Dial M for Malaise

INT. CONFERENCE ROOM - DAY

TRAVIS and AARON sit in a conference room. A computer sits on
the table between them.

TRAVIS
And that’s why I think it’s a good
idea for the newspaper to have a
podcast. Which could be fun.

AARON
Yes.

TRAVIS
And profitable!

AARON
Oh, absolutely.

TRAVIS
And I really appreciate you coming
in on a Saturday to meet with me
about this.

AARON
Yeah, absolutely. I’d love to be---
(yawns)
sorry --- involved. Sorry, not
trying to be rude.

TRAVIS
No, don’t worry about it.

A cell phone rings.

TRAVIS
Oops! Speaking of...
(answers the phone)
Hello? Julie! How’s my best friend’s
wife?
(to Aaron)
This won’t take long.

AARON
It’s okay.

Aaron pulls out his own phone and places a call.

TRAVIS
(on the phone)
Julie, what’s going on?
(pause)
Julie. What’s wrong?

Travis stands up.

TRAVIS
(on the phone)
Julie, Julie, calm down.

AARON
(on the phone)
Hey, Dom! What’s happening?

TRAVIS
(on the phone)
Oh my God.

AARON
(on the phone)
Oh, dude, that’s cool. Yeah, no, I’m
just meeting with this guy about a
podcast. I dunno.

TRAVIS
(on the phone)
Oh my God. His whole torso?

AARON
(on the phone)
No, it’s cool. He’s on another call.
Something about his best friend and
his wife.

TRAVIS
(on the phone)
Oh no, Julie. How long do they think
he has?

AARON
(on the phone)
What are you doing later?

TRAVIS
(on the phone)
Oh, God, Julie.

AARON
(on the phone)
Oh, that sounds cool. I’ll have to
call you back.

Aaron hangs up. Travis hangs up.

TRAVIS
I’m... I’m sorry. My best friend has
been pinned against a wall by a bus.
He’s going to die in the next half
hour. I’m going to have to cancel
this meeting.

Aaron touches his arm.

AARON
Hey, it’s okay, Travis.
(pause)
I actually had someplace else to be
this afternoon, so this really works
out better for me. You’ll call me
later? Yeah? Okay, great.

Aaron stands up.

AARON
Talk to you soon!

Aaron leaves.

Sunday! Sunday! Sunday!

This weekend marks the 1688th anniversary of Sunday being a day of rest. Congratulations, Sunday! It's been quite a run, with a record number of 87,776 great days of rest behind us. Obviously tomorrow's will be a bit of a disappointment, in that it only lasts 23 hours rather than the regulation length of 24. Tough break, 87,777. Better luck next time.

But why is Sunday the day of rest? What makes it so special? Good question, rhetorical device! The practice began with a decree from Emperor Constantine I (of Rome) that set aside deis Solis Invictis as the official day of rest for the Empire. This was of course good news for the slaves. Although the impending return to a life of forced servitude and crushing labor did tend to put a pall upon Sunday evenings, a tradition which Andy Rooney has ably and joyfully taken on as his own.

Sunday itself is named for Sol Invictus, the ancient Roman sun god born on December 25. December 25 is of course a notoriously popular birthday for some really cool people, and at least one giant turd.

But most importantly, the formal, legal and codified imperial directive that dictates humans must rest is an example of bureaucracy at its finest. And frankly, it's the next best thing to state sponsored irony.

Maybe there's some in the budget for next year.

High Five!

Walking home from work on Wednesday I spied a tall man in a chicken costume. He was promoting a restaurant. (anthropomorphisizing your food is creepy and fun!) Without thinking, and while talking on the phone, I reached up to high five him.

He did not leave me hanging.

Today on the subway I saw a magician performing sleight of hand on a moving car.

That's worth a dollar.

I only hope that I am as entertaining and worthwhile as those two.

Really Short Fiction: Apple Over Innsmouth

An apple rests inside a paper bag inside my napsack. It's a local variety, so it didn't have to travel far to get into my bag and then my napsack.

It has traveled much farther in my possession, I would guess. Granted, that distance is more of a circuit than an escape trajectory. The thing has been with me for a week.

A week! It is an inconcievable amount of time for an apple to survive.

It has, on successive days, been washed and packed up, secured and carried across state lines, placed in a refrigerator for 8 to 9 hours and then brought back to its origin.

At first it was an oversight. I had an apple and an orange, and for me that choice is always easy and rarely for the apple.

Then the thing was spared due to my waning hunger, a lack of time and then simple forgetfulness.

But today, fear was its benefactor.

I've grown accustomed to the thing, and at times I feel that it calls to me, directing my every effort toward its goals and not my own. It seems as if my hands are made to service the foul thing as it rests within a paper bag inside a napsack, growing more rotten and decayed with each day.

