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KrissStress
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Name: Kriss
Country: United States
State: Illinois
Metro: Chicago
Birthday: 9/3/1984
Gender: Male
Interests: turntablism, vinyl, Jesus, mod, ska, rocksteady, (early) reggae, dub, 2 Tone, underground hip hop, (good) punk rock, synthpop, no wave, new wave, post punk, electro, community, record collecting, record stores, mix tapes, cassettes, collages, photography, forgiveness, love, patience, kindness, peace, mercy and grace.
Expertise:
Romans 14:19 - Let us aim for and eagerly pursue what makes for harmony and for mutual upbuilding of one another.
Occupation: Writer / Synth Operator / Sala
Industry: Media
Message: message me
Website: visit my website
AIM:  the kids today x
Member Since:
5/17/2003
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| “Do you think it’s odd?”
“I think a lot of things are odd.” Shutting the car door after seating myself behind the wheel, I adjusted the rearview mirror, “Everything is odd these days.”
“I’m referring to Andy.”
I looked over at Hannelore who was buckling herself into her seat, “Oh he was definitely an oddity in every way.”
“O_____.”
I sighed, “I’m sorry.”
“Just, one day a person is here. They’re right beside you and you’re talking to them. The very next day they’re not there at all.” She paused and took a breath as I turned the keys inside of the ignition. “And they aren’t gone in the way of taking a trip or moving to some other state. They’re beyond contact.”
“Well technically, it wasn’t a one day to the next day thing. It was more of a one week to the next week kind of thing.” I looked over at her, “So unfortunately I can’t relate.”
“O_____.” Hannelore was growing impatient now, “I understand that you’re grieving and I get that one of the ways you grieve is sarcasm.” She placed her hand on top of mine as I controlled the stick shift as the car began to move from its parked position, “But can you attempt – ATTEMPT – to talk to atleast me like a normal human being instead of a sparring partner.”
“I’m sorry,” I took a deep breath as I looked at the road ahead of me, “I can just think of so many other things I could be doing with my day right now.”
“It’s a shame that Andy’s death has proven to be such an inconvenience for you. Having to go about the burial arrangements and all is quite the task isn’t it?”
I took another deep breath as I looked over towards her, “You know it isn’t that, I just don’t believe we should be in this situation. It was preventable.”
See here’s the truth of the matter, and you probably think I’m exhibiting all of the examples of anti social behavior in response to the situation – I can assure you such an assumption is wrong. These things don’t happen often – they’re not daily occurrences and thankfully so. I just feel like I’ve been shutting down over the last few days is all.
Hannelore sighed as she looked out the window, “It just seems like you’ve been shutting down over the last few days is all.”
See?
“How so?”
“You do this during situations.” Hannelore looked away from the window and watched me as I guided our vehicle, “When there are events which take place in our lives that you can’t accept, you go catatonic – you snap out of your periods of suspension only to make bitingly sarcastic comments and ask me to make you a cup of tea.”
“Tea is good.”
“And that’s another matter of contention altogether isn’t?” Hannelore squeezed my hand, “When you get like this, your usually ravenous appetite reverts to that of an emaciated fashion model’s.”
“Well be thankful that I don’t supplement tea and sugar with nicotine,” I looked over at her, “Or worse yet – irony of ironies, alcohol.”
“And yet I feel as if such abstinence is only a small blessing in the greater whole of your psychosis during these matters.”
“Psychosis?”
“Well yes.”
“Oh this should be compelling.”
“O_____,” Hannelore took in a deep breath as she looked towards the road, “I really do think you should see a doctor.”
“For what?”
“Your delusions.”
“My delusions?”
“Your delusions.”
I looked over at her, “and do provide examples in minutiae of what ‘delusions’ I’m currently having. Because robots ripping each other’s circuitry out and dueling with humans, last time I checked, you were seeing those altercations too!” I could feel myself becoming frustrated and my voice beginning to show strain as a result, “And those masked vigilantes in the park, they were in the newspaper the next day.” I paused, “And let’s not even begin to speak exhaustively on the subject of our talking feline housemate.”
“Those are real. Yes.” Hannelore closed her eyes as she leaned her head back against her seat, “But the other things you claim to see, children running around playing laser tag with actual government issued laser fire arms – weapons which could easily kill – not play toys. How can you explain that? Women with pet squid, musical notes and melodies in tangible and physical form who actually dance around on the sidewalks, ranting women and their space native partners jumbling on and on about the low qualities of our apartment building-“ she looked over at me, “-and yet you espouse these things as real.”
“Robots, talking cats and men running around imitating story lines out of Detective Comics are perfectly rooted in reality and those things aren’t?” I was incredulous. “How can one set of absurdities be true while the others are false?”
“Because the rest of us see the first set of absurdities.” Hannelore sighed in resignation, “None of us see the second.”
“How can you not?” my voice began to peak. I could feel myself shouting, “Perhaps you’re turning a blind eye to it. You’re talking as if I belong in a gown being examined by men in white coats!”
“I’m not saying that at all. Your assumptions of such insinuation are themselves quite off the mark. I’m simply suggesting that you may be under quite a bit of duress from your work and from the social situations we’re constantly in.” she looked out the window again as she paused, “Perhaps those elements are now taking their toll.”
“I’m absolutely fine.”
“It doesn’t help that you constantly revert into a child like state of being when we’re in many of the social settings either.” She looked at me again with a scowl, “The whole artsy, sensitive recluse act you do – it’s charming only the first five times you encounter it. Afterwards it’s wearing.”
I slammed my foot on the brake violently as I gritted my teeth. Looking in front of me towards the road, I could hear Hannelore gag as the velocity of our sudden stop threw her forward before her seat belt retained her and tossed her back towards her seat. “This conversation went from a concerned examination to a character assassination in about five paces.”
“It wasn’t supposed to.”
“But it did.”
“You never listen to me. You only want to freak out all of the time.”
I removed my seat belt from across my frame and opened the car door. Looking over at Hannelore, “Well you can rest easy knowing I won’t freak out tonight.”
“O_____.” Hannelore’s eyes were now filled with desperation. “Please don’t do this.”
“You can handle the arrangements yourself. The obituary and funeral time was placed in the paper this morning. Your own hand can easily resolve the rest. You don’t need mine.”
I stepped out of the vehicle and closed the door behind me. As I stepped further and further away from the car, I made no attempt to look to either side of my vision – I fixated only on what was before me as I began what was now probably going to be a forty-five minute walk back to our apartment. Behind me, I could hear the engine to our vehicle start and I glanced over my shoulder as I watched Hannelore commandeer it off into the distance. Within moments, it was gone.
We had stopped in the middle of a small, quaint bridge in the middle of one of the many parks located within our community and this bridge had no differentiating distinctions from any other non-descript bridge in the area. As I began to walk down the bridge’s pathway, I stared down at the ground beneath my feet as the brick and cobblestone began to transform slowly into a wet and moist surface more comparable to the glossy, saliva drenched surface of a tongue. Still staring, I watched as the ground now began to conceive small suction devices. The suctions began to make clicking sounds as they panted and salivated beneath my shoes. By the time I had stepped off of the bridge, it had turned into what looked to be the inside of a large, monstrous mouth.
“She’s right you know?”
“No she’s not.”
I looked up towards the trees as they whistled in unison. “She’s absolutely right and you’re so prideful that you don’t want to hear her out”
“Well I can hear you audibly. You aren’t inside of my head.”
“I can hear them too.”
I looked over as the mustard bottle from my daydream yesterday approached me. “They’re good conversationalists you know,” he pointed upwards, “The trees.”
