4. DROPPED CALLS

Read it in any order.

A.

Tom didn’t feel well when he woke up. It might have been the gin, or the weather. Or the lesson he’d relearned the night before: telepathic powers didn’t always operate everywhere.


B.

“Hey Tom,” Tammy said. She already had the tip of the pen to her order pad, and was waiting for a movement, a nod, a smile that would dictate what he wanted for lunch. Out of all the regulars she waited on at the diner, only her and Tom had an unspoken language. She knew none of the other patrons were jealous, but wished they were. This telepathy, she imagined, was what kept him coming back. And it was what kept her from answering when he asked her out.

C.

Tom didn’t feel well when he woke up. It might have been the gin, or the weather. Or the that his telepathic powers failed him at odd times.

D.

“I’ll take another gin and tonic,” Tom said, pointing at the glass filled with woozy ice.
“This is really nice, being waited on for once,” Tammy said. The champagne bubbled in front of her. Tom was even more mysterious to her here. Without pen and pad, she wasn’t sure how to draw him out. Tom thought Tammy looked beautiful. The words, however, never left his lips. 

30. WHAT IF?

Curtis was giving Fred notes on his stand-up routine. Fred had just finished his set, and met Curtis at a small table in the corner of the comedy club’s bar.

“First joke,” Curtis said. “Funny. Second joke, funny. Third joke, lame. And then you did that thing with your eyebrows.”

“What thing with my eyebrows?” Fred glared at him.

“That thing where you pop your eyebrows way up when you deliver your punch line, like a visual cue to laugh. Then you won’t lower them until someone laughs, but no one does, so you just look like an angry deer trapped in the headlights of a car that won’t swerve and won’t hit you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, people looked like they were having a good time.”

“They were,” Curtis said. Then he added, “but then you did that material about skydiving, and it’s obvious you’ve never been skydiving.”

“So what if I haven’t,” Fred said. He shook his head incredulously. “It’s a funny bit.”

“No, it’s too constructed. It’s not real, man. These people want polished jokes, but they want them to be rooted in truth.”

Fred ran his hands through his mop of curly hair. He had spent the last week perfecting the skydiving bit. It didn’t get as many laughs as his “get a haircut, hippie” bits, but he could see some smiles of recognition as to what he was trying to do. Curtis always gave him broad feedback. Fred decided to defend himself.

“I’m not pouring my soul out, I mean, there’s no exhuming or exhausting going on. Just entertaining. Pure entertainment.”

“Right, but if you want to entertain the people, you gotta hit them where their at. And with a little soul.”

“A little soul. Thanks, Little Richard.”

“Come on, what kind of music gets everyone to move their hips?”

“R&B.”

“No, soul. R. Kelly is R&B, Marvin Gaye is soul.”

“Ok,” Fred said holding up his hands, holding off the argument and leaning back. “What does all this have to do with my stand-up routine?”

“If you want people to react positively to you, to enjoy what you’re doing,” Curtis expounded, “you have to connect with their soul. You have to show them a part of your soul that their soul can say, ‘Yep! I know what that’s all about!’ And then the soul tells the rest of the body to laugh or shake its hips or shed a tear. But you got to show them a little soul.”

Fred dropped an elbow to the table, propping up his chin with his palm. His eyes drifted past Curtis to the jukebox, then glazed over. Curtis picked up his drink and waited. He knew Fred well. Whatever response was coming had started deep down somewhere inside him, and was worming its way out through the labyrinth.

“What if,” Fred said, finally. “What if my soul doesn’t look anything like theirs?”

26. BLACK HOLE OF AWESOME

Arthur Brent suffered from a social malignance that few before him have possessed. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, so he went to see a doctor.

DR - You are the only known sufferer of Arthur Brent Disease.

AB - Arthur Brent? Don’t doctors normally name diseases after themselves when they discover new ones?

DR - The honor’s all yours.

AB - So, what exactly is my condition?

