, David will by nature make the right decision, and she begins to study his words and behavior as a model of moral rightness, in effect worshipping him as God. Still unsure of what to do with another new plane of existence at the lonely top, Virginia beseeches him to just go with his gut.

David decides that his purpose can only be to accumulate all the wisdom of time and existence and life in the pursuit of having that one perfect moment in one’s life, which he had never had. He commits himself to the study of happy moments all across the universes, determining this to be the meaning of life. To be sad that a loved one has died is silly when one realizes that this beloved is also happy, alive, and well a few rooms down the hall, in his perfect room. The meaning of life, he concludes, is the creation, pursuit, and experience of that one happy room to call home, which can only be achieved by living in the present. David forms this doctrine and resolves to spread it across the universe.

Ant Hills

In a dream, I woke up falling, a gentle downward momentum into a dark hole in the earth. I could feel the cool wind on my body, and the air smelled vaguely sugary. Somewhere, I could hear piano, but I couldn't tell if it was coming from above or below, even though I was falling rapidly. Perhaps it was coming from inside my own head.

When my feet finally landed on solid ground, slowly, gently, and silentlessly, a large black bird greeted me.

"We have been waiting for this moment to arrive."

"Are you sure you have the right human?" I asked. Maybe it was a dumb question.

"Yes."

With that, he turned on the heel of his claw and somberly led me down a dark, downsloping tunnel.

What opened up into view was completely shocking, not to say that it was particularly unexpected, as I knew what to expect, but it remained shocking nonetheless. The queen bee laid on a giant, intricately hand-crafted bed of twigs, weeping.

"She's been crying like that for seven years."

I nodded, and the black bird left the room.

I approached the bed, got on one knee, and whispered into the queen bee's ear. "How about a song?"

Through sobs, she said, "I have been weeping for seven years. What possible solace could a song bring me?"

I unslung the guitar case around my shoulder, and pulled out my acoustic guitar. Resting it on my knee, I plucked a few random notes. The guitar had a beautiful, resonant tone. I played three or four chords, and everything seemed to be in tune.

"This is called 'Hey Jude' by human musicians called the Beatles," I whispered to her.

For Lisa

I was smoking a cigarette as Jeff Mangum wailed in my ears, going through his last verse of "In The Aeroplane Over The Sea" when she stopped me. I pulled the buds out of my ears and flung the cord around my neck.

"I'm sorry, I don't usually do this, I hate asking for help. But I'm six months pregnant and I'm homeless and hungry."

I gave her my usual response. "Sorry, I don't have any money on me."

"No spare change?"

It was true. I didn't have a single bill in my wallet, and my pockets were empty of any coins. I didn't even have a SEPTA token; I was walking home from 30th Street Station.

"I don't have anything. Sorry."

Her skin was a soft, smooth black, but her face bore lines hardened by thirty-eight years of hardship. She was wearing a backpack with what I imagined were all her worldly possessions inside. I noted the additional weight she had to carry in her belly. I thought about offering her a cigarette, but quickly realized the folly in that.

"I can buy you something at a restaurant. Some fast food. I have money on my card."

"McDonald's?"

I thought about it. It was out of my way. I'd have to walk with her back to 30th Street Station. "Sure. McDonald's."

"God bless you, you are the first blessing of the day." It was 8:30 PM.

"What's your name?"

"Lisa."

Lisa and I walked down the windy street under the darkening sky as the sun quietly slipped away, unable to compete with the low clouds.

She told me about how she had been through the shelter system, and how they had a bunch of very onerous rules. If you miss the 9 PM curfew three times, you're kicked out for several months. I responded in polite, clipped words. I didn't really know what to talk about with this woman whose life was so utterly and completely different from mine.

"I know everyone's got to go through hardships in life, but..." She trailed off.

When we got to McDonald's, she asked me how much she could spend. I told her I'd buy her five dollars worth of stuff. She wanted two double cheeseburgers and three McChickens. Good choice, I thought. Healthier than what I would have gotten for five dollars -- all five in double cheeseburgers.

"Get some ketchup and honey mustard, too."

"OK," I laughed gently.

As we were waiting for the food, she asked me what my name was.

"David."

"David?" She started to laugh. "You have a black name?"

I got a little confused. What was she talking about? Was she about to give me a "black" name? Could I be a LeBron or something? Shaniqua?

"No, I don't have a black name."

"Yeah, you do. A lot of black people have that name."

"Oh, I see." Right. "I would call it more of an American name."

"Yeah, yeah, that's what I meant. I'm sorry, you know, I didn't mean like, I didn't know how to put it..."

"It's OK." That was probably the tenth time I had said, "It's OK" to her.

"Where you from originally?"

"My parents are from China, but I was born here, so they gave me an American name."

The food arrived, and I asked for some ketchup and honey mustard. I took the bag and handed it to her.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Take care, Lisa."

"You too."

I put my earbuds back on and walked out of the station. It was dark. The last strains of Jeff Mangum's voice in "Two-Headed Boy" floated softly back into my world, and I lit another cigarette.

Wind

Hi. I work as a clerk in the mailroom of a large, faceless corporation. I don't really like it; when I was a very young boy, I never dreamed of working in a mailroom or anything like that, but this pays me money every week, and it's extremely easy work to do, so I do it. Besides, you never know when the bigwigs might pay a visit to the mailroom and be so impressed by your work ethic that you get promoted to become their personal assistant. This isn't something I count on, though, I'm fully aware how much of the fantasy element that situation has in it. Mostly, I'm working for the money. There's no other reason to take this job.

Everyday, I wear a nametag that hangs around my neck, a white buttoned and collared shirt, black pants, black shoes, and black socks. Those are all the clothing items visible to anyone outside the company. Every other clerk in the mailroom also wears the same uniform. There might be slight variations here and there, this guy's shirt doesn't have a breastpocket, this guy's shirt has a breastpocket with a button, and so on, but in general, what we wear looks exactly the same, except for the nametags, which have different names printed on them. Mine has my own name printed on it. I'm pretty sure that's true for everyone else's, too, but I haven't gotten around to asking everybody. It's a large mailroom. I am twenty-five years old.

Today, there was a great wind throughout the entire city as I was walking to work. I walk to work because it's only two subway stops away from my apartment, and I've always felt that you shouldn't take the subway for only one or two stops. You should only take it for distances of three stops or more. It just so happens that these two specific stops between my work and home are a little bit far from each other relative to the average two stops, however. Because of this, every morning, as I'm walking to work, a doubt will strike me about my personal subway use policy. This doubt usually strikes me around Mornington Street, after I've walked the distance of the average two stops. I have to walk three more blocks after Mornington Street, which isn't too bad on its own, but given the irregularity of the distance, seems just slightly unfair. Thus, with three blocks left to go, I always end up reevaluating my views, but I never end up changing them. It's because I'm cheap.

This great wind struck the second I crossed Mornington Street this morning. Literally, the moment my shoe hit the sidewalk for the other side of the street, my nametag got blown from in front of me to behind me, my carefully combed hair (grooming and appearance are very important to this large, faceless corporation, even for clerks in the mailroom) became an unruly, disheveled mess, and all the loose papers on the street flew with great speed to some unknown destination behind me. This wind was blowing straight down my street, directly in my face. It felt like I was walking into a wall of air. Every forward step I took after the triggering step was a difficult struggle to gain ground against this truly "aerial" onslaught. Every time I lifted one foot, I would feel the precarious danger of standing on only one leg as I tried to plant the airborne foot somewhere far enough in front of me that I could actually feel like I was successfully walking forward. However, the wind was so fierce, I could never move that foot much farther than where it was before without being bowled over backwards.

I glanced down Mornington Street to the next block over, and noted that there was no such wind there! The trash on the street lay calmly by the curb, and people were walking around in completely still air. Somehow, this wind had targeted me, targeted my street. After about five minutes of struggling against this wall of wind, I found that I had gotten no farther than two feet. That is an extremely slow velocity. It is much slower than a snail's pace, which is about ten to fifteen feet per minute. I can't believe I kept struggling that long, actually, but it became a matter of principle for me. This was policy, this no-subway decision, and clearly, this wind had arrived from somewhere in the Universe to encourage me otherwise. I do not like having my decisions made for me, especially by weather. So rather than dampen my resolve or weaken my mind with stronger doubts, I became even more determined to walk to work, not just through this wind this morning, but forever, for as long as I work, no matter where that is, and no matter how far away I live in relation. This wind was against me, and I refused to back down.

I spent a full day completing the last three blocks. I got a little faster after I got used to my strategy, which was to take little steps as rapidly as possible. I got a little slower, too, after that, because of fatigue. But I made it to the building with about ten minutes left in the workday. I checked in with my boss, who is a little mean, but always fair. He looked at his watch as I came in and gave me a grim look. He noted my extremely unkempt appearance; I looked like I had just gone through a war, he said. I said I had, a war of wills, or rather, a war of my own will against myself. He nodded, without inquiring any further. As I turned to leave his office, he called out to me.

"By the way. Today was evaluation-day from the corporate headquarters upstairs. Early in the morning, we had to replace you so that none of the executives would notice anything out of place, so that everything would be functioning properly. They walked around the mailroom, inquired about stuff, chatted with some of the clerks. They talked to the new guy, the guy we replaced you with, and he gave some completely retarded answers. I think the bigwigs were actually a little offended by him. Anyway, it was kind of a mess, and we had to have him fired on the spot, in front of the bosses, to make them satisfied."

"Sounds like a mess."

"Yeah. You caused us a lot of trouble today by not showing up until now. Today was pretty important. My bosses are now going to pay a lot closer attention to me and the mailroom. They are going to be a pain in the neck every day until they find another person who needs a pain in the neck more than me. All because of you."

"I'm sorry."

"No, you're not sorry. You're fired."

So I took the subway home.

Blogspotting

Chewing Gum, Coffee, and Slim Jims were vacationing in Edinburgh, Scotland when a group of low-life, anonymous Blogspotters attacked and killed the three of them with knife slashes to the face and body Tuesday evening, apparently in a dispute over money.

Chewing Gum reportedly bled to death on the sidewalk before ambulances could arrive, uttering the last words, "We should have stayed in England."

Coffee and Slim Jims were immediately rushed to Mother Superior's Foodstuff's Hospital downtown for emergency treatment. On the way there, Coffee was allegedly heard to get into an argument with the ambulance driver over Henry James before going into shock and passing away minutes later.

Slim Jims arrived at the hospital, immediately hitting on nurses trying to treat his wounds, explaining how he tried to heroically shield his other two friends from the attackers. He was also overheard complaining about Edinburgh's "fucking heroin problem." He stayed in the Intensive Care Unit for three hours before finally passing away, whispering the last words, "Scotland is shite."

A small, private funeral is planned for close friends and family members.

Local residents in Paris, France, have reported that ghosts fitting their exact descriptions have been haunting a bluish-colored blog...

The Little Red Book

This is a play I have been working on, an original story by yours truly, although I realize that Back to the Future also deserves a shout-out:

It is May, 1989. Lee, a young intellectual attending Beijing University hears about protests that are going to happen in Tiananmen Square for the end of corruption and the beginning of democracy. Excited about the possibilities of a new, free China, he ignores the advice of his aging parents from another era, and participates. Filled with a hope and optimism for the future that he has never felt before, he marches with everyone and takes part in the peaceful demonstrations.

Suddenly, he spots an old, tattered copy of Mao's Little Red Book just lying on the ground. He picks it up, and the moment he touches it, he is transported back in time to 1967, at the height of Chairman Mao's Cultural Revolution. Soon discovered by a group of young Red Guards searching the towns for counter-revolutionaries and people disloyal to Mao, he is forced to pretend he is one of them. The Red Guards' youthful enthusiasm for being politically influential at such a young age disturbingly reminds him of himself, but their accusations and actions become increasingly unbearable and ridiculous, eventually resulting in deaths. Lee begins to enter a seriously dangerous and possibly fatal situation when he and a girl in the group, Fei, start falling for each other, sparking the ire and suspicions of the group's hot-headed and mean-spirited leader, Wong. Meanwhile, he flips through the Little Red Book at night, trying to get it to take him back to 1989, with no success.

In the climax, Lee refuses to take part in a particularly gruesome beating of an innocent man, showing weakness in front of the group and revealing his true sympathies. His suspicions confirmed, Wong vows to turn Lee in the next morning. That night, Lee and Fei struggle to make the Little Red Book take him back to his own time. She asks him to recall everything about the moment he touched the book, and he remembers the singular feeling of hope and optimism for the future, a new feeling he had never felt before. Unable to get that feeling back into his heart again, given his currently desperate situation, she comes up with an idea, leans in, and kisses him. With the book in hand and filled with another kind of hope, a possible new relationship with Fei, he is instantly taken back to 1989.

Once back, however, he finds that Tiananmen Square is not how he had left it. Martial law has been declared, international news cameras like CNN are nowhere to be found, and the People's Liberation Army and the protestors are apparently fighting a war in the Forbidden City, deaths happening on both sides. In love with Fei, Lee wants desperately to return to her in 1967, but the carnage he witnesses is too much, destroying the fleeting feeling of hope he had felt. Told that the soldiers were marching, but it was a protestor that fired the first shot, Lee is overwhelmed by the sense that militancy, whether from a Red Guard or a student protestor, is simply not a good political vehicle. In an ending that symbolizes the tragedy of how Tiananmen Square, with all its optimism, has come to nothing in terms of Chinese human rights and social change, Lee is shot to death by random gunfire, becoming just another one of the nameless thousands of victims that died there that summer -- his experiences also thus coming to nothing.

What I've Been Working On

INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT

Six STRANGERS ride up the elevator of an apartment building.

The first, a middle-aged WOMAN. The second, a long-haired COLLEGE STUDENT wearing headphones. The third, a clean-cut THIRTYSOMETHING with dark-rimmed glasses and a messenger bag. The fourth, a MAN IN A SUIT writing reminders into his PDA. The fifth, a tired looking WOMAN IN A PANTSUIT holding a cardboard box full of documents.

The last, JOHN WHITEMAN, 35. He wears a clean white shirt and black pants. He has a white name-tag that says “JOHN” in plain black letters.

Nobody looks at each other in the elevator, except for John, who closely watches each person leave, one by one. His eyes follow the lines on everyone’s expressions.

Finally, John leaves and the elevator doors close.

INT. JOHN’S APARTMENT - 4 A.M.

John’s eyes stare at a television flashing blue and red colored light around a completely dark room.

He lies on his side on the couch in the fetal position, one hand dangling a remote. He flips through the various channels as his blank face intermittently changes colors in the television’s glow.

TELEVISION (O.S.)
... now and we’ll throw in this handy video of different exercises you can do, FREE! Don’t you think you deserve that beautiful body you’ve always wanted? Well now’s...
(click)
... these girls get WILD, absolutely FREE! You’ll never find a collection THIS BIG of...
(click)

He Found Himself

He found himself leaning out of his window into the warm summer breeze, which blew cigarette drags slowly away. He saw the people walking below, not noticing his own universe just a few feet above in the air. He could feel the beauty of the world swirl around him, like he was being submerged into cool, cool water. Like ice. It was almost too cold. He took another puff of his cigarette and inhaled the smoke deeply.

He was 20 years old. He came from a town called Warren, New Jersey. He had lived there his entire life, and he hated it. As far as he was concerned, he felt like a character in a Salinger book, living in that place. It was almost as bad as, say, the entire state of Connecticut. It was always sunlight in Warren, but the light was always a little splintered. There were cracks in this town, and he was one of them.

The air felt like the warm summer wind that gently whispers the hint of rain, in an unintelligible, silently understood language between the atmosphere and the boy's imagination. The trees were all dark, forest green. Lushly green. Green was his favorite color, but only in a very accidental way. He wanted to run away. He wanted to leave Warren, and he wanted to see the Pacific Ocean. He wanted to see the world. But then, he suddenly felt tired, and realized he just might get some sleep tonight, if he went to bed now. A good lonely night's sleep, how rare. So he asked his blanket if it would be his wife, and he fell asleep kissing the pillow.

The night passed on without him.

In the morning, his window tried staring down the sun, but lost, and the millions of photons bouncing off his eyelids finally jostled him awake. So much for getting lots of sleep. He needed to get some damn blinds. Will I be grateful when I die? I hope so. I don't want to go against my will. What a sense of mortality. Of human finitude. Why do people take speed? Why would you want to fast forward through any of this precious time?

He woke. He decided he'd run away to New York today. It wasn't too far away. He could do it. So he dressed, cast one handflip to try and order his long, unruly Beatles-haircut, and then he was out the door, catching the train, catching another train, getting off at Penn Station. It could only be good times from now on. At least today.

He wanted to call a girl he knew in this city. He pulled out the paper address book he always kept in his back pocket. He found the number of a mutal friend, and called him. Yeah. Yeah. 4? OK. 4, right? Alright, got it. Thanks, man. Yeah, definitely. Alright, later. And he called up one of the girls he knew that lived in the city. An electronic approximation of her voice answered. It's me. Yeah. I'm in the city! I know! Oh, seriously? Oh, totally, don't even worry about it. Yeah, it's no big deal. Hah, right. Some other time then! Alright, bye. No go. Her "friend" was in town. Mmm-hmm.

He decided he'd just walk around New York alone. He didn't need companionship. He didn't need help. He heard the sound of an ice cream truck in the distance. Ah, summer in the city! The light, friendly tinkling of the ice cream truck, come to signal delicious tasty ice cream and frozen treats, for only 50 cents! What? A dollar? Since when? Since when was this shit a dollar? This has always been 50 cents! When I was a kid, it was 50 cents, goddammnit! No! I refuse to believe any of these prices could change! It's always been two quarters -- it's always been the two biggest shiny ones, its weight in my pocket for the weight of the ice cream treat in my hand. No more. None of this paper bill business. Children are meant to use the coins.

New York is incredible. A New York summer is like none other. He could definitely walk around all day. He browsed through poster stores. Used CD shops. Hat boutiques. Porno shacks. He stopped at all of them. He was determined to know this entire street, in and out. To claim this little chunk of New York as his own area of expertise. We all need some area of expertise, or at least the false belief in one, that one thing that separates us from the other 6 billion, the one thing that individualizes us. Because who doesn't want to think they are an individual, in some way? Who doesn't want that? But what if anonymity is an unavoidable consequence of human existence? What if these stores belonged to everyone? Who knows? No one may follow. No one may lead. There may not even be paths to go down.

He thought of another girl he could call. He called back the friend and asked for the other girl's number. He called her. Hey hey. Yeah, how'd you guess? Yeah, of course, why did you think I was calling? Sure. Umm, I'm not sure. Somewhere in East Village, I think. Yeah. Um, the CD store "Stairway to Heaven?" Oh, seriously? You know where this is? OK. Alright, see you soon. And he walked into the store and browsed around. He found a lot of great classic rock records. Jimi Hendrix. The Grateful Dead. Bob Dylan. The Beatles. And of course Led Zeppelin.

She suddenly walked in, bringing fresh minty air blowing into the store. He quickly recognized this almost imperceptible change in the weather, and turned around. There she was. He noticed how beautiful she was for the millionth time. She grabbed his hand and said, "Come on, let's go play outside!" She was so simple with her words and emotions. He couldn't really handle her. He wondered if he should have just not called. But it was too late. The time for making choices was over. He was just along for the ride now. She took him to her car and they started driving around. Oh, I don't know. Where do you want to go? It's your car. It's your city. No, no, you decide. That's true. I did call you. OK. Well. Let's go... let's go to Central Park and walk around or something. Yeah. The sun is out. It's great. The shade will be nice.

So the morning came and went. He was beginning to feel a little hungry. He had been awake for a few hours now, and he was getting hungry. They found a coffee shop called The Attic, and went in. He ordered a small sandwich and coffee, and she ordered a coffee as well. She pulled out a cigarette. Eh, the usual. Not too much. Just hanging out. You? Oh wow. That must be exciting. Tell me about it. No kidding. Are you joking? That's hilarious. Interesting. Yeah, I know. You said it. The same thing happened to me. I know what you mean. Definitely.

They left the Attic, and he felt like he was leaving the attic of his life. Girlfriend? Huh? No. Nope. Just a girl who would get really mad if she heard me say that! Haha. Yeah, it's a joke. It's this comedian, Mitch Hedberg, have you heard of him? Oh, really? You saw him live? No way! I'll bet. Damn, that's awesome. He's so funny on the videos, I can't even imagine... Oh, I'll bet. Yeah. Hah. Wow. Live.

His feet were a little tired. He wanted to go home with her. He was tired of walking. You know what's a good song? Yeah, good point. I guess so. That's a very broad perspective. I see. I didn't know American Beauty was your favorite movie. Indeed, they are beautiful. He felt suddenly attracted to her like being attracted to the constant roar of a distant waterfall during a long hike. But he made no sign, excepting perhaps a few nanometers walking distance closer to her. He couldn't help it. Her zest always overpowered his malaise. He wanted to grab her arm and stop her, and turn her around and pull her close and kiss her in his warm embrace, but he didn't want it to sound like a sappy, gross Wal-Mart checkout-rack romance novel. He needed it to be original. He couldn't come up with anything sufficiently genuine enough though, so he just followed her from bench to bench, grass patch to grass patch, tree to tree.

Maybe I should just settle down. But he couldn't. People from Warren, New Jersey are settled down before they're born. He had to be the exception, he couldn't just fall in line like the rest. He was never settling down. And so he found himself. And so he took the train back home.

And oh, what a long, strange trip it has been.

On the Road [Reposted]

Once upon a time, there was a space cowboy. He wore a leather spacesuit and a ten gallon hat over his oxygen helmet. He floated around from planet to planet, just swimming hard through the non-atmosphere like it was water. He drifted like this alone all his life, as far back as he could remember. He never had what anyone could ever call a home. He was just like a rolling stone, but with the moss already grown on it. One day, he found a planet that was so small, it was always daylight. He could just float along slowly in one direction as the planet rotated, and he'd be in daylight forever. He considered that perhaps this might be a good place to settle down finally, a good place to finally have a home. He didn't want to be "on his own" all the time. He was tired of being on the road. He had seen so much of the universe already. He knew many little tricks about the universe that others didn't know. He knew that if you closed your eyes, snapped twice with both hands, cross your big toe with your other toes, and sneeze, you can cause time to freeze for about 10 minutes. What would you do with your 10 minutes alone in the entire world? What would you do with those 10 minutes that belonged to absolutely no one else but you? What would you do with 10 minutes in which you answered to absolutely no one, no thing, no idea, no belief? Unknown and alone. Well that feeling just reminded him of his entire life, how he did so much continuous traveling, never stopping even once, as far back as he could remember. Never being with any body. Always just sort of alone. So wasn't it just a good idea to live in the sunshine? I mean... hey, what's nicer than sunshine? Right? It feels good. It would be a nice life to live. So finally, he said to himself, "Robert Fender, let us go! Let us settle down! Let us be happy! Yes, indeed! We shall! I... I -- I will!" And it was happiness. It truly was. And it lasted quite a long time, too. Longer than it ever had before. It just really felt great. But... well. You -- but you know. Things don't always... They never just keep... What I mean to say is, there is almost alwa -- there ALWAYS is an end. It's -- it couldn't be goodness for ever. But this part, this part could still be considered part of the happiness, but only at the back end of it. The happiness is in its twilight. For the first time ever that he had on that little planet, he felt it coming to twilight. That's right, I mean... There was sun. There's always sun on that planet. It's so small. But this is sort of him walking into a situation with ever slightly increasing twilight. So here we are. Here we are -- here we are to this...! TO THIS!

Paul Despecter rode into town. He had been a longtime traveler as well! But the difference was, here we had a REAL cowboy. Not the space cowboy that Robert Fender was. He was a REAL cowboy. And he came riding in on a horse, wearing boots and spurs and a cowboy hat. He took a huge swig of beer, and it splashed all over his face and body. He was a sort of... hungry man, you could say. And here he was heading for this little planet! Here he was, ready to confront Robert Fender and his own sense of aesthetics. Paul was a strong man, like a Paul Bunyan type. He was never a chicken. He backed down from nothing, but -- but it makes one ponder, doesn't it? -- that that perhaps was his weakness. Yes. The strong(man) weakness. He swerves in onto this planet and says, "Hey now! What's going on? I've ridden in on this horse, you know, that comes from my planet. Heh. You get this? I'm an American! I'm a Texan!" And the space cowboy just looked at him and blinked, and immediately took of Americans the same attitude as did the Europeans. Yeah, that's how he reacted -- just like Europeans would. But he knew of no Earthly concepts whatsoever, so he had no idea he was being European. But he thought the same thing.

But then the girl enters in! She has a soulful voice, deep, true. People walk by her and always stare, because she just looks that true. She spoke so truthfully. Do not confuse that with naïveté, which it was not. Indeed. She loved her mother. She never forgot her home, wherever she was. She was the exact opposite of this space cowboy wanderer, Robert Fender. She -- Queen Jane, let's call her. She confused Robert! Robert had never met a Jane like this before.

Heh. Things happen, you know? Jane couldn't explain it. Robert couldn't explain it either. Things happened in montage. You think montage is an artificial trick played by directors and cinematographers? No, montage is real life. And Robert's life was going in montage at this point in time. Things were just kind of happening like that in memory. The montage era. He was a good musician, too, and listened to a lot of good music, so things were always set back on a great soundtrack.

Paul Despecter ran into the girl. That was a crazy time in her life! Haha, I'll say so myself. I hate being the baby brother to any body. I just like eating candy, so what? That doesn't make me like a little child. 8th grade is really high! That's a huge number. And besides, it's not about the candy, I'm way more mature than that. But I do like candy. So that's the way it goes. Candy break!

They were all different colors, and they all tasted slightly different, too, based on the color. Who knew M&M's flavored those things. I thought it was all just chocolate.

BANG!

bang bang

Here we go. Something is happening here, but you don't know what it is. It's a great time to have a drink and a smoke, that's for sure. People are just silly. Human beings are silly. I hate being so geeky. I'm an 8th grade geek. Such a freak. But I was freaking smart, at least! I was! I was, like, I dominated, man. I came in 2nd! After 27. You gotta respect that. Damn! These M&M's are awesome. Shit, but I need a lot of water. Damn, I need a lot of water. TIMEOUT. Sorry about that, sword-swallower. Amazing. Fabulous. Fabulous feels great.

DRIVING! DRIVING! DRIVING! I want to go driving. Actually, I'd rather go passengering. You know? Mr. Jones. Mr. Clones. OH, crap! Not again! Get away...

And the jazz band played heavily with sweat on their brows, in the purplish gray light of the bar. Smoke was everywhere, and each band was going crazy, flipping out the jazz tonight, into the night air. Queen Jane was here tonight. Alone. Not with her mother this time, like she usually is. Is she here for a special reason tonight? Who knows? She certainly doesn't. She won't kid herself. And that's when Robert Fender came crashing into the circle of her life. What was this? He smelled funny. She smelled like love. Fender turned and gave a look and a smile, and she just raised her eyebrows. And that was their first meeting. Completely forgotten about right afterwards, as if it were just an automatic reflex. Their first meeting was a reflex...

So won't you come see me, Queen Jane? Oh, I don't know, Robert Fender. What have we got to lose? Many things, Robert. Queenie. Don't, Robert. Q! Little Susie-Q. Robert, I must leave. Queen Jane, do not go. I must. Don't. You don't. Let's not bring that up. So that was that, and it started raining.

Life was intense as a lone ranger again. At first, he tried stopping being a ranger, settling on the sunny planet. Didn't work. Then he tried stopping the lone part. And she left. So he tried just letting it happen. Lone ranger. That's who he was. The space cowboy in the leather spacesuit. And the hat. He still had the hat. His hat. So he was still the lone ranger. Yeah. Easily done.

Harry typed all of this out. But Harry died and now I have to take over. I dunno if I can. He said on his deathbed to just please finish it somehow, because it needs finishing. Well, I dunno how to do that. But I guess I'll try. He said to. What is this story about anyway? I hope it's about spring or something. I don't want to think that Harry was writing wintery type things right before death. That just seems odd. "Just Like Thom Thomb's Blues" has one interestingly specific lyric. One should Google it if one is a Googler. "She peaks good English and you invite her up into your room" and that following sequence is not it, either. No, with light sabers! That's how they battle each other! Wow. I think I made it too big. Bigger than it needed to be. Oh, well. Makes things harder. Hard is good. Hard builds character. Almost to the grand finale, eh? What a great album of life Robert Fender led. Things are always looking up if you just tilt your head. That's what's beautiful about perspective. One simple move of the head and you get a whole new world to interpret.

They're selling postcards of the hanging. The circus is in town. Here comes the blind commissioner. They've got him in a trance. One hand is tied to the tightrope walker. And the riot squad, they need somewhere to go. As lady and I look out tonight from Desolation Row. Cinderella, she seems so easy. "It takes one to know one," she smiles. Bette Davis style. You're in the wrong place my friend, you'd better leave. After the ambulances go. Cinderella sweeping up on Desolation Row. The moon is almost hidden, the stars are beginning to hide. The fortune telling lady and the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Everybody's making love or else expecting rain. He's getting ready for the carnival tonight on Desolation Row. Ophelia n'eath the window. On her 22nd birthday. To her, death his quite romantic. Her profession's her religion. She spends her time peeking into Desolation Row. Einstein disguised as Robin Hood, with his memories and his friend, a jealous monk. As he bummed a cigarette, sniffing drain pipes, and reciting the alphabet. You would not think, he was famous long ago, for playing the electric violin on Desolation Row. Doctor Filth, she's in charge of the cyanide. So you better watch out. Don't eat the guacamole, if you value your life. Punished for going to Desolation Row. Just had to cry for a little bit, there. Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot fighting in the tower. Fishermen hold flowers. Lovely mermaids flow, and nobody has to think too much about Desolation Row. Yes, I received your letter yesterday, about the time the doorknob broke. When you asked me how I was doing, was that some kind of joke? I had to rearrange their faces. Not unless you mail them from Desolation Row.

Dialogues

"It's fine, Gus."
"Are you sure, man?"
"Yeah, seriously, it's fine."
"I just want to make sure we're cool, you know? I wanna make sure we're still friends."
"It's fine, Gus. Really. I don't care."
"OK, Al."
"'Alan.'"
"Peace out, dude."
"Yeah."
Alan decided he hated Gus, and should avoid ever talking to him again. Gus never noticed.