I awoke this morning covered in a rich, brown dirt. It was caked under my nails and filled my mouth. Leaves were clinging to my teeth and ears, and the skin of my buttocks has become red and smooth.

What can this mean?!

My most feverish fears and outlandish hypotheses cannot account for my sympotms.

WHY MUST YOU MOCK ME, APPLE!

Oh, how I wish I had chosen to devour this apple rather than that orange so many days ago, sweet and delicious though it was. But alas, the die is cast and my fate shall be forever entwined with this rosy, wax-covered abomination.

Even as I write these words, I sense that its evil machinations are nearing fruition. What fiendish end awaits me once my part has been played?

I fear that I shall soon find out. Heaven help any others who run afoul of this loathsome, plotting piece of seed-bearing damnation.

I hear something outside my door. What is that smell?

Cider?

OH GOD!

Everything is a Test

One of my favorite films, "The Faculty" (or, "Los Faculdad") features an exchange between a 30 year old high school student and George Costanza's lazy boss that goes something like this:

"Is this going to be on the test?"

"This is the test."

Nice, huh? Well, the more I live, the more I feel tested. I think we all do.

Sometimes we get to test back. I'm currently testing my BlackBerry's ability to work with Blogger. Hope it works. If so, I will blog my trip tonight to Red Bank, NJ. It's the Paris of NJ. Bet you thought it was Paramus or Parsippany, didn't you? Well, you would be wrong.

Kate is Easy

One of the things I love about New York City is the casual relationship many New Yorkers have with law. It's really life-affirming to realize that even two terms of a quasi fascist promotion of law and order failed to wipe out crime. People still jaywalk. They hop turnstiles. They download movies.

And they create amazing graffiti.

I love graffiti. It can be subversive and beautiful and mysterious and whimsical all at once. And sometimes it can be wonderfully informative. I'm not talking about that played out "no taxation without representation" or "V" or another "V," neither of which have anything to do with Roman numerals at all. No, there are times when the miscreant hand of the graffiti-ist transcends petty vandalism and manages to say something beautiful and true.

Something like "Kate is easy."



Brilliant.

By the way, this isn't the "Kate is easy" I encountered. I saw it in an entirely different neighborhood.

It seems that not only is Kate easy, but someone is trying like hell to get the message out.

Kudos.

Really Short Fiction: "Aspirin"

Standing at the corner. Waiting. There's a lot of that in my life. Yours too, probably. Standing at corners and waiting.

Standing at the corner with a bunch of people, also on the corner and also waiting. It's cold tonight, but compared to the past few nights it is positively pleasant. Not much wind. It's been cold as hell, but there's not a lot you can do about that.

It's early on a weeknight, but it's already dark. The buildings are dark, rising above the well-lit street, and there are surprisingly few cars considering how long we've been waiting on this stupid corner for the damn light to change.

Finally. The orange hand turns into a little white guy. It always looks like Lite-Brite to me. I never remember having one of those when I was a kid, but I remember the little plastic pieces, pointy on one end and rounded on the other. Transluscent, all the colors of the rainbow; always only one. They turned up in boxes of G.I. Joes and Legos. I can't remember if we had the light box or not. It seemed to exist is some poorly-formed idea of the early 1970s, before I was born.

When did I cross the street? It always creeps me out when I go on autopilot, especially when streets filled with buses and taxis are concerned.

I'm in a crowd, so I feel safer. We're all moving in the same direction. Toward the trains. There's a security guard in a smart red jacket leaning up against the wall where the homeless guy usually sits. That's new. I wonder if he's gone. Each day I see him sitting there in his motorized wheelchair, with a begging cup and a cell phone. That always strikes me as odd. I really hope he's here. Any time he isn't here I always assume he's dead. And then I feel guilty that the first place my mind goes is the worst case scenario. He could move out of town, or take up with friends, or return to his office to write up his research on homelessness into a Pulitzer Prize-winning book. But I assume he's frozen to death somewhere. It is winter after all.

There he is. Just a few yards farther down. He's still got his cup and his phone. I'm really glad for some reason. I hear change bounce into his cup behind me.

I always mean to give him something, but it seems like I never have cash.

Oh well.

Into the station now. Will I stop and get a snack? No, not tonight. I don't want to put $1.29 onto my debit card.

Down the escalator, through the turnstile, down the stairs.

Onto the train. I manage to find a seat next to an older woman; a tourist couple stands in front of us. The doors close and the train bolts forward, lurching from side to side. The woman standing in front of us falls backwards, landing on the woman next to me. Her friend pulls her back up.

"Are you okay?" I'm not sure who I'm talking to, which is okay because no one seems to hear.

What would I have done if someone said "no?"

I don't even have any aspirin.