…at least by the FBI. Since nobody ever thought that Wu members could be involved in guns and drugs, it should come as a complete surprise that ODB had a file by the Feds. So ODB’s 91 page, heavily-redacted file got leaked somehow, and once something gets on the internetz, it’s there forever, as Aaron Berry of the Detroit Lions has certainly learned this week. Just like chocolate stains. Nothing gets out chocolate. Nothing.
Read the FBI file here
Posted in The More You Know | Tagged fbi, guns and drugs, internetz, odb, welfare check | Leave a Comment »
Q: I heard you wrote a novel.
A: Yes, yes I have. Well, I am. It’s actually a novel in seven parts. I published the first part.
Q: Where can I buy this novel?
A: Well, you can buy it on Amazon right here: Link to Amazon, Age of O Page!
Q: What’s it about?
A: Well, that’s a spring loaded question. It could be answered in many ways. It’s about a man named Gregory Facilovich who has decided to leave his wife and child at the end of the current week. For some time, he has been writing his memoirs, and over this final week he’s making his final edit. He is writing the memoirs for a specific person. Greg also has the ability to drink any amount of alcohol and never get drunk.
Q: Wait, really?
A: Well, yes. Really. For serious.
Q: This sounds boring.
A: Well, that’s technically not a question, but that’s alright. It’s not boring, I assure you. There is some exciting stuff in there. And some funny stuff, too. Some parts could be considered boring, but that’s okay, they’re necessary. Also, he doesn’t tell anyone about his ability.
Q: I don’t care about that part anymore. Did you say this is the first of seven?
A: Well, yes. Over the last two years, I wrote the first four, and am editing and preparing these others for publication. I was going to wait until all seven were done and publish it as one whole book, as I planned it, and then I realized nobody wants to read a thousand page book, period.
Q: Why did you call it The Age of Zero?
A: Well, I didn’t. It’s actually called The Age of O, like the letter, though I could see how you could think it was the title if you had only read it.
Q: Did you just write a book with the narrator being a thinly-veiled version of you?
A: No. Well, I love baseball and alcohol gets me pretty loaded, last time I checked. And my protagonist is thirty and married. I am twenty-four and unmarried, last time I checked.
Q: Did you start this ambitiously big project with no idea where it was really going?
A: Well, no. I know exactly where it’s going and how it’s going to end, and have known since (before) I started. This isn’t Lost or The X-Files. There is a map, and it’s in my pocket at all times.
Q: Why did you write this novel?
A: Well, a fairy spoke to me one day while I was living in a farmhouse, and I wrangled it into this cage and talked with it until it gave me the whole plot. You have to argue with these fairies, show them you’re serious. Also, I decided to write the novel I always wanted to read.
Q: So, I’ve gotten this far in this imaginary interview. What is the book really about?
A: Well, it would be accurate to say that this is my attempt to write The Great American Novel. It’s about experience, pain, reform, education, health, war, marriage, art and America itself. Not too sound heavy.
Q: That sounds really heavy.
A: You’d think so. But, well, at certain parts there may or may not be cowboys, explosions, shootings, poisonings, an Olympiad, holes in the earth, golfing, a wedding, extensive drug abuse and a movie. There also may be none of these things.
Q: So, this is all told in first-person from this characters point of view?
A: Well, large parts of it. The rest of the story is told through third-person documents.
Q: Now, I saw somewhere that this is set in an alternate America. What does that mean exactly?
A: Well, there are a few noticeable differences, but those are largely fictional conceits. This isn’t sci-fi or some wacky Marvel alternate universe or some dystopian zombie infested thrillride. Consider this your current, everyday America, circa 2010.
Q: Is every social institution corrupt or run by unqualified invalids?
A: Well, yes. Laughably so. I mean, really. Look around. C’mon now, let’s be adults.
Q: That cover looks sharp. Who designed it?
A: A toothless trucker I met in Culver City named Harrison Langohr. He runs a magazine called Haz-Mat. He’s an animal. And a lover of fruit baskets.
Q: Who are your influences?
A: Well, I have many influences. When I began this project, I intended to mix themes and ascetics from certain works by Mann, Ford, Camus, Tolstoy and Vonnegut. In large part, those ideas remained intact. That is, if they were beaten in the head with a billy club and fed exclusively aluminum cans and ketamine for a good five months.
Q: When is Tuesday going to be released?
A: Whenever, I darn well please. I imagine Summer 2012 realistically, but promises are meant to be broken. Or is that rules? I am contemplating pairing Wednesday and Thursday into one volume.
Q: You do say “well” a whole lot.
A: Well, I am glad you noticed.
Q: Are you writing anything else?
A: I am in the planning stages for a novel about a fictional baseball league.
Q: Is this book even any good?
A: You can begin gathering data for your subjective opinion by reading the free preview on the Amazon page.
Q: Can I get a free copy of your book?
A: I don’t even get a free copy.
Posted in Fiction, Lists, News | Tagged age of o, America, Art, Baseball, great american novel, novel, war | 1 Comment »
Posted in Poetry | Leave a Comment »
A recent correction ran in the NYT. Good stuff.
“An article “incorrectly described Claudius’s actions in Hamlet. Claudius married his brother’s wife, not his brother’s sister.” Not only did this rudimentary error occur in a story written by a man identified by the Times as an expert on Shakespeare — “his brother’s sister” would be his own sister.”
credit: Gregg Easterbrook
Posted in The More You Know | Leave a Comment »
I’ve been undisciplined. I am constantly sore. I don’t fit in my bed, even when I am stretched all the way out. Is this real anymore? Is the usual corporeal discussion another one-way monitor?
Snapped back to ether with a gear in neutral, loose typically, arranging myself, I lean far under the windshield trying to gain a fresh perspective on the routes. The thing about this city is there are only so many ways to go. Today, the trees look taller. Some buildings look slantier. I drum my fingers on my forehead and watch the other drivers. I thought I had it figured, but it drains into a different form with each coming day. This is what happens when I finally decide to own a mirror. Something swirls calico as my coffee drips empty. Last nights conversation was buried in the yard when we sat down.
I drive the same way home from work. Last week, I caught a light that I’ve never caught. I stopped washing my hair. I stopped counting the crimes in the paper. Good thoughts have been acting like a glass of water poured over a taut drumhead, bouncing everywhere with a contorted gravity, the results damp and untreading.
The next day I caught the same light. I was the only car to pass through. I did not stop. This is a light I have always missed. It’s a protected left turn smack dab in the center of a three-way intersection with no shade. A strip-malled Dresden. It takes at least seven, sometimes ten minutes for the light to go back to green. I talk into my phone. I read my new address at the mailbox: it reads like a song of retribution.
Notes from a recent dream, half-real, half-other worlds, the ones I seem to be fond of visiting:
I remember seeing the moon leaving us in my rear-view mirror from the backseat, your words get lost as the train rumbles past the car. And like always, I am struck down stupid, a bow, a man, