Hey You, Over There

Hey you over there. I’m sitting on the porch kind of parallel to you, in a pile of glass. I’m trying to play it cool, drunk on a Sunday afternoon. You’re at your family gathering or perhaps a friendly tête-à-tête? You, yes you – the one over there in the overalls with the curves – the incandescent face and the shiny red hair. Please ignore my idiotic friend and his antics: the yelping, the shouting, the general making a nuisance of himself. He’s drunk. I am too. At one pm on a Sunday afternoon. But I can handle it. I wish you’d glance over again, perhaps without such obvious scorn. To be honest I can’t really tell how you’re looking at me, though. You’re only a couple houses over, but my vision’s rather blurry. I’m certain of one thing: you are quite lovely. My aching eyes feel you; a cool glass of water pacifying the afternoon sun’s harsh daggers.

Ignore the fact that I’ve been drunk since last night, never went to bed or showered, and may have indulged in Peruvian marching powder last night – and we’d be smashing together. I mean it. You’re lovely. I’m tanked. Say, are you drinking a beer? At last we’ve got something in common. Aside from basic human needs, that is.

Shut up pal o’ mine! I’m trying to impress – or at least not disgust her slightly tanned face, her standoffish posture. I’m trying to pretend I’m not a fuck up with a self-destructive bent; with a life line that may consist of 1) burnout, 2) rehab, 3) cirrhosis of the liver, 4) homelessness, 5) dialysis, or 6) an early demise. Don’t let her in on my secret, or not so secret, standard of living preferences. If I could just keep levelheaded, on ice – just maintain – maybe our lives could somehow intertwine. Maybe I could gain a genuine reason to wake up, beyond hair-of-the-dog; beyond trying to break away from this vortex of self-loathing and internal violence which often leaves me passed out and hurting all-over for days on end. Maybe.

Take a good look, honey! These stained features – nicotine teeth, sunken blood-shot eyes, war-ravaged organs and shitty tattoos – can all be yours! All of ‘em! Shut the hell up, mate! You’re an impudent jackass. Please don’t break my façade of aloof self-respect by mock-humping my head. I’m trying to sit here, in repose, endeavoring to attract the affections of the fancy young maiden hither down the lane; to lure her into my neurotic, self-deprecating web of borderline alcoholism and soul-crushing isolation. If I could just pretend for one more second that I had an ounce of respectability…Ah who am I kidding? I need another beer.

Excerpt from Still Life

“Your call is extremely important to us. Please stay on the line and your call will be…”

The computer voice offers false hope. It’s not quite as discouraging as a six-year-old discovering tube sox under the Christmas tree, but nearly as disappointing as a nineteen-year-old woman discovering that her boyfriend had bought her an action figure on the cusp of her 20^th year. Upon Brenda’s less-than-delighted reaction, her nebbish fellow had proffered that it was: “a vintage Greedo, mint-in-box! With Star Wars action figures’ current market appreciation, this little guy could easily pay for our firstborn’s college education in 20 years!” Right then and there, she’d decided that they would never have a firstborn. She’d given the action figure to her sister’s son on his third birthday.

Kenny Loggin’s computerized rocking overwhelms the line again. She imagines a shiny, cylindrical android with overwrought, metallic 80s hair – possibly flock of seagulls-style – and a skinny tie embellished with a keyboard. It drones on about “kicking off Sunday shoes and getting Footloose,” before experiencing a cocaine-based malfunction. Yes, she decides, the robot is cocaine-powered – much like the 80s – and its owners had forsaken it in favor of their own needs.

The Post Woman sashays down the street in her officious blue shorts, stuffing various parcels into mailboxes. A sassy urban goth, her dread-laden head nods furiously along with her headphones, which lead into thin air for all Brenda can tell. Hence she assumes its source is something which plays MP3s. Shaking the dust from 20 years of memory, she watches as her older sister shuffles and weaves to her father’s Motown records; clasped by giant plastic earmuffs. A vast pig’s tail coils from her headgear into her parents chrome and wood stereo receiver. They were so proud when they brought it home from the electronics store.