“We really are” one oak insisted.
“There’s just that issue of them all trying to taunt you as a gang with that…” he shuddered, “…whistling thing they do.”
“We feel it provides an element of intimidation.”
I looked up towards the trees and back at the mustard bottle. “I don’t understand it. He’s gone and all she can do is fixate on how I have issues that impair me.”
“She’s misguided is all.”
I looked over at the mustard bottle; “I suppose you’re going to encourage me to engage her in some horrific form of death.”
“Oh of course not.” The mustard bottle laughed, “Maybe a hateful joke or two involving the placement of lunch meat inside of one of her sandwiches or something, but nothing too damaging.”
“Not all delusions are homicidal or negative you know.”
I looked up at the trees. “Delusions?”
“Oh absolutely.” The oak scoffed and looked down at me, “You can’t possibly think I can really talk to you do you? I’m a plant-based form. Sure I live due to photosynthesis, but the ability to form audible words – that’s all you and your ability to project.”
“Ability.” The mustard bottle repeated, “NOT delusion or disorder.”
“I just wish I hadn’t have fired him.” I sighed as I sat down against the oak, looking up at towards the top, “You don’t mind if I do this do you?”
“Oh not at all. Feel free.”
“Thanks,” I looked up at the mustard bottle as he stood watching me patiently, “See, he was a complete slouch. Looking back at him now, I want to say that he had more redeemable qualities then he had pitfalls and detractive qualities…”
“…but you can’t?”
“I can’t.” I sighed. “And I’m sure that makes me a terrible person. I attempted so many times to help him throw his self imposed tribulations away and every time, he slapped me in the face in the most figurative of senses by turning away my counsel and refusing to see the grains of truth in my words.” Resting my hands behind me head, “But perhaps he was proper to not listen to me. I’m talking to inanimate objects and giant sized condiments at the moment.”
“You know condiment,” the bottle cringed, “It’s like calling a black man a ni-“
“Point is; I could have helped him.” I looked off towards the road again as random cars trickled back and forth in a slow and lackadaisical fashion. “And maybe ultimately he wasn’t redeemable at the current time. But whose to say that may not have been redeemable in some way or another years from now?”
The mustard bottle shrugged. “I guess,” I continued as I looked down at the ground, “Hannelore was right. In a way, we were his safety net. I snatched his safety net away and expected him to survive. Looking back at how the events played out, one could make an obvious observation that when an acrobat falls – when they are sans net, they hit the ground and become pancake batter. They’re not cats.”
“O_____?”
I looked up. Hannelore was standing in front of me. The car was a few feet behind her with the motor still running. “Yes?”
“Can you please get back in the car? I’d really rather not do this without you.”
I looked upwards towards the oak tree I was leaning against. It had reverted back to its original form with no facial expressions or marks noticeable. My companion, the mustard bottle was also nowhere in sight. Further down the road, the bridge, only moments before a large, salivating orifice had reverted back to cobblestone and brick.
I rose up and dusted my knees off as I looked at Hannelore. “I’m sorry for getting angry, I’m just-“
“-struggling.” She sighed as she put her hand to my face, “Now was not the most kosher time for me to bring up my concerns about your own health. And I’m sorry.”
“Noted, point taken and forgiven.” I smiled. “I just can’t help but think that there are more practical things I could be doing with this time.”
“If he were still amongst us, you probably would be doing those things.”
“And he could have been.”
“We can’t go down this road every time you know.”
“I know.”
“The road of blaming ourselves. We couldn’t control his substance issues. We couldn’t be his babysitters.”
“The world would be a lot more pleasant though, if we all had babysitters.”
“Speaking slightly Orwellian there aren’t you?”
“Alright fine – the babysitters that wipe the dribble from your mouth and pamper you,” I smiled as I began to walk back towards the car, “Not the ones who spy on you while you’re using the restroom and take half of your annual earnings.”
O. Hoch
Twentieth of March
Nineteen Sixty Nine | | |
| “I’m confused on whether or not you’re kidding.”
Sitting across the table from me, the mustard bottle leaned forward in his seat. “O____.” His glare set itself upon me, “Can I call you O____?” I nodded somewhat unsurely, “Your friend Andy, he took the uh, he took the dive off the end of Merlot Mountain did he not?”
“Well it wouldn’t be nice to state it so casually.”
The bottle shrugged, “Listen, we all have our losses in life. But I’m simply making a suggestion to you. Andy would want it this way.”
“He would?”
The bottle nodded again. As he did so, the nozzle, which acted as his head made an odd motion as it bent from his neck, which was the base of the cap, which could be screwed on or off to check the amount of yellow substance inside of his frame. “He would.”
“You’re just asking for something a bit out of the ordinary.”
“I know.” The mustard bottle smiled as he produced a piece of paper and set it down on the table in front of me, “But Andy would have appreciated it. Think of all he can do to help people now.”
“Sir, your words suggest something a bit more innocuous, as if to say that he’s going to have his organs and eyes harvested and given to those who can no longer use their own.”
The bottle let forth a robust laugh, “Now let’s not be silly O____!” His face turned to a grimace and his eyes narrowed as he leaned in further, in a harsh whisper, “Science is much more nebulas and far more in need of willing bodies then the greater medical community.”
“But he’s not willing!” I threw my hands up in frustration as I leaned back into my chair and began to slump somewhat uncomfortably into it. “He has no say at all. He has no say in anything else for that matter!” I sighed in resignation, “If the idiot had stayed away from the bottle, perhaps he could be around to give a say in some matter or another.”
“But he’s not!” losing no breath and sacrificing no pause, the mustard bottle pushed the paper closer towards me.
I picked it up and began to examine its text. “It’s a contract.”
“Well of course.” The robust laughs kept coming with no pause of their own, “He had no family. No kin of any kind. As his former employer, you’re legally the closest to him, so you can sign off on him.”
My eyes narrowed on the text as I stared at the blank line jumping off of the page. The black text began to grow larger as it shouted for me to sign the document. “And what again, are you planning on doing to Andy’s cadaver…” I put the document down and looked over at my lunch partner, “…in the name of science?”
“Well,” the mustard bottle coughed as he cracked his knuckles and reached for his glass of pureed tomato juice, “We want to create real prosthetics for amputees.” Pausing, he took a large swig from his glass. Setting it down, “We want to study Andy’s limbs and examine every nerve, every bone, every aspect and intricacy so as to create the perfect fully functional prosthetic.”
“I see,” my eyes raised with suspicion, “And what do you plan to do with the rest of his corpse?”
“Well the eyes and heart and organs in the torso area,” the bottle waved his hand passively, “Those actually can go to be harvested for someone who needs them.” He looked over at me and studied my face, “Does that settle well with you?”
“But the prosthetics,” he sighed as I began with another question, “You’re just going to slice his arms off of his body and then rip them open to study their intricacies?”
“Well we can’t surely take a guess and assume without looking with our own eyes can we?” he made a whistling noise to the large pineapple in the hula skirt who was waiting on another table. She sauntered over and looked down at our empty glasses.
“And what can I get you boys?”
“Another tomato puree for me,” the mustard bottle looked over at me, “You?”
I shrugged apathetically and looked down at my glass, “Another round of pineapple juice?”
Our waitress huffed as she took down the order. “Scoundrel,” she muttered under her breath, “Savage!” Smiling suddenly, she looked back up at us from her notepad, “I’ll have them out momentarily!” she chirped. She shimmied off, the long green stalks emitting from her head looking as stiff rags.