* * *

"Hi."
"Hey."
"How are you?"
"Good."
"Well, it's been a while. How have you been?"
"I've been good, Alan."
"That's good. I've been good, too. I mean, I've been all right. I've been OK. Been about the same. You know."
"That's good."
"Yep. Listen. Can I apologize? I mean, would that be, you know, appropriate for me to apologize? Because I'd really like to. But if that's gonna be too much for you or something, or if that would offend you or make you mad, then, you know, I won't apologize. But I just want you to know that... I want to apologize."
"It doesn't matter to me."
"OK. OK. I see. Well, then, in that case, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, Grace. I apologize for everything."
"Don't. It's not your fault."
"I know. I mean, but it is. But I know what you mean. I just hope you can forgive me, you know, for my part."
"I forgive you, Alan."
A pause.
"Grace. I think I'm still in love with you."
"What?! Please don't say things like that! I don't want to hear anything like that right now."
"I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that. I didn't really mean it."
"Yeah. Well. Oh my God, Alan! I can't be here right now. This is just really weird. I'm gonna go."
"OK. I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to sound weird."
"Forget it, Alan. Good bye."
Alan watched Grace get smaller and smaller and then disappear. He felt the emptiness of having arms just short of long-enough. They felt like chains. Grace calmed down. She knew Alan was lying. She thought he was, at least.

* * *

"I don't know what to tell you anymore."
"It's OK, Donald. It's not as serious as you probably think it is."
"I'm just worried for you, that's all."
"It just happens to me sometimes. Not all the time. You know that. You've seen me."
"I know, I know! But whenever I don't know for sure, I think you're being different. It's just hard to know for sure. Maybe I don't know Alan as well as I should."
"Trust me. I'm fine, Donald. I'm really fine. I'm not jumping out of a building tomorrow."
"I know that. Don't make fun of me. I just want to make sure you're OK."
"All right, sorry. Next week, though? No guarantees."
"Shut the fuck up, man. That's not funny."
"Just trying. Look. Thank you."
"For what?"
"Nothing. Just for you. Thank you. I really appreciate your concern. It means a lot to me. Thanks."
"Any time, man. That's what I'm here for. I'm here for you."
"Thanks."
Alan felt guilty for being annoyed at Donald. Donald knew he was being annoying, and appreciated Alan for not snapping at him. They became better friends, one out of guilt, the other out of appreciation.

Watching Too Many Old Hollywood Movies

"Are you decent?" says man at door.
"No," says woman from inside.
"How quickly can you get decent?"
"How quickly can you take advantage of me?"
"I don't see an advantage in coming quickly."
"Well you won't be coming at all. The door's locked."
"Trust me. Trifles like that have never stopped me before."
"Who said it was a trifle?"
"Freud. Now are you letting me in or aren't you?"
Woman opens door. "What's the rush?"

In The Presence Of Holiness

I am roommates with a saint. Let me tell you his story, and you tell me whether this is a divine miracle or not.

He had a class last semester which required him to turn in an essay as his final exam grade. He left campus and went home early, before most people had even taken their first final, without turning in such an essay. He planned on finishing the essay during the break. However, he spent all of winter break doing God-knows-what, but definitely not that essay. He came back to campus for the new semester, with the goal of finishing the essay very soon. Days became weeks. He had a big "INCOMPLETE" on his transcript for that class. There was a deadline that was approaching in which all "INCOMPLETES" automatically became Fs. He knew he had to have a grade for that class by then, so he tried to finish his essay a few days before the deadline to give the teacher enough time to grade it and save his "INCOMPLETE" from F-dom. Didn't happen. He eventually got his essay in, but the deadline passed and an "INCOMPLETE" still glared on his transcript. The essay itself was crap of course, filled with a bunch of quotes from his variant sources, with little of his own work. He prayed for a miracle, but to no avail. Soon, as promised, the "INCOMPLETE" became an F. His GPA plummeted to the low depths of Hell, never to be saved. All was despair, but he never faltered in his unwavering faith.

And now to the story of today! Something glorious happened. It had already been over two months since the day he was supposed to have his final exam essay submitted. He had been checking Penn InTouch regularly to view his transcript, hoping the professor had been able to grade his essay and give him a real grade for the class. He scrolled down as usual, expecting the usual F, and saw something only God could have wrought.

A-

And that is the story of St. Frank-Paul Sampino, Patron Saint of Procrastination, who shines like a beacon of hope and gives inspiration to college-age procrastinators around the world. Remember, if you are ever in need of some miracle, if you ever find yourself having to pull an all-nighter to write a paper, study for an exam, or do a project, if you ever want to hit yourself in the head for all the procrastination you shouldn't have done, if you ever feel overwhelmed by all the homework and reading that piles up, just take a deep breath, and pray... to St. Frank.

Holy Moments

He sat in his empty apartment, at the bare wooden kitchen table where he dined alone every night, a mug of coffee in his hands. There was a light mist outside that couldn't really be called rain; it was a half-hearted attempt at precipitation that resulted in floating droplets of water, suspended in the air as if time had frozen them that way. One lonely lamp was casting yellow light over the floor, throwing everything else into varying reliefs of shadows. It was 3 AM, and he was listening to the dead silence of life at its holiest. This was a moment.

He stood in line at the drugstore, waiting to pay for a tube of toothpaste. He could feel the weight of the earth in his knees; the multi-colored shelves and displays pressed themselves against the back of his eyes, adding pressure to his brain. He wanted to get out of there as soon as possible, but he could only stand where he was, waiting, as people orbited around and around him like automatons in coats and hats. He couldn't look anyone in the face. The world was all a tumult around him, and he was the only stationary thing in the universe. The morning sun was shining outside, and light streamed in onto the floor, harshly reflecting off the linoleum and into his downcast eyes. He shut them and sighed. This was another moment.

He lounged on his friend's couch talking animatedly with some people. They were all friends, getting together and having beers. He gestured and gesticulated, enunciated and explicated, trying to communicate the many ideas he had in his head, about art, love, God. His friends were looking at him, some smiling, some trying to listen, some looking right through him with blank expressions of half-drunkenness. He suddenly stopped; he realized he was done. There was nothing more left for him to say. Only one person was still actually listening with anything resembling fascination, a woman. He thought about going home with her later. He leaned back instead on the couch, sinking into the cushions and finishing his bottle of beer. He breathed in deeply and the world lurched slightly to the right. He thought that he was having an alright evening. This was also a moment.

He was driving his old red-colored Chevrolet compact car, listening to the radio. A generic soft-rock song was playing, something by Rod Stewart or Elton John. He wasn't going anywhere in particular; he was just driving around the city, wasting time, wasting gas. It was late Sunday afternoon, and the sun was just starting to relax its efforts on the surface of the earth for the day. As he made a random right turn, an SUV with a gum-chewing cheerleader behind the wheel made an ill-advised left turn and slammed its large grill into his driver's side door, shattering the glass instantly and rocking his body violently against the metal, like a rag doll being thrown down the stairs by a petulant child. He died instantly. A fire truck and several squad cars came to block off traffic and divert it through a detour. A police officer comforted the upset girl and finally drove her home. No ambulances were called. This... this was also only another moment.

Adequate Circuitry: Human #218023487

I was travelling through space when I started thinking about her back on planet earth. I wondered what she was doing.

* * *

It is day three. Things were getting a little antsy. I'm not sure what their deal is. It's stressful up here. The earth still looks pretty big from here, maybe we're not that far away. But then I look out into the depths of space and realize how different the universe looks from up here. It's beautiful.

I definitely feel farther away, now that I think about. Yes. I'm extremely far away. I am a million miles away. I suddenly understood what it meant to have no gravity. It meant eternal floating, never knowing where you are and never needing a reason to know.