Miniaturization is clearly a holdover from last century’s recent downsized tendencies. Her laptop computer contains many times the computational power of the slate gray multistory buildings full of wheezing, whirring computing power; those of her parents’ era. She assumes her next cell phone will handily overpower her laptop. It undoubtedly will make her old flip-phone jealous: likely coming standard with fully voice-activated functions, and perhaps dangling from her like an earring. Perhaps one day some mad genius will invent a phone which can be directly implanted into a person’s skull. She reconsiders, assuming it’s already in beta testing somewhere. The new owner of the cell-plant can operate it directly by thought – dialing and answering calls from their mother, sister or significant other with their mind. That’s all I need, she thinks, my mother genuinely inside my head; with rapid access to her thoughts, nagging and wheedling at her from within. Wonderful! She pictures her mother fused to a keyboard, eyes burning from monitor glare as she hacks into the central processing unit (i.e. her brain!); desperately seeking access to her innermost secrets. That train of thought also leads to images of burbling tissues around phone implant; irradiated from within and beginning their carcinogenic overhaul of her cranium. Shuddering, she’s uncertain which implication sounds more horrific – her mother inside her head or the cancer.

In the meantime, a charcoal shelf has slid underneath the sun. A moist, gloomy afternoon breeze flutters through the blinds.

“Thank you for your continued patience. Your call will be answered by the next available customer service representative…”

Excerpt from Deja You (short fiction)

The second I saw him, a feeling in the air convinced me of our prior encounter. Clearly not someone I’d actually met before, much less someone I’d normally associate with, he acted with utter naïveté regarding any past association. Now, I’m well aware that some people are poor representatives of cognitive recollection; being that they poorly retain names, faces, dates and images. This represents a vast swath of the populace, so as to be an entirely moot point. But sometimes, a lack of recognition owes itself, apparently, to an individuals lack of memorable qualities or features. This happens, especially often when one meets another under lax social circumstances. Often times, a party environment leads to casual acquaintances which, even when reminded of an individuals name, draw total blanks from either individual. Yet a familiarity remains. While this is a genuine condition - often owing to society’s yearning for nondescript features and lack of standoutishness (if you will indulge my verbio-genesis). Yet this condition is precluded by the supposed idea which states that each human being, while perhaps near-identical on a genetic level, is unique. This also flies in the face of identical twins, who are often perceptibly and even distinctively different, which also chafes with the notion that some people have familiars - even doppelgangers - in both near and far vicinities. Another common circumstance is dissociation through the suppressive power of the mind. Being that sometimes our minds choose to forget an associate for various reasons, though typically because of unpleasant circumstances.

None the less, I’m a fairly distinctive individual, and this has nothing to do with egomania. As a younger man, I fancied myself a serious shit-kicker. Associating with a raucous crowd, I frequented seedy establishments (and still do on occasion) and often wound up on opposite ends of indistinct and distinct aggression. This left me with a distinguishing scar the left side of my face, along my jaw. As such, I find it difficult to believe that I blend entirely into the bulk of humanity.

Why the hell is that guy gawking over at our booth? Is he checking out my wife? Is he checking me out? He doesn’t seem like he the homosexual type, what with that hardcore wannabe ex-cholo look - minus the dew rag - and that nasty-ass scar along his chin. But you can practically bandana tan lines along his face, the ten year old ring of matted-down his hair. He looks like some of those old metal-heads that went to high school with me. Shit. He isn’t some old classmate who I never liked and never associated with is he? I hate it when people just assume that because we went to high school together, we’re now best friends. He keeps glancing over at me every ten goddamn seconds, like some hyperactive gecko or something. The only way he could be any creepier is if he was staring, continually, at my wife’s tits with those glazed airport-Moonie (religious cult?) eyes. But no, he’s staring at me. Why the hell does everybody always stare at me; think they know me? I mean, do I look that completely commonplace? I mean, sure, I’ve got a friendly face; my eyes are that cool, welcoming blue which most of the pleasant people of Scandinavian descent have; my nose might be a bit schnozzy - also owing to my Norse descent, but I don’t look like some everyday, average Joe. I have a lot of interesting facial characteristics. At least I think I do.

But still, there is something eerily familiar about that rubberneck. Maybe he went to college with me. Of course, my graduating class at University of New Mexico had nearly ten thousand people in it, so that really narrows down the field.