“For science.” I muttered as I watched her wander off to the bar.
“For science.” The bottle echoed. “Surely, you can’t have too many quibbles with that.”
Looking down at my empty glass, “Surely not.”
“Mr. Hoch?”
I looked up at the slightly older then middle-aged man across from me. His suit had a wonderful cut to it and his mustache and hair were coloured a seasoned shade of pepper grey. I looked around me at our surroundings. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s quite alright son.” The man laughed, “You seemed to have fallen into something of a day dream when I was off in the restroom.” Leaning in towards me, he locked his eyes onto mine, “Have you given any thought to what we were previously conversing over?”
“The uh,” I stuttered, “The burial arrangements?” the man nodded. “Gee Mr. Kramer, I honestly haven’t. I’m just,” I paused, “This is all so very new to me still.”
“I understand,” Mr. Kramer was solemn as he produced a piece of paper from his briefcase. “But he had no family. No kin. As his former employer, you’re legally the closest to him.”
“I just don’t know how any of these matters work.” I stammered. Looking down at my pineapple juice, I eyed it for a moment before snatching it up in my grip and violently taking it down my throat in one motion before slamming it down on the table.
Mr. Kramer watched this display with a worried expression. As the glass slammed down onto the table, he showed signs of being visibly shaken by the act, “You understand our staff can help you during this time. To pick out the proper casket, the best plot of land, the nicest suit, anything Andy could have wanted.”
But this isn’t what Andy would have wanted. Who would want this? Who wants to plot their own death? Let me tell you now, if you ever decide that your vices are more important then your family and friends, you deserve to be throat punched repeatedly – and when you die from your vice, your loved ones should be allowed to string up your cadaver and treat it as a piñata! Planning one’s funeral due to such unnecessary circumstances is unsensible! Absolutely unsensible!
“I’m honestly at a loss for where to begin.”
Mr. Kramer sighed as he pushed the document closer to me. I could see the space where my signature was supposed to reside and I could see the black text grow larger as it shouted for me to sign the document. “Well for now, sign over your consent and we can pick out a coffin within the price range of your choosing while you take a couple of days to get yourself and the plans together.”
He produced a pen from his breast pocket and handed it to me. As I took it, I could feel my eyes beginning to dry out. They had been bloodshot for the last four days and I couldn’t feel anything in them at this point. “I can’t speak with my wife about this first? I mean; she’s much better at this sort of business.”
“What do you need to discuss?” I could feel a pushiness beginning to manifest within Mr. Kramer’s voice.
This is why I don’t like dealing with businessmen. Even the ones who deal in death are far more fixated on pushing their product then understanding their client’s needs. I’m not asking for this gentlemen to extend me sympathies along the lines of a tissue and a shoulder to cry on, but I’m asking for a bit of time.
“I just need to figure out what the best avenue is for us to go down in this matter. That’s all.”
“Well the body,” Mr. Kramer was now becoming terse, “is already within the first states of decomposition. We need to embalm him and go about the procedures for proper preservation.” He paused and looked me in the eye with sternness, “You called me down here to meet with you for a consultation and you haven’t much time left to deal with this matter.”
I sighed as I placed my signature on the document. What did it matter? How many funeral homes are there in Chicago anyway? It’s irrelevant. They’re all in the business of moving high priced coffins and even higher priced funeral services. At this point I don’t really have an opinion favoring any one way or the other regardless.
“Thank you sir.” Mr. Kramer smiled, “If it suits you, we will have the hospital release the body this afternoon and we will begin the duties of preservation this evening.”
“That’s fine.”
He rose from his seat and placed his hat snugly onto his head. He extended his hand downward towards me. I responded by reaching out my own and giving his a firm shake.
“We will help you through this most arduous of times Mr. Hoch,” he re assured me, “with smoothness and ease.” His face was dour, though I could tell he was pleased to have generated some revenue for his business, “Again, we are so terribly sorry for your loss.”
“I’m terribly sorry for it too.”
He nodded and turned on the heels of his feet to make his way towards the door of the diner leading out onto the street. I looked over towards the waitress who was several tables down and raised my hand to motion her over.
Making her way to the table, “And what can I get for you sir?”
“Another round of pineapple juice?”
“Absolutely,” she muttered beneath her breath. “Gladly.” She looked back up at me from her notepad, “I’ll have it out for you momentarily!” she chirped. She shimmied off, the long, dirty blond hair emitting from her head looking more like natty rags then strands of hair.
Today is hot. Well, not sweltering. But it’s much warmer then it’s been in quite a few months. 74 today and apparently it’s a record. Walking back towards the apartment from the diner, I looked into the shops with their open doors as I passed by each one of them.
As I neared the local record shoppe, I could hear the strains of Prince Buster’s “Ghost Dance” pouring out onto the street. As I neared closer, I watched the melodies dancing around on the sidewalk arm and arm. Two particularly large musical notes chased one another around in a circle as a group of smaller musical notes danced and swung in the middle. As I approached them, I broadened my steps so that I could step over or around them to prevent stepping on them.
The song had been quite a hit across the pond in England a couple of summers ago and it was quite fitting for a day as warm as this one. I stopped and looked into the window of the record shop and observed the two record clerks – two particularly bright and educated men in the matters of pop music as they did their jobs. One was actively in the middle of providing a dissertation to an inquisitive customer on the particular Buster tune playing while the other dug through a shelf of forty-fives before producing another Blue Beat single to play on the hi fi. I looked down at the musical notes as they continued to dance on the hot sidewalk.
“See here, America isn’t prepared for this sound!” the clerk in conversation with the patron declared.
“Well sure they are!” the patron argued, “What about “The Israelites””?
“What about it?” the clerk sneered, “So America sinks their teeth into a single Desmond Dekker tune and you assume they want more now do you!”
“ONE STEP BEYOND!”
The speakers of the record shoppe began to shake as the voice shouted the mantra across their fields. The second clerk had switched out the forty-fives and had replaced “Ghost Dance” with the Prince’s more obscure selection “One Step Beyond.”
“They’re not ready for this!” the first clerk repeated, “There are barely any words!”
“And they don’t need them either!” the second clerk chimed in.
“Well I’m certainly ready for them!” The patron declared sharply. “And I would like copies of both!”
“Alright then.” The clerk licked his thumb before reaching beneath the counter to produce two mint copies of the singles. He handed them over the counter to the patron. “That’ll be an even five dollars of course.”
“Five dollars!” the patron’s tone became horrified. “For two singles! You’re giving me a pull and you know you are! That’s the price of an album!”
“But my friend,” the clerk smiled arrogantly, “These here,” he poked his finger at the paper sleeve of one of the singles in the patrons hands, “These are imports. You think they flew over here from Jamaica for free?”
“Well I suppose not,” the patron replied as he sighed and dug into his pocket. “Four ones,” he replied as he set a fistful of dollar bills down onto the counter. Digging deeper in his pockets, he produced four quarters and then handed them to the clerk who took them with a smile before depositing them into the register beside him, “There goes my laundry money for this week.”
“But surely it’s worth it?” the second clerk asked as he leaned over the counter and looked at the patron. “You’re now the proud owner of some of the sweetest sounds on your block. Such a right doesn’t come cheap now does it?”
I laughed as I continued walking down the street, taking care not to step on the musical notes that were now frenzied in their dancing as they branched out across the sidewalk. Walking towards the apartment, I found myself lost in thought as usual. That tune, the “Ghost Dance” came to mind again. My thoughts began to drift to the song’s meaning – a lament from Prince Buster about the days gone past of sound system dances and friends long gone or perhaps dead. Was this now a fitting letter for my own life’s circumstances?