DR - Well, Arthur Brent Disease, or AB, seems to have the following symptoms: bad breath, poor physical stature, asymmetrical facial features, and a propensity to something that sounds like a paradox: nervous and morose pondering. That probably could be described as desperate wallflower. The results of all these symptoms are a very sad man with the social skills of a muddy puddle.

AB - I suppose I’m quite useless, then.

DR - I didn’t say useless. I know a number of doctors who would love to write books and theories about you, as well as advertisers who want to teach their audiences lessons about what isn’t cool. You could probably be a motivational speaker, but not in the traditional sense.

AB - So it’s not communicable?

DR - Oh no, it’s very communicable. As a matter of fact, you affect everyone you know, and everyone you talk to, anyone who even sees you.

AB - No wonder why I can’t meet women.

DR - Oh, just the thought of you inflicts people. For you actually have a relationship with them, how horrible!

At first, everything the doctor said was true. People who had always refused to spend time with him, continued to not do so. Those who had, finally admitted they couldn’t stand it and then left. He became a celebrity, an anti-celebrity. A black hole of awesomeness.

But then, like all things out of style, the tide turned.

The uncool became the cool, and everyone tried to be like him. Movie stars stopped bathing, seeking the desired effect. Pop stars shaved their heads. People found it the highest honor when so called friends said things like, “I’m not looking at you, I’m looking with you.”

And because of all this, people once again forgot about Arthur Brent, the black hole of awesomeness.

25. SWEET, SWEET, SWEATER

The air conditioner has conditioned all the heat to get-the-heck out. This is summer, what’s with the indoor sweater needs? It’s a racket from the sweater industry. Reminds me of the Arctic. And a story I heard once:

- Two eskimos about to eskimo kiss. One says “Wait!” turns his head and rubs his nose so its warm. Then he turns back and kisses her. -

The sweater industry to think of something. Sure, they’ve come up with some new fabrics. Moisture-wicking, cotton-pocketed down. But sweaters are built to last. When they don’t, you can always get a patch for the elbow, or find an old woman who lives in a shoe to knit a stopper for the hole. Despite all this, sometimes, you just don’t want to see one. Or wear it. You and the sweater need some time apart, otherwise it’s not as sweet a reunion in fall when things get crispy.

I think the story should have gone like this:

- Two eskimos about to eskimo kiss. The woman says “Wait!” then turns and farmer blows.-

23. WE’LL GO TO THE ORIGINAL HOUSE OF PANCAKES

“We’ve got to get him out of this house,” Nathan’s dad said. He stopped cutting his over easy egg and looked at Nathan’s mom.

“Like a vacation?”

“Exactly! Yes! We’ll take him to the ocean.”

“Can’t,” Nathan’s mom said. “He saw Jaws, and now he’s afraid of the water.”

“We’ll take him to the desert then.”

“Can’t. He saw Tremors.”

“We’ll take him to the Original House of Pancakes.”

“That’d be fun he’d like that.”

Nathan’s dad wistfully looked out the window.

Nathan had grown up in the air-conditioned comfort of his dad’s McMansion on a cul-de-sac that never saw any traffic, with a backyard that was separated from a nature preserve by an 8-foot barbed wired fence. Every day, Nathan had his breakfast of oatmeal, plain, and a glass of orange juice. His father had tried, but was unsuccessful in getting him to try the sugar cereal that got him hopped up as a child.

“What are you going to with your summer?” Nathan’s dad asked. Outside the humidity had swollen to the point where every cicada chirp and buzz carried for miles.

“I’m going to catch up on my Yugi Nuji!” Nathan said. But first he politely swallowed his oatmeal. Nathan’s dad looked at his mom.

“It’s a Japanese cartoons he just discovered online,” she said.

“You’re not going to play any sports?” Nathan’s dad asked.

“Sports! Dad, how cliche! Just because I’m a boy, and you probably think my hair’s too long, you’re going to make me play sports? What if that doesn’t work? Are you going to send me to art camp?”

That’s not what Nathan actually said. Those kind of bratty but cute children who talk beyond their years don’t actually exist, and even in fiction no one cares to read about them.