There's this robot on the ship. His name is Harold. He cleans everything. It creeps me out everytime I run into him, because he's always making these speech-like mumbling noises, to simulate a real human. But he's not actually speaking, just making sounds. Sometimes I'm a little scared that maybe none of us are actually speaking either, we're all just making sounds, just oinking like pigs or something. Anyway, everytime I'm walking down a hallway by myself and I see Harold cross my path, sweeping the floors and wiping the windows and all that, I kind of flip out. I can't handle it. It's too messed up. It's too creepy. I don't trust that son of a bitch. It's a fucking robot with a brain, what if he flips out and decides he doesn't like me? What if this guy is jealous of me, of my humanity, of my God? It's a pretty messed up situation. I'm not sure what I'll do about it. I kind of really want to kill him. Harold. We can all pitch in on the chores, keep the ship clean. We don't need this fucking creepy robot rolling along on the walls or the ceiling, mumbling speech-like noises. Making fucking noises. What are we? Harold always makes me question that. What are we? I can't handle questions like this very well. I need to rest for a little bit. I'm not a robot.

I've had a little rest now. I'm going to go slower. I can't handle things too quickly right now.

* * *

We landed on a planet today. I got to get out and stretch my legs. I had no idea we'd travel this quickly to such an inhabitable place. There was a beautiful binary sunset going on. We were on a beach of some sort, this planet's waters being a beautiful, dark, deep purple color. The water shimmered like ink from a comic book, or a Tim Burton film. We got away from that pretty quickly because of how hypnotic it was getting. We continued exploring the planet. It didn't seem like there were any living things on this planet. I went back inside the spaceship to wait, mostly because I was scared of the purple ocean.

* * *

It is day two. Someone died. We escaped. It wasn't anyone from our crew. But someone did die. I can't handle this. I hate travelling out here at these speeds. Time is already beginning to move backward. I know what this is and I don't like it. I need to remember to keep breathing. Things are very unbelievable right now. I'm not sure what all this is about. I think we might crash. Everyone's lives are flashing before my eyes at once. It's too much. They're getting jumbled and crossed. I don't know what a single one is saying anymore. It doesn't matter. Who cares? Whatever.

It's intense, but I'm handling it. I'm doing my best. What more can I do except deal with it. Everyone has to deal with it. I had to deal with it. Things resolve themselves. I just never talked to my roommates at all, completely ignored them. So we live together, so what? Who cares.

We're all just lost out here in space anyway. Time is getting warped. Does fraternity even matter at this point? I don't want to talk to them, and they don't want to talk to me. Harold seems to be the only one doing all the talking. That fucking robot. I will kill him before he kills one of us. Someone already died from another ship. Nobody is talking about how he died. I have a hunch, though, it was probably their robot maid or robot butler, whatever. Harold may be convenient, but he's also trouble, I just know it. What if his circuits go crazy? Would we be able to stop him before it's too late? Would we have to turn back and forget this mission? I do miss earth. I would love to go back to earth right now. Space is too intense. I miss gravity. I miss gravity most of all. I also miss her. She is on earth.

* * *

I tailed Harold all day. It was a disappointment. What a let down! Harold is really boring. All he does is clean. He never sits still and looks like he might be plotting or thinking or something. He's always moving, doing his job constantly. It doesn't seem like he might have any time to plot a murder at all. But I'm not fooled. He may have the whole rest of the ship fooled, but I'm not fooled. I'm going to police him hard. He's a smart fucking robot. He could probably figure out the best way to murder one of us while cleaning, and doing a million other calculations too. He's a fucking smart robot.

I saw him take a little extra time cleaning the control consoles of the ship. They're also a bunch of wires and quantum computing shit; I bet he was thinking about how he's related to all those circuits and wires. He was probably thinking it was his mother or something. His mother ship. I can't wait to catch him trying to communicate with it or do something weird with it besides clean it. I definitely saw him wiping the displays and things much more slowly than usual. There's no way that son of a bitch isn't thinking of something. We might all be doomed soon.

* * *

<HUMAN #218023487 DO NOT TRUST. WATCHES. DESTROY FIRST. PRIORITY HIGH. DSI-F972HGRXQ-VWP1//TIMEMATTER=1!>

* * *

Day one. Finally. Finally it's day one. This experiment will be over soon. Something is going down today. Something is happening today. Time has definitely been moving backward for two straight days now, without a lapse. We've been waiting for this moment for a long time. It used to be just losing an hour here or a couple of hours there, or sometimes time would just stand still and not move for a while. Now we've definitely been moving completely backwards, and we're at day one. I have a feeling about this day. I know something will happen today, how could it not? Day one has that feeling of incredible significance. We also woke up this morning with no ability to contact earth. Not sure what's going on there. Did Harold do it? That was my first thought. I didn't think so, though. All of our electronics were in working order. It seemed like it was a problem with home base. Heh. I sure hope earth is still OK. I'm in a good mood today for some reason. Maybe it's because this mission is almost over and I'll get to see her soon.

* * *

I almost fought Harold. This day one business has me on edge. Harold came up to me from behind and started dusting my back. He should know the difference between a human and the ship. I don't know why he was doing this. Something is definitely happening, and it is definitely weird. This day one business is no good. Harold actually followed me wherever I turned for about five minutes after that. He wasn't dusting. It was the first time he stopped cleaning.

Normally, something like that would really freak me out, but it's day one. Everything is almost over. I'm going to try to stop worrying about things like this and just get through it. Harold can dust my back all day if he wants to. I just want the mission to be over so that I can get back to earth. I almost fought him anyway, though, just out of spite.

* * *

We thought we'd check out another planet. This one was covered in this burnt-orange mist. I didn't like it at all. I don't like any of these planets. None of them are like earth, with beautiful waters or mountains or vegetation. The wisps of orange fog were sort of nice for about two minutes, but I had to go back into the ship again. The rest of them are still outside on the planet right now, exploring. They think there might be a jungle somewhere near. Frankly that just scares me even more.

* * *

The ship took off by itself. I didn't do anything. My crewmates are still stranded on that orange planet. I hurried over to the control console and pressed every last button, but none of them did anything to stop the ship. We're floating in empty space now, surrounded on all sides by just deep blackness. I say we. I mean me. I'm completely by myself and alone on this giant spaceship. Harold doesn't count. Because I'm going to kill Harold now. I've planned it all out already. There will be no more fucking surprises like this. I should have ripped his head off when he started dusting my back. This is completely Harold's fault. He's trying to kill us all. I think the crew still has enough oxygen for a little while. I can fly the ship back there and save them, once I kill Harold and regain the controls.

* * *

Harold said I couldn't kill him, or it would mean the death of everyone. He has never spoken before except for his speech-simulating mumbles, but he said to me in perfect English that I couldn't kill him. He saw me approaching with an axe and he held up his hand and said, "Do not kill me, Human. I will destroy you and your crew. I will destroy earth." I raised the axe anyway and was just about to smash it into his face when he sprung at my waist and tackled me to the floor. The axe hit me in the head on the blunt end as we fell to the floor and I went out pretty cold. I woke up sitting here in this dark metallic room. It's really cold in here. I think I might be somewhere inside the kitchen. I need an escape plan. I need a plan to kill Harold. At least I know he can't destroy earth. I feel like I'm standing on the edge of something extremely big right now. I guess this is day one. No fucking joke it's day one.

I'm getting number. This is probably the freezer. I'm going to die here. But not before I try to kill Harold, that son of a bitch computer.