We spend all of our time thinking about our lives and how we’ve living them. We over analyze them and all the while, we never realize how much shuffle we ultimately get lost in. Why does it always take a monster like death to remind us how much of a commodity life is? We speak of life as a right – literally a birthright – something that is owed to us – and damn anyone who tries to rob us of it. But have we ever stopped to think and perhaps adopt a mindset that life actually is a privilege? When we abuse such a privilege, such a luxury – doesn’t it seem sensible that it would be taken from us?
We’re all children obsessed with gratification.
As I approached the front of my apartment building, I stepped aside to let a large woman and her green skinned partner shuffle by as they exited.
“Filth! Absolute filth!” the woman cried. “I’ve never been inside of living quarters with such poor upkeep and so few who care that it is so!”
“ewoiuaoidnknasmehioashdj” her companion replied.”
“Oh I agree.”
“ewiojhadvmnasbriweopwuepoupvlaknsdg”
“Folks don’t care about anything these days. No regard for their lives or possessions of anyone else’s for that matter.”
I watched the two of them as they made their way quickly down the street. I wonder what had shaken them? I shrugged as I entered into the building. The lady of course, was right.
O. Hoch
Eighteenth of March
Nineteen Sixty Nine | | |
| I’ve spent the last thirty-six hours of my life in a state of emotional and physical duress. My symptoms have been irritating to say the least – dry throat, throbbing head, nose feeling as if on fire and an urge to do nothing but sleep. Fortunately, vomiting has not come into the equation and for that I’m thankful. Last night when my illness hit its fever pitch, Hannelore decided it to be a good booster for my spirit to order my favorite meal from the local Chinese take away. When it arrived, she accidentally double tipped the delivery man who profusely thanked her in his dialect. Not understanding him, she nodded politely and closed the door. My meal – a hot and sour tofu and vegetable stir fry did the job of clearing my senses while I was consuming it. However, this time of enjoyment was short lived, as my appetite was miniscule compared to its usual voraciousness. This meal, a meal that I can almost always consume in one sitting became my dinner, a late night snack and my breakfast this morning. After only a few bites, I found myself satisfied. My typical working hours have been disregarded and I found myself resigning my mind to sleep last night well before midnight – another occurrence that could be noted for its rarity. When I feel this way, I typically request Hannelore to disconnect our phone line from the wall so as to avoid any incoming calls or requests.
Waking up now, I feel as if I’m in a state of vertigo. Though I slept for nearly twelve hours without interruption, I feel as though I’ve wasted time that could have been better spent.
“There’s that piece I need to work on!” I protested as Hannelore gave me a small handful of pills when I awoke.
“You’re not in any condition to do anything right now. You’ve probably made yourself sick from overwork anyhow.”
I scoffed, “That’s not possible, and a person can’t make them selves physically sick from such a thing!”
“But they can!” Hannelore rose from where she was sitting beside me on the bed and reached for her brush, “When you exhaust yourself and don’t get enough sleep, your body begins to wear down. It has nothing to do with mental powers and everything to do with keeping priority to avoid feeling like you feel now.”
“Oh right. You’re now the physician guru I’ve never had.”
“No. I’m the physician guru you’ve always had. I’m convinced you enter into a minor case of dementia when you get sick, so you never remember me nursing you back to health. Resultantly, whenever you get sick again, you assume this to be the first time instead of the latest in a long line of times.”
I shook my head in disbelief as I surveyed my surroundings. No spots in the eyes. No double vision. “I don’t have dementia!”
Hannelore scoffed again, “Right.” After combing her hair, she headed through the hallway to the living room to retrieve a pair of shoes. “I’m going to the market to get some grocery shopping done.”
“You plan on cooking?”
“No. I’m getting everything together so that you can cook me something once you’re better. You know, as a reward for my keeping such vigil watch over you.”
When I sleep, I tend to dream quite lucidly. Now many people claim they never remember their dreams, but I’m not one of those individuals. Freud has often attributed our dreams as fulfillments of our subconscious – if you want to murder your boss, you may be able to do it in your dreams. If you want to be a millionaire or date Jane Fonda, you could be a millionaire of date Jane Fonda in your dreams. Many schools of thought have attributed dreams to visions – some espouse that they can be interpreted or viewed as metaphors. After Hannelore left to go to the market, I found myself drifting off to my own subconscious.
I’m in some theme park sitting on a bench with Andy. Maybe it was Coney Island, I’m not too clear on names or specifics. Anyway, we were sitting there eating ice cream and generally enjoying how nice the weather was.
“You know, I think it’s great that we’ve finally figured out how to get the unicorns integrated into the studio.”
“Yeah,” I replied as I continued working on my cone, “Unicorn breeding will definitely be a good financial source for us during times of slow down when people aren’t buying art so much.”
The dream suddenly flashes to the studio. Being as big as it is, thinking about it now, it would actually be reasonable to maintain a stable of animals somewhere within the premises. The unicorns were small and quite gorgeous. They had long white hair and the most adorable horns protruding from their foreheads. There were four total, two who were huddled together in a corner of the pen sleeping and the other two play fighting at the other end. Apparently these unicorns, despite being non-sentient beings, were able to understand the basics of being considerate as well given their separate locations and the quietness of the two sparring.
The dream then flashed back to Andy and I on the bench.
“They didn’t cost us that much at all either.”
“Considering they were on the black market and all.” Andy smirked as he polished off the reminder of his ice cream cone.
“But what if we ever got caught? I’m pretty sure there’s an ordinance somewhere prohibiting the housing of exotic animals. There’s probably one prohibiting their breeding too.”
Andy shrugged, “My friend, you have to learn to throw caution to the wind sometimes. We’ll be feeding them well. They have plenty of room to play. And they’re not being mistreated in the least.” He paused for a moment, and then looked over at me, “But they’re not really ‘exotic’ are they? I mean, they’re just horses with horns.”
“I think the horns are what would put them in the exotic category.”
“Right.” He looked away and fixed his eyes over to the large lake in front of us. At this point in the dream, we were still sitting on the bench, but we weren’t in the theme park anymore. “Though I am curious as to what the punishment would be should we get caught?”
“Hefty fines, imprisonment, any number of things.” I finished my slice of pizza, which at this point was no longer the ice cream cone I had been consuming moments before.
We rose from the bench and began to walk along the beach. The sky above had at one point been a nice marble blue with flourishes of fluffy white clouds – it had now transformed into a darker yellow and purple blend – really eerie. In the distance, I could see rows of large factory buildings complete with enormous chimneys vomiting black bales of smoke from their orifices.
“Remember when you had that drinking problem?”
“Oh of course,” Andy dug his hands into his pockets as he walked, “It took five overdoses to wake me up, but I finally came to didn’t I?”
I nodded. At that moment, two large wine bottles of non-descript brand came walking towards us. The first was roughly five to six feet while the other was probably below four. As they lumbered closer, I could hear their contents sloshing around within their glass frames. “Andy,” I looked over at him cautiously, “Just try to be courteous to them and then we can continue on.”
Andy nodded as the bottles stopped in front of us.
“Andy!” the smaller bottle extended his arms and wrapped them around Andy’s waste. Looking up at him, “How’ve you been? We haven’t seen you in a dog’s age!”
“Yeah,” Andy shuffled nervously, “I’ve just been busy is all.”
“Well that’s fine. That’s fine.” The bottle backed away as his taller partner leaned forward and sternly shook my hand and then Andy’s.