No, Nathan just grunted and shrugged. Nathan’s dad paused, eyebrows raised. Before they could drop, Nathan excused himself, plopped his dish in the sink, and headed to the TV room to watch some Yugi Nuji.

22. DOG AT YOUR HOMEWORK? HOW BLASE.

Buffered by a wave of digital noise, Thomas moved through life. With screens at every junction, he felt the teeth of technology close on him as electrical life forms consumed his life.

“Oh dear,” he thought, “I’m in the belly of a digital beast. Now what do I do?”

Fortunately, he wasn’t the only denizen of this digital lion’s den. There were plenty of humans, as well as a few chimps who were subject to lab test where they had to type on laptops till they filled Word documents with 1984.

It was there that Thomas met Alfred. And Alfred introduced him to Philip.

“Hello,” Philip said.

“How long have you been here?” Thomas asked.

“Oh years, I suppose,” Philip replied. “Although every time someone new enters, it makes me realize there’s another world I can escape to.”

“Excuse me,” Alfred said, “Did you read that out of some church bulletin?”

“That was quite a polite barb, Alfred,” Philip noted.

“Well, I’m English,” Alfred said. “This is a story about Englishmen. If this were a conversation written down and read by someone, the voice in their head should have an English accent.”

Thomas paused for dramatic effect, then turned and went to see what the monkeys were up to. They were in the middle of a Battleship tournament, and it was too late for him to enter.

Thomas hung his head, and walked out toward the blue glow on the horizon. It was like being in Tron, he thought, if Tron had monkeys in it. Then a strange buzzing surrounded him. Bees? No. Digital kazoos? Possibly. No wait! He knew that sound! It was…. it was…

His alarm clock.

Thomas slammed his hand on the clock, silencing the buzz. Oh no! He had gone to bed without finishing his paper for psychology class about simulacrum. So he turned this dream in instead.

He got a D.

20. POSTCARDS FROM MINNESOTA, INTENDED TO ENTICE A FRIEND TO MOVE BACK.

“Winter is a harsh mistress”
(Picture of outhouse with icicles on the eaves)

You should move back so we can complain about the old lady together. You wouldn’t believe how much snow she dumped on me this year. Also, the post man slipped down my front steps, and now I’m getting sued by the city.


“Greetings (SLAP) from (BUZZ) Minnesota (SLAP)!”
(Picture of a mosquito)

I’m telling you, you need to get back here. The mosquitos have grown into buzzards since you left. And I only call them buzzards for the onomatopoeic effect, because they definitely don’t feed on anything but the living blood coursing through my veins. We don’t even watch monster shows anymore. It’s like I’m living in one of those sexy vampire dramas.

“Weird Minnesota”
(Picture of a cow getting beamed up to a UFO)

I dreamed I was in a giant spaceship last night. We decided to separate it into two sections because deep down we knew it would make for a great reunion. Then, in my dream, I realized I couldn’t fly a spaceship.

I need to get out more. When you moving back?

19. DIGITAL BONFIRE

There were three competing lights that night. A sky that wouldn’t go dark, a bonfire that wouldn’t quite start, and the blue light of his cellphone.

Sheila leaned over to poke the fire with a stick.

“Busy man,” she said. He clicked away with his thumbs. “Say hi for me.”

“Huh?” Steve asked, looking up.

“Say hi to whoever you’re texting for me,” Sheila repeated. She rocked gently on the log, rustling the bag of marshmallows at her ankle.

“Oh, I’m not writing anyone,” Steve said. He put the phone in his pocket, but didn’t turn it off. “I was checking the scores. World Cup is on.”

“Oh yeah, soccer,” Sheila said. She stretched her legs to the fire, but it was nothing more than a hump of red coals. She had Steve’s attention, and now all she could think about was how it wasn’t dark enough to scoot closer to him.

“Do you play soccer?” Steve asked.

“No,” Sheila said. “But I appreciate that it’s around.”

Steve’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Without hesitating, he pulled it out.

“Whoa, Denmark just scored on Germany.”