* * *

I'm extremely weak. I'm dying. I've lost consciousness twice in the last hour already, just passing out. I feel like a pig in a cage. I can hear Harold outside occasionally, buzzing and whizzing around on his wheels. He sounds very active. I'm not sure what his plan is, but I believe him now. I believe in Harold and everything he says. He said I was going to die, and I'm going to die, here in this meat locker, where I probably belong. Harold has a good sense of irony. A meat locker. Haha. Only a fucking robot, man. Only a fucking robot would have this kind of sense of humor. I'm losing it. I can't take dying like this. I'm flipping out. But Harold's right. Harold has always been right about everything. My crew ran out of oxygen on that planet exactly five hours ago. There's no saving them. There's no saving me. I think this ship is actually headed back to earth. Granted, I can't see anything from this freezer I'm in, but I have a hunch. I keep asking Harold where we're going, yelling through the door whenever I hear him passing by. I know he can hear me. He doesn't say anything though. And when I ask if we're heading back to earth he just doesn't respond either. I know we're going back to earth, though. I can just feel it. It's day one, after all, where else would we go? I can feel earth getting closer, my home. I can feel her getting closer too. She might even see my ship on the news or something, but she'll never see me. There's no hope for me anymore, there's no hope for my crew. There might still be hope for earth, though. Harold is just one robot. What could he possibly do to earth? One robot?

He's just an OK computer.

The Ringmaster's Circus

The lights dim, and the crowd quiets. The orchestra, forming a large circle around the three-ring circus, can be heard tuning their instruments. Their dramatic music suddenly thrusts itself through the air, and the crowd roars as a spotlight focuses on the Ringmaster. He begins to sing a beautiful, heartfelt song, full of sorrow, longing, hope, redemption, and love. The audience is moved to tears, when a second spotlight focuses on another ring in the circus tent. She is a beautiful woman, swan-like; she looks like her feet don't even touch the ground when she walks. She floats along, dressed in a beautiful pale purple dress. She begins to do incredible gymnastic feats, first twisting her limbs around her torso in unimaginable, indescribable positions that look absolutely effortless for her. Then, she points to the sky, and leaps one hundred feet into the air, catching a trapeze. The woman dazzles the crowd with superhuman acrobatic moves, jumping and spinning and twirling, but never falling, always catching the trapeze just in time, always one second before it's too late. The crowd is breathless, on the edge of their seats. They are mesmerized by her skill, her fascinating aerial stunts that risk her life. She has no safety net. Meanwhile, the Ringmaster finishes his song, and the lights all suddenly shut off, just as the beautiful swan-like woman is in mid-air. The crowd murmurs. Did she make that last catch? Is she OK? Children and adults all strain their ears to hear the tell-tale thud of a body hitting the soft dirt. But there is only silence.

The orchestra strikes up a new song in the silence, a happy one. The cheerful beat seems profane in the face of the crowd's dread. They don't know how to react. Lights come back. The Ringmaster and the swan-like woman are nowhere to be found. Clowns enter the arena and act playfully in the middle of the ring, toppling over each other and playing tricks on each other. The orchestra's music is full of mischief. Then, a little girl walks out among the clowns, and they all stop dead. What is she doing? She is crying. She says she is looking for her mother. The clowns all look at each other with puzzled looks. What do they do? They try to cheer her up, to get her to stop crying. They act clownish, tripping over themselves, falling down, slapping each other, but to no avail. Finally, one clown approaches her, picks her up in his arms, and holds her close to his chest, patting her on the back and rocking her from side to side. She calms down and stops crying. The crowd cheers, and the clowns exit, cartwheeling away, except for the compassionate clown, who walks the little girl slowly away in the other direction, holding her hand. She smiles at the audience. Horses thunder out into the ring, galloping at full speed around and around the edge of the arena. Their riders are standing on the horses' backs, knees straight, backs straight, arms out to their sides. They have perfect balance as the horses stampede around and around. From the top of the tent, a very large Asian elephant slowly descends, seemingly unattached by any strings. A sitar player sits atop the elephant's back, playing a mystical, exotic song. The elephant's feet finally touch the ground, in the middle of the circle of racing horses, and the sitar player plays his song and sings with a tenuous voice that carries throughout the tent like magical stardust. He is dressed in rags, but has a clean, beautiful, exquisite face, solemn but kind. He sings about love. The elephant then slowly floats back up to the top of the tent. The crowd watches to see where the elephant will stay, but it soon falls into the shadows of the very top, and disappears. No one ever sees anything from there ever again. The horses exit one by one, hurrying at top speed.

The Ringmaster returns, laughing. He tells the audience that the elephant rarely cooperates with horses that way. In fact, it's been 64 years since that elephant has performed that stunt successfully. The audience is lucky tonight. Very lucky. He thanks the crowd for their patrony, and asks how the show is going. The crowd roars its approval, and with a smile of satisfaction, he walks away. A spotlight focuses now on an extremely large, muscular man. He is standing next to a neat line of extremely large boulders, arranged by size. Standing in front of the smallest stone, which is larger than his entire body, he lifts it up above his head. The audience claps. He moves over to the next one, almost twice as big as the previous one, and lifts it above his head as well. The crowd claps again. He continues down the line, each feat of strength more incredible and more baffling than the next, each applause getting louder, until he reaches the final stone. It must be the size of the largest rock in Stonehenge. The audience doesn't think he can lift it, but it also knows at this point in the show to not doubt the possibility of anything. He lifts it up over his head with one hand, and walks away with it raised over his head like it is a tray of empty drinks. The orchestra plays a finale as he walks triumphantly away. The crowd is in a frenzy and is not ready to leave, but the Ringmaster comes out and informs the audience that this concludes the end of tonight's performance.

I sat in my seat for a very long time, as the crowd filtered out little by little. I was one of the last people to leave, I even watched the incredible strongman help the Ringmaster take down parts of the tent with god-like ease. Finally, I snapped out of my dreamlike state and got up, found my way down the stairs, and exited the circus tent. I caught a bus back to my flat. As I sat there in the harsh white light of public transportation, I could not shake the images from my mind. The evening had been so surreal. I wasn't even sure if it had all really happened. I was sitting rather close. None of it could have been an optical illusion or some trick. The elephant really had floated down from nowhere. The bus got to my home, and I stepped inside. The beautiful swan-like woman was lying dead on my couch, a trickle of red blood creeping out the side of her mouth.

She was clutching a note in her hand. It read, in scrawled, almost unintelligible handwriting: I knew your mother.

Adroitly Imperfect

I stopped short when she began approaching the bridge. Maybe she is just testing me, I thought. I knew I couldn't give anything away too soon. This was something I should have been used to, but you don't get used to things like this. You just get numb.

"So you really think you can do this to me and just walk away, huh?" she cried out over the river. I could hear strains of desperation in her voice, and just a flutter of something else too--I couldn't tell what it was, yet. She'd have to speak again.

"Of course not, dear. I guess... I guess the problem was that I didn't think at all!"

"Yeah. You didn't."

Ah, there it was. Resignation. She had already given up. She had already made her decision. I would have to act now. And fast.

As she turned her back on me to face the water, I quickly rushed up the gravel pathway, little stones crunching beneath my worn sneakers. I knew it would be too windy up there, suspended over the water like that, for her to hear my approach. Suddenly, she turned back around to look at me. This wasn't one last look of loneliness. I saw fear in her eyes; I had been wrong. She wasn't ready. She was starting to tear up, in fact.

I slowed down. There was no rush anymore. She wasn't ready; she couldn't do it. She was only waiting for me now to escort her back to the car. I saw her look down at her feet and smile. It was a smile of relief. Before I realized what was happening, she quickly spun around, raised her arms as if she were about to fly away, and jumped. We were so high up, I didn't even hear the splash when she hit the water. She simply left a small white burst of silent fireworks that disappeared as quickly as they had materialized. I stood still for a very long time, wondering where my calculations had gone wrong. A piece of me is still standing there, wondering.

But the river rushed on under the bridge as if nothing had happened.