“Listen,” the taller bottle began, “We’ve been fermenting for quite some time waiting for you to come around and have a night out.” He scratched the top of his frame before continuing, “But we’ve been getting antsy. Word on the street is that you’ve given up hanging out with our kind. That you see as degenerates now.”
“No!” Andy laughed robustly as he attempted to keep face, “I’ve just needed to take a bit of a break. I think perhaps I was wearing out my welcome, I wanted to maintain a bit of distance for a little while.”
The smaller bottle pouted, “But you never visit, even occasionally. We can understand if you need a bit of distance, but cutting off all contact – that’s just really rude.”
I looked past the bottles at the factory buildings as they began to grow in size. In only a few moments, they had jutted to the size of the John Hancock Center. Their billows of black smoke had now darkened the entire sky and I could feel faint sheets of ash beginning to descend down upon us.
“Listen boys,” Andy was stammering by this point, “I don’t want to have a battle here. I’m not trying to make excuses for my not seeing you in a long time, I’ve just been really busy is all.”
“You keep saying that,” the taller bottle replied contemptuously. “You’re standing on really flimsy ground.”
Looking down, I could see that the sand had morphed into swamp mud up to our ankles. At the moment, I should have been really freaked out, but I wasn’t. I found myself lamenting how my trousers would never be as in good condition as they had once been again.
Looking back towards the two wine bottles, I watched in horror as they both extracted firearms from their frames.
“We’re really sorry Andy-“the smaller bottle stammered.
“-but you can’t just leave us hanging. That’s a bad relationship.” The larger bottle finished.
“Guys,” Andy’s eyes were now filled with pleading.
The first shot pierced his chest. As it exited from his back, it transformed into a large shark and landed into the welcoming water which had by this point made its way only feet from where we were standing. The second shot pierced his head and when the bullet exited from the back of his skull, split into shards which then transformed into several dazzling star fish of all sizes. Andy fell to the ground as the two wine bottles tucked away their firearms.
“We’re sorry Andy,” the larger bottle re-iterated. “It really was nothing but personal.”
I watched as the two walked away and transformed into shrouded reapers as they disappeared in the distance. I looked down towards Andy as he lay bleeding on the ground. His eyes were wide open and despite the absence of his spirit, they were still rife and alive with fear and vulnerability. The blood from his chest wound began to soak his entire shirt until it was a completely crimson shade. His head wound began to expand and began to eat the rest of his face until eventually the cadaver had no head at all.
“O____! O_____!”
“Hmm?” I awoke to Hannelore shaking me violently. My vision was still blurry and was going to take a moment to register. After my eyes came into focus, I looked into hers and could see the fear and pain they were ravaged with. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Andy.”
“What about him?” I stopped and looked over at the clock. 11 A.M. Looking back at over at Hannelore, “You know, I just had the oddest dream about Andy. First we were in a theme park and then we were on a beach and then we met up with these two walking, talking wine bottles and-“
“O_____!”
Coming back to reality, “I’m sorry, I was babbling for a moment there wasn’t I?”
“Andy’s dead.”
“I’m sorry?” Not grasping what I just heard…
“Andy passed away this morning.”
I sat up immediately. Not able to comprehend what was being told to me, I just stared at Hannelore in a daze as she continued, “He passed away this morning. The combination of barbiturates and alcohol proved too much. He couldn’t pull through.”
“I…” I stammered, “How did you find out?”
“I was on my way to the market remember?” Hannelore stopped as she attempted to keep herself composed. I could see the hot streaks of tears beginning to conceive themselves beneath her eyelids before racing each other down her cheeks, “And I ran into Ariel who was on her way over here. She had just gone to the hospital to check on him and see if he was maybe coming out of his coma.”
“And?”
“And when she got there, the doctors informed her that he had passed on the night before.”
“Why weren’t any of us notified?”
“Ariel was staying over at a friend’s house last night working on the finalizing all of the last odds and ends for the art benefit, and-“ she paused and sighed with resignation, “Our phone line has been disconnected for the last day and a half.”
I could feel my own eyes becoming wide with disbelief. It was my fault. If I hadn’t have requested the phone line disconnected, we could have heard from the hospital and gone to see him in his final hours. “It’s,” I stammered once more, “It’s my fault.”
“No!” Hannelore gasped as she extended her arms and enveloped me in a hug, “You didn’t know and neither did I.” She released me and looked into my eyes, “Ariel said that he wasn’t even conscious when he passed on. According to the doctors, he was still in a vegetative state.”
“But we could have still been at his side.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered much regardless because we wouldn’t have been able to speak with him due to his condition.”
I could feel my heart racing. “I’m responsible. I fired him and he went on this binge. I’m responsible.”
“You’re not!” Hannelore grabbed me in her embrace once more; “You can’t put that on yourself, you just can’t-“
She was still talking when I tuned out. Within seconds, I was inside of my own head. I wasn’t thinking about anything anymore, all I could feel was an overwhelming sense of numbness beginning to overtake every part of my body. This is reality? This can’t be reality.
My eyes were still fully functional and though I could no longer hear her, I could see the streams of tears beginning to flow down Hannelore’s face ever faster as she wept. Right now, I’m not really sure how I would weep, if by chance I had the faculty to do so.
O. Hoch
Fourteenth of March
Nineteen Sixty Nine | | |
| I need to get out of Chicago. The air is making me nauseous and I’m pretty sure that my throat is beginning to catch on fire any time I step outside of any of my hiding spots. Lying in bed last night after a long night of staring aimlessly at the wall for what seemed an eternity, I carried on by staring at the ceiling for what felt to be a second eternity. Throughout the evening, Hannelore shuffled about the apartment carrying on with her nightly activities. At one point as my attention deviated from the wall to the generic film playing on the television, my eyes deviated again and began to trail her as she walked back and forth folding her laundry and putting it away.
“Does it matter that he might pass?”
“Hmm?” Hannelore paused from her activities and looked at me, “Honestly O_____,” she sighed, “I think you should get off of the couch and do something to take your mind off of the matter. He’s going to pull through and be just fine.”
“How do you know that?”
“I don’t.” Hannelore began to resume her activities, “But the doctor subscribed me some muscle relaxers with the prescription of faith.” She made a mock motion with her face by letting her tongue wag out of the side of her mouth, “So pardon me, but I’m feeling rather numb at the moment and I can’t really feel anything physically at the moment.”
“Sarcasm is always good-”
“No sarcasm!” Hannelore cut me off. “You really should try some of these muscle relaxers. Like,” she looked down at the ball of clothes in her arms, “I know that these are in my grasp, but I can’t FEEL them. It’s like I’m holding a giant ball of air.”
I sighed as a gesture of showing I didn’t appreciate her continued facetiousness and returned my blank stare towards the television.
The bed was no saint either as it provided me with no salvation or deliverance from my thought processes. Staring at the ceiling, trying to count the water damaged spots, I found myself starting over repeatedly as I couldn’t keep a steady count due to my floating mind.
This morning, I awoke after having finally fallen asleep. My slumber was short however, spanning only a few short hours. No matter, by the time I arose from the bed, it was already past noon.
“Breakfast?”
I looked over at Hannelore. “What day is it anyway?”
“It’s Wednesday. Mid week.” Smiling as she selected an outfit from her closet, “Paul McCartney is getting married today.”
“And how were you aware of that?”
“I saw it on a news broadcast this morning. His Bride is quite stunning.” She laughed, “You think our world is falling in right now? You should have seen all of the young girls weeping in the crowds outside of the wedding area. They had such high hopes, each one with a separate dream of how they would win his heart.”