“Cool,” Sheila said. She turned so he couldn’t see her roll her eyes. She had spent all month working on him, getting him to break up with Grace P, and this was supposed to be their romantic evening. Roasting marshmallows, hearing him tell ghost stories, keeping warm under his arm.

The embers were almost out, and Steve’s phone buzzed again.

“What’s it this time?” Sheila asked. “Did the Dutch team score again?”

“No.” Steve’s answer was flat. “It’s my brother, I’ve got to pick him up from work again.”

“Can’t he get a ride from someone?”

“People tend not to give you rides if you get fired.” Steve stood up and started to walk away. Then he stopped, turned, and said to Sheila: “By the way, the Dutch are from the Netherlands, and the Danish are from Denmark.”

Sheila laughed, pinching her shoulders up and throwing her head back.

“And this whole time I didn’t think you were paying attention to me,” she said.

18. SUPERNOVAS HAVE FREEWILL

I am trying to write outside on a windy day. I’ve had an epiphany, and privy to my thoughts, the wind has decided to prevent the truth from being written. I wrestle with pen and paper and the elements to either create this magnum opus, or invent a new, more scrawling alphabet.

A language of my own! Buffeted and tenuous. Unrepeatable. Thoughts that can not be traced to the ones before it or the ones that follow. An experiment that only works once, like the Big Bang.

Which relates to my epiphany, yes. Attribute it to the elements. This is what I am writing:

In the beginning there was energy. And energy decided to play a game, to have an experiment: in a split second you must decide if you are energy or matter. Quick, man! Choose! And they did. And the billions of decisions ignited the Big Bang.

That was what energy wasn’t banking on with its experiment: Once matter is a part of the equation, there needs to be a place for the matter to exist in.

And now there is space, a place for energy and matter to battle in. To push and pull. To create and destroy. And to think nothing of either. Supernovas have free will. They just are, and they completely ignore us. Humans think thoughts and run around, and none of that energy reaches the stars.

What about black holes, you ask? Black holes are proof the universe is half-baked. Somewhere else, energy got together and played the same game, and that universe came out perfect. But we can’t get there. There’re no blackholes leading in or out.

The wind is blowing strong now. The energy that was there before the beginning is not happy that I have figured this out. It will do whatever it can to make sure this incarnation of matter does not upset the balance, does not alert the rest of creation to this original experiment.

Supernovas may have freewill, planets may coalesce out of star afterbirth, light may be constant, but I have no idea if I will be able to read this when I get back inside. The words and thoughts have packed up against one another, creating a critical mass on the page. Tangled letters on top of other tangled letters. Buffeted and tenuous. Unrepeatable. Ideas that can not be traced to the ones before or connected to what comes it.

17. DISCO HORRIBLE? THE NEW BUSINESS IS MY COUSIN.

The following is a translation via Google Translator of the first scene of the unfilmed Mexican screenplay “Hache Mariachi!”

SCENE 1

OPEN ON A & C in a room. ENTER B.

A: Hey, where were you? I am waiting for you for a few hours.

B: You tend to leave me alone, I was in a horrible disco.

C: Disco horrible? the new business is my cousin.

A: Shut up her cousin! I am waiting for a few hours and you only have to tell me you were on a disk?

B: Not a talk, baby. Just dance. Never miss without you.

ENTER D

D: I take my keys.

C: Richard! Thank you for coming! Friends, this is Ricardo.

D: My Keys.

C: Oh yes yes yes, of course! Your keys are on the table by my bed. Come on, bring them.

D: each other?

C: Sure!

EXIT C & D

B: Enough! Where were you for real? An DISCO? For three hours? Anyone know that it was impossible to be in a disk only for three hours!

A: Ok, ok. Was in-house. The brown bear.

ENTER E

E: Smells as a hot lunch here.

B: Hache! Shut up! He is telling me where he was the same three hours.

E: Easy. He was with me.

A: No no! Hache says no!

E: Yes, he was with me in my house with his guitar, to learn the mariachi songs.

B: NO?!

A: Yeah.

B: It was a mariachi!

E: NO! I mariachi! He only has my back.

B: You?

E: Yes. MARIACHI I HACHE