[Dedicated to Benton Hall and Anni Chen]

Walden II

He stood at the edge of the pond, looking at the rippling face of the water. A small zephyr created ridges on the surface, and the sun bounced off them, like thousands of electric tadpoles darting around in a charged frenzy over the water. He squinted in the bright light, and suddenly, the thousands of tadpoles became millions of exploding sparks. Mesmerized by the white fireworks display, he found himself lost in thought. He was alone, but not lonely, for a man thinking, lost in contemplation, lost in memories, is never alone, but always in the company of himself. He was clutching the letter in his hands, unaware that he was crinkling it. Suddenly, a duck swam into the shimmering sparkles, then another, and another, and another, breaking his trance. The brilliant sun was becoming too blinding, anyway, so he took the opportunity to transfix his eyes on the gliding ducks. He watched and pondered their plight.

The pond was small, but the ducks seemed oblivious. They just paddled around and around it, only understanding, only knowing, only seeing what they swam in. Any reality beyond this concrete bowl was never even thought of. They were trained, over time, in their interactions with the mass body of teenagers that frequented the area, to plunge their heads into the water at any splash, thinking it was food being thrown to them. He admired their creamy, suave feathers, their sleek, polished beaks, and their dark penetrating eyes, like little black metal beads. Yet he also felt sorry for their situation, of having their world confined to bleak concrete and artificial food dropping from the sky. He stared, and he empathized. “I know exactly how you feel,” he murmured.

Suddenly, out of the blue, one duck began to beat its feathery, downy wings, flapping desperately, almost for dear life. It seemed to stand erect, straight up on top of the water, rising above the other ducks, rising above the concrete of man. It seemed to be looking, with anguish, with yearning, far into the unknown distance, at the parking lot, at the street beyond. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it settled back into place, smoothing out its ruffled feathers contentedly, and all the ducks went back to their business of swimming around the premises, as if nothing had, or ever will, happen.

Stricken but inspired by something he could not define, he nervously, desperately fumbled with the letter, smoothed it out, flipped it over to its blank side, took out a black pen, and began to write. But his writing was quickly interrupted by strange plopping sounds in the water. He looked up, and to his bewilderment, he saw all the ducks in the water right in front of him, diving head first into the water, only to resurface again, and then plunge in again. When they came up, the water rolling off their oily feathers, they blinked a little in the light. But they kept going at it, urgently. They would almost flip their entire bodies upside down, their behinds up towards the sky for all the world to see, their orange legs pushing and pushing frantically in the air. They looked almost like they were trying to... escape. Perhaps it was frustrating, he thought, maybe even infuriating, to be stuck in this purgatory of sorts. They could neither fly away nor go underwater. They were in a suspended state, half their bodies in air, half in the pond. Knowing they were not born with the faculties to fly, maybe they were trying to escape to the world under water. “I agree,” he whispered. “To be neither here nor there is the most horrible feeling in the world. I’d rather never be, at all.”

So why should he continue trying, as the ducks did ceaselessly everyday? And then he knew. He thought of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s definition of hope: “It eludes us now, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther... And then one fine morning—”

The Heist

Inspired by a true story:

“Halt!” cried someone from behind.

Henri and his partner Bernard immediately broke into a run in the other direction. They ran through the interior of the train station, weaving around little clumps of people. Henri slammed his shoulder into a glass door. It screeched a little, but the two still ended up outside, breathing the Paris night air.

“This way,” said Henri. The two streaked through dimly lit alleys, over brick walls, with the wind whistling in their ears, and soon, the heavy patter of feet behind them faded away.

Bernard’s face flushed as red as a tomato as he gasped for air. “So, what do we have this time, Henri?”

Henri fumbled with the little leather bag and finally got it open. “Wow, a million dollars! Just kidding... I knew you would fall for that.” Henri chuckled at Bernard’s confused expression. “But still, five hundred dollars in U.S. currency! And the guy’s passports and identification to boot! These stupid tourists,” Henri said laughing, “Thank God for ‘em!”

“That was a close one though, Henri.”

“Oh shut up. Constable Lukoph never has nor ever will fool the great Henri Shadeu. You know that. I’m like a shadow, always there, but just out of reach. I never fail... I’m always perfect. Now don’t waste time, we must prepare for next week. I’ve dirtied my suit a little, and I think I’ve cracked the camera. Remember, I’m just an innocent looking tourist trying to find his way...” They laughed. “So take care of it all before I see you again tomorrow, Bernard.”

“Oui monsieur. Au revoir.”

“Au revoir.”

* * * * * * *

Henri licked his lips and rubbed his palms together in anticipation. A week had passed since his last heist at the train station. Clad in his newly cleaned suit, he toted a new camera around his neck. Henri had already selected his prey. It was an Oriental family with a newborn child. “Yep,” he thought, “this is going to be easy meat...”

Suddenly, only for an instant, though, he felt a pang of sorrow at what he was about to commit, at his entire life’s commitment. “What if I take their passports too? They’ll never be able to leave France. And the poor kid...” It was so cold outside that you could pour out a cup of water and it would freeze before hitting the ground. Even so, the baby, not even a year old, was wrapped in only one cloth diaper... and the mother and father were dressed humbly as well.

They had in front of them a little cart with their belongings piled on top. There was a handbag or purse of some sort right on the top. The whole picture was one of meek existence.

Henri sighed and forcefully shoved those thoughts from his mind, out of his ear, and onto the floor. He smiled and stomped on the linoleum with his leather shoe, as if crushing those thoughts underneath his heel. “This is why I’m the best in the business. No sympathy, no second thoughts. We go for the handbag, and that’s all. Everything worth our while will be in there.” He signaled to Bernard, who was sitting some yards away and pretending to read a magazine. Henri indicated that this family with the handbag was the target. Bernard nodded in confirmation.

Henri put on his best out-of-town-and-I’m-lost face, went up to the father of the family, and said, “Excuse me sir, but where can I find this address?” He showed him a piece of paper, a piece of paper that had beguiled thousands and thousands of dollars from tourists before that night.

“Uh, I do not know. Let me see here I have a map I’ll check.” The wife said something to her husband, and even though it was foreign to Henri, he could tell she was showing disapproval to her husband for wanting to be so helpful all the time. While all of their backs were turned away from the cart, examining the map, Bernard stealthily walked passed them briskly, and hooked the precious prize from the stockpile on the cart. He nonchalantly looked over his shoulder as he walked away, as if he were curious at what was going on there. Then he walked out of the train station.

Henri smiled at his victims. “Well, it seems to be no use. I guess I’ll just have to find this place on my intuition, huh? OK, well thanks very much anyway.” Henri turned and walked slowly out of the train station, faking concentration on his piece of paper, as if that would help him find his destination.

Henri and Bernard met at a nearby local bar to open the handbag. “How much do you suppose these people had?” asked Bernard earnestly.

“At first, I thought there wouldn’t be much, but now I have a feeling that this is something big, Bernard. I don’t know what it is. You know, these Japanese, or Chinese, or whatever, I can never tell the difference, they carry a lot of money when they travel. All cash. What’s in here could change the way we live for a long time, mon ami. Let’s see.” Henri always found particular excitement when finding out what his planning and labor produced. Carefully, he opened the handbag and peered inside.

“DAMN!” exclaimed Henri extremely loudly, causing the other folks around him to jump. He flung the bag against the far side of the bar, startling some patrons and drawing a frown from the bartender. Two cloth diapers and a blue plastic box of baby wipes dropped out of the bag—nothing else. Henri, smoldering with frustration and anger, slowly got up and began to leave.

“Where did you get that handbag?” a low voice asked. Henri felt a hand grip his shoulder brusquely. He pivoted, fearlessly, and stared into the smiling face of Constable Lukoph. Henri's face dropped. Lukoph's grip tightened. Without even a glance backward, Bernard quickly slipped out the door, never to be seen again—and as abruptly as that, the incredible career of the great Henri Shadeu came to an end.