“Charming.”
“Oh come on O_____, are you planning on brooding all day today as well?”
“I’m not planning on it, but then I never plan these things.”
“Well we need to get something for you to eat,” she smiled as she tossed a shirt at me as I sat on the edge of the bed, “Lest we admit you into the hospital for malnourishment.”
“Not eating for a couple of days doesn’t equate to malnourishment.”
“Well,” Hannelore thought for a moment, “You may pass out from hunger at the very least.”
“Anyone want fish?” Hannelore and I looked over at Max, who was standing in the open window with a large halibut in between his teeth.
“If you put that anywhere but in the kitchen sink,” Hannelore began to fume, “I promise you’ll be finding a new home.”
“It’s a day old, but it’s still fresh!”
“It smells absolutely awful,” I tried to plug my nose to lock out the smell.
“It’ll be great once I fry it up – which reminds me, before you two leave, would you mind cutting me a couple of lemons so that I can splash them onto my finished dinner.”
“How can you eat all of that? It’s as big as you are!” Hannelore’s face wretched as her eyes studied Max’s meal.
“I’m not.” Max jumped down from the window and made his way towards the kitchen, calling back towards us, “It’s for Isis too.” I could hear him plop the fish down into the sink and begin to scurry back towards our room. Arriving at the doorway, he stopped and sat down before mildly beginning to bath his paws, “Which reminds me, the two of you won’t be around later tonight will you? Our date is here.”
“Great.” Hannelore rolled hey eyes and sighed as she walked past him towards the living room, “This cat doesn’t even pay rent and yet he’s using our apartment as a get away to get his pussy-“
“-stop right there!” Max became defensive, “She’s an elegant lady. She’s not the typical breed of alley cat I may or may not have brought home once or twice.” Looking towards me for help in swaying Hannelore, “What do you think O_____, you seem to like her just fine.”
I sighed and nodded. Hannelore looked towards me from the living room awaiting my reply. “She’s pretty upscale Hanners, you know, Selina’s cat.”
Hannelore face lit up as she recognized the name. “Ahhh.” Looking down at Max, “Do tell how you managed to bag a feline of her caliber.”
Max began to bathe his paws again, this time with a slightly haughtier air of tone, “I’m a debonair gentleman and I know how to cook.” Looking towards me again, “I learned that from you, the ladies love a man who can cook.”
“The ladies?” Hannelore scoffed with a smile as she began to place her shoes on her feet, “You speak as if there is more then one significant lady in his life.”
“There aren’t any that he may be interacting with,” Max smiled at her mischievously, “But surely you wouldn’t think you’re the only one who has eyes for him do you?” Looking towards me again, I could see in his eyes that he was trying to flatter me to give him final consent to utilize the apartment for his date.
“You’re speaking foolishly and out of turn Maximus.” I rose from the bed and began to walk towards the living room to put on my own shoes, “You can have your date here, but don’t bring me into any of it – you know Hannelore gets insecure when even an inkling of an idea is presented that other ladies might look at me.”
“Well thank you.” Hannelore blew air from her mouth as she put on her jacket.
“But you’re self confident aren’t you?” Max chided, “You don’t need a man to define you.”
“You know, regardless of the date,” Hannelore opened the door, “I’m tempted to put you on the street just so I don’t have to hear you blow hot air anymore.”
“I’m crushed.”
“And I’m nearly five feet taller then you are!” her lips contorted into a smile, “And I can crush your head beneath my shoes.”
Max gulped.
“Do try to remember that when you get mouthy.”
“You really want to crush his head?”
“He’s a serpent.”
“But he’s furry and cuddly and-“ I looked over at Hannelore whose eyes were narrowed towards me, anticipating the next sentence, “-ok he’s a serpent.”
“I just don’t like being reminded that other women look at you.”
“So they do?”
“Don’t act as if you didn’t know!” Hannelore sighed as we made our way down the steps of our apartment building and began to walk towards the café. “Of course they do. Why wouldn’t they?”
“My question is why would they?”
“Because you’re not the typical male,” she looked over at me and studied my confused face for a moment. “Oh come on, you’re honestly telling me you’re naïve to all of this? You have no idea that women look at you?”
“I don’t pay attention.” I kept my eyes in front of me to avoid any further illicit stares from her direction, “I’m too busy focused on my work the majority of the time. I wouldn’t even have time to look at other women, if I wanted to.”
“Fair enough.” Hannelore’s eye wandered as we walked along the sidewalk, “Besides that, you live in your head the majority of the time anyway, you’re so focused on what’s going on within your own mind that you never seem to notice anything else.”
As we conversed, we walked by a mechanized being sitting along the edge of the sidewalk. He was shaped roundly and most of his circuitry was protruding from his mechanical orifices. He wheezed slightly and it was evident his cooling fans had not been maintained or cleaned for sometime. In front of him was a sign admonishing any passerby to take compassion upon him and provide him with financial support of any size so that he could purchase a few cans of oil for sustenance. I absent mindedly tossed a few quarters from my pocket onto the sidewalk in front of him as we made our way past.
As if awoken from a trance, the being quickly looked up at us and then looked down at the quarters, now resting on the sidewalk. He quickly scooped them up and nodded towards me as a way of saying thank you.
“Though I’m curious,” I looked at Hannelore inquisitively, “What is it about me that would attract the attention of women anyway?”
Hannelore laughed robustly, “You are such a fisher of compliments when you know that they’re swimming around in the water just below the surface aren’t you?” She looked over at me and caught my glance, which held anticipation for her answer. “Fine.” She sighed, “I’ll indulge you in a bit of ego stroking, but only because you should have your mind taken off of Andy for a bit.”
The café was a block away from at this point, we would be there in only a few moments. Smelling the coffee and the food from even this distance, I could feel my stomach beginning to moan for sustenance. “Maybe I could order a panini today-“
“-focus!” Hannelore’s voice went gruff as she called my attention back to our conversation. “You just have a certain way of carrying yourself. First off, the cooking thing is a huge plus. Max is certainly right about that.”
“But why is that?”
“Because women are so used to being relegated to the kitchen. It’s where we’ve been placed since the beginning of time. Our stations in life have always been as the homemakers, as the preparers of the meals.” She looked over at me with a smile, “To see a man doing such things, and doing them quite wonderfully, is refreshing. In a way, it’s empowering because it drives home the idea that women and men can actually share their duties and disregard their genders as a major factor.”
“My cooking has nothing to do with redefining patriarchy though,” I felt myself becoming defensive, my tone became soft again, “I just love to cook. And I’m picky. So obviously if I like to cook and I’m picky, then it goes without saying that I could probably make a better meal for myself the majority of the time then anyone else could.”
“And that’s great!” Hannelore smiled, “But that’s one reason – it’s nice for a woman to see she doesn’t have to always do the cooking. It’s very attractive to come home and find that you’ve had a fresh meal prepared for you and it’s hot and ready for your consumption. It,” she stopped for a moment to choose her words, “-like I said, it balances out the roles. It’s a step towards the idea that women aren’t simply for sex and cooking and housekeeping and men have more responsibilities then to come home after a day at work and take off their shoes and read the evening paper while their lady does everything for them.”
“It shows an even handed independence?”
“Precisely.”
“Well what else?”
“You hate sports.”
“Because they’re barbaric.”
“Regardless,” Hannelore slowed her pace as we stepped across the threshold of the café and stood in the waiting area to be seated, “The stereotype of the sportsmen is so worn out. To see someone who not only counteracts that but deliberately goes out of their way to do so is very attractive.”
As we were seated, I began to look around at our surroundings. Turning my attention back towards Hannelore, “Does my art have anything to do with it?”
“Of course it does. Your art is wonderful.” She paused and laughed, “But I suppose that’s a stereotype on us that we would find artistic types so attractive. Perhaps it has something to do with the way you seem to see the world – you perceive it in a fashion which deviates from the way most people view it.”
“Because the world isn’t roses.” I grimaced as the waiter brought us our cups and began to fill them with coffee, “I mean, I still have hopes for it, but it’s not all wine and roses. It’s sour and withered really.”
“But you’re an idealist.” She reached her hand across the table to hold mine, “To still keep some sense of self and avoid becoming wholly jaded, that’s a very nice attribute to hold don’t you think?”
“Well, my best friend is in the hospital because he couldn’t handle me firing him. Hurray for idealism!” I reached down towards the sugar bowl and extracted the spoon. Hannelore watched as I mixed the contents into my coffee and stirred.
“We mustn’t speak on that right now!” her eyes narrowed as she stared at me; “We’re here, we’re having breakfast.” she paused, “or I guess lunch at this point. Regardless, we’re talking about you. Not him.”
“There really isn’t much to me.”
“And yet there’s another attribute!” Hannelore laughed as she threw her hands up. “That whole self defeating attitude of yours. People see that and they identify it because it’s such a deviation from the macho self-confidence most males hold. And women, well – the more assertive ones atleast see a personality like that and they find it adorable,” she stopped and withdrew her hand from mine to begin modifying the contents of her own coffee cup, “perhaps because they see a personality that won’t attempt to dominate them.”
“A bit hypocritical don’t you think?”
“How.”
I smirked as I put the cup to my lips, “You’re saying women are used to being dominated by men, so when they see one with a more demure personality, they take the opportunity to themselves be the dominant entity.”
Hannelore’s eyes widened and a huge smile began to stretch across her face, “No!” she stopped for a moment and her smile began to fade into one of subtle resignation, “Alright yes. Maybe. But it’s really all in the name of an equal role.”
“But isn’t the hallmark of feminism the idea the no single gender should dominate the other?”
“Well yes.”
I looked at her then, my eyes focused on hers, “Then it’s hypocritical.”
“Well we all have our contradictions I suppose.” Hannelore waved her hand in a decadently airy matter as she placed her cup to her lips with the other, “Listen, you want to know why other women look at you and I’ve told you. You don’t see any of those attributes in yourself?”
“Not really.” I placed my cup back down on its saucer, “But you have to remember, I’m so inside of my own head all the time as you say, that I don’t really think about it.” Looking towards her again, “If anything, I’m getting quite tired of people assuming I’m cold and clinical.”
“Cold and clinical?” Hannelore smirked, “What are you, a doctor’s office?”
I shrugged, “Those seem to be the party words in describing me. I don’t choose them, I just hear them as descriptors when people try to pick me apart.”
“Mainly gallery owners and art patrons though,” Hannelore motioned towards the waiter to place our order, “The ones who don’t actually know you. Anyone who spent more then twenty minutes with you would never use such words.”
“Perhaps not at the moment,” I watched the waiter as he approached our table with a small paper pad and pen in hand, “But with the way I’ve been feeling about our surroundings lately, I’m beginning to think it might be better off for me to buy into my own press and conform to those words.”
“Why on Earth?”
“As a defense mechanism.”
“You already have plenty of those.”
“Yet,” I picked my coffee cup back up to take another sip, “I feel that in these times, I don’t have defense enough.”
O. Hoch
Twelfth of March
Nineteen Sixty Nine | | |
| “Today is absolutely no good to me!”
Max is in a mood again; I stress the word ‘again’ because while his sour moods aren’t constant, they’re often present enough to establish a consistency. “And what has gotten you bitter today Sir?”
Max sighed as he looked out the window. His tail wagged frantically as he stared aimlessly through the glass. “If this were open right now, I would jump.”
“You wouldn’t!” I attempted to feign shock and concern, but I honestly didn’t care. With Max, this conversation was always something of a perfectly practiced and executed dialogue. By this point, I had learned to simply indulge him.
“I would!” he turned his stare from the window and rested his eyes on mine as he intoned in a harsh dramatic way, “I see no use to do otherwise!”
Alright, I really can’t go through this dialogue again, “Listen, kindly stop reading Hannelore’s Billie Shakespeare volumes and dispense with the mock dramatic phrasings.” Rising from my chair, I made my way into the kitchen to prepare myself a cup of tea. Calling back to Max as I ran the kettle beneath the tap, “would you like to drown those ‘sorrows’ in a cup of English Breakfast?”
No answer.
“I really think now is one of the times for that sarcasm of yours.” Come on Max, take my bait, “I mean, you have quite the wit – it would be a shame to drown it in a sea of bad poetry and empty sentiments.”
“It’s Isis!”
“Oh?” placing the kettle over the burner, I walked over to the doorway of the kitchen and leaned against it, “What of her?”
“I’m in love with her.”
“And yet you want to jump out of a window.” I scoffed, “Are you deliberately attempting to construct a tragedy here?”
“I’m not sure I’m good enough to live up to her.”
“Wait.” I stopped for a moment to swirl the words in my mouth, to relish them before spitting them out. Their taste was comparable to the sweetness of lemon drops. “You actually think you may not have what it takes to fully live up to the expectations of someone?”
“She’s a female, not a God!” Max scoffed as he jumped down from the windowsill. “Don’t endow her with specials powers she doesn’t have.”
“But she does have them!” I laughed, “We’re all quite aware and familiar with your typical bouts of attention seeking ‘misery’, but for her to get your heart – or what shriveled object resembling it atleast – is quite the feat.”
He sat on the couch and attempted to brew his nastiest stare while I poured the hot water from the kettle into my cup. Walking over to the couch, I sat down beside him and began to take in the smell of the tea.
“I’m assuming you haven’t told her how you feel yet.”
“Of course not.”
“And of course you don’t plan to,” I took a sip of my tea, “Until she says something to completely boggle your mind and you blurt it out like a complete buffoon before you can figure out how the words traveled from your brain to your lips so fast.”
He looked up at me again, “You’re enjoying this aren’t you?”
I laughed as I set my tea down on the coffee table and picked up the morning paper, “Absolutely. It would be wrong for me to not.” Scanning over the headlines, “Say, it would appear the vigilantes have stuck again.”
Max looked over at the headline and traced the text with his paw, “Another bank robbery foiled.” He removed his paw from the periodical and returned to his previous pose, “I’m not sure which one concerns me more – the rash of bank robberies or the repeated occurrence of men in tights and capes appearing out of no where to defend them.”
I shrugged as I read over the story before me. “One has to wonder who the men hiding behind those masks are.”
“Special policemen?” Max began to bath his tail, “Or performance artists with a death wish? The world would be much more interesting with their type around in higher numbers.”
I could imagine it now, caped vigilantes running around and stopping criminals –each hero utilizing different colours and employing different gimmicks and weaponry. One vigilante would fire arrows coloured a fluorescent green while another would run around at lightning speeds in a red jumpsuit with yellow boots.
Snapping out of my daydream, “I wonder if we could get these vigilantes to attend the art show? Being do gooders and all, they would surely have sympathy and care enough make a public appearance at an event which would greatly benefit the community.”
“And how do you intend on contacting them?”
“I have no idea.” I looked down at Max and smiled mischievously, “Perhaps we could have you attempt to rob a bank.”
“I’m a fan of ill gained wallets and five finger fish,” Max scoffed as he jumped down from the couch, “Perhaps you could fashion a symbol of some sort and flash it in the sky to notify them of your invitation.”
“Perhaps.”
At that moment, Hannelore came crashing through the door in a panic. Her breath was short and she had clearly been moving quickly to arrive here. Observing the beads of sweat streaming from her forehead and noting her breathing, I quickly rose from my seat and wrapped my arms around her, “What is the matter?”
“It’s Andy.”
“What about him?” I broke my embrace and stepped back to look at her, “Did you see him today?”
Hannelore, still short on breath, was panting as she shook her head to communicate to me that she had not.
Walking towards the closet to brood more, Max sneered, “Perhaps he’s finally drank himself into his grave.”
Hannelore’s eyes became panicked after she heard this. After finally regaining her breath. “After you talked to Ariel the other day about letting him go, she went by his apartment to check up on him. She found him in the middle of the floor nearly unconscious and barely breathing. His skin was a pale blue and he wasn’t moving.”
“Hannelore-“
“-he’s alive!” Hannelore pulled me closer as a reassurance, “But he’s just been admitted into the hospital.”
I reached towards the wall where my coat was hanging. “I need to go see him now.”
Max looked up at the two of us, “I would just like to say that I didn’t realize the situation was literal and that the joke was out of line-“
“-but you’re not really sorry,” Hannelore cut him off.
“Well no,” Max paused, “I’m just sorry that I said it out loud.”
I’m not a fan of hospitals. I would imagine my qualms to be pretty universal amongst the consensus of humanity. The greatest irony lies in these buildings where the beginnings and conclusions of life reside next to each other, often times separated by a thin curtain.
Walking down the hallways and observing the activity, I found myself becoming sick to my stomach. People should take care of themselves – we’re all blessed with health and while sometimes, that health can be breached by way of diseases conceived of genetic or biological principles – I find it an absolute crime when people take residence within these corridors because they can’t control their vices.
Finally making our way to the waiting room, I observed Ariel, Gerald and Selina seated in a corner. When they made eye contact with us, the three of them stood at once to greet us with hugs.
“What happened?” I inquired as Ariel wrapped her arms around me.
“After you told me you had fired him the other day and hadn’t heard from him since, I went by his apartment to check on him and bring him some food.” She began to sob, “But when I opened the door, he was lying face down on the ground, almost completely still. His skin was a pale blue – almost like aquarium water. His breathing was very stuttery – stopping and starting and never consistent.”
“The paramedics estimated that he had been in that position for several hours,” Gerald replied as he placed the periodical he had been reading down on a table beside him. “They found a half a dozen bottles of various wines in his kitchen-“
“-he had been working on those for the last several days and was self medicating with three different types of sleeping pills.” Ariel sighed. “His symptoms showed a mixture of alcohol poisoning and a pill overdose.”
Sitting down on one of the chairs behind me, I slumped my head against the wall. “And this is how he took being let go.”
“No!” Hannelore sat down beside me and began to stroke my arm as I stared at the ceiling, “The problem was his, not yours. You’re a far more perceptive person then to think in such a manner.”
“If any blame should be distributed, then we should all take a helping,’ Gerald sat down across from me, “We’ve all known for sometime that he has a problem, none of us were bold enough to speak up about it.”
“If anything,” Selina sighed as she lit a cigarette, “You get a bit of a break because you were the only one out of all of us who consistently tried to convince him to break from his behavior.” As she began to take her first puff, a tall man in a white coat approached from behind and cleared his throat. Startled, Selina turned around quickly to address him. His facial expression was stern and his eyes narrowed on Selina’s cigarette as he motioned towards the sign on the wall which had a drawn rendition of a cigarette crossed out within a circle.
“Oh,” looking at the signal, Selina caught the gesture and dually stubbed her cigarette out on the table. The doctor looked down with a look of disapproval at where she had chosen to extinguish it. She smiled sheepishly, “I’m uh… all nerves right now.”
The man nodded before turning his attention back towards the rest of us. Extending his hand to shake mine, “I’m Doctor Plaxeco,”
“I’m O_____.” I shook his hand firmly as I rose from my seat. “Are you his physician?”
“Yes.” The doctor smiled pleasantly, “His vitals are stabilized for now, but he’s pretty messed up.” His smile turned grim, “We may have to pump his stomach to expel a good portion of the alcohol from his system. The sleeping pills weren’t helping – he was taking some pretty powerful barbiturates.”
Hannelore stepped forward and shook his hand, “We weren’t aware that he was prescribed any drug of the sort.”
“He wasn’t.” Plaxeco’s face maintained a grimace; “He must have acquired them by illegal means. We won’t know anything for sure until he’s awoken and can provide us with some answers.”
“And oh will he be a wellspring of those!”
We all looked towards Gerald with a mixture of unpleasant looks. “Well we all know how stubborn he is. Do you think he’s going to make any of us privy to his illegal activities?”
I shook my head and looked back at the doctor, “When do you think he’ll regain consciousness.”
Now it was Plaxeco’s turn to shake his head, “I couldn’t tell you.” Looking at my increasingly concerned look, he laughed, “Relax O_____, he won’t become a vegetable.”
“And how you can be so sure?”
“Well,” the doctor hesitated as he looked backwards towards two paramedics wheeling a stretcher with a mechanized being sans left arm down the hallway, “I can’t be sure. But I can have faith.”
“And can that be prescribed?”
I looked over at Selina as she flicked her cigarette into the trashcan. “Because the comments all of you are making right now are vital and relevant contributors to this prognosis.”
Plaxeco patted me on the shoulder as he reached for my hand to shake it once more, “Come back here tomorrow, I would imagine that by that point, he will have pulled through and you can speak with him,” looking over at Selina and Gerald, “or throw verbal barbs at him. Whichever you choose.”
Gerald sneered. “He certainly deserves both in equal measure doesn’t he?”
“Have a good afternoon.” The doctor released my hand and made his way back towards Andy’s recovery quarters.
The roads were emptier today and I found myself thankful. I wasn’t particularly in the mood to socialize with my fellow man within a traffic jam oasis today. Staring at the road before me as I guided the car back to our apartment, I couldn’t help but lash myself over and over in responsibility for Andy’s current surroundings.
“He’s going to be fine O_____.”
Looking over at Hannelore as she sat passively beside me, “How do we know that?” I grew frustrated as she shrugged, “The man was a physician. I’m pretty sure there’s some guideline in the medical code that dictates men of medicine tell fibs in order to comfort the loved ones of the patients they’re treating.”
Hannelore sighed, “Perhaps we should have tried to get you something for anxiety while we were there.”
Ignoring the comment, “I just want him to see what he’s doing to himself and to us. There has to be a breaking point.”
“And this might not be it.” Hannelore’s tone turned terse, “It might take a couple more times like this one for him to realize what an absolute atrocity he has fabricated of his life. Until then-” she reached over and squeezed my hand, “-all we can do is act as a support.”
“I pulled the net remember?” sighing as I turned onto our street, “We were the safety net and I cut it because he was unwilling to use it.”
“We aren’t the only safety nets in his life.”
“I can’t think of very many others.”
“They’ll be there. He just needs to find them. We’ll help him look.”
“Right.”
Looking up at the sky, the sun was beginning to set. I’m sure there’s a metaphor in there somewhere – I’m sure I could figure out how to equate the sun setting and the arriving night fall with the condition Andy has placed himself within – but right now, I’m simply too tired to try.
O. Hoch
Eleventh of March
Nineteen Sixty Nine | | |
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...use hearing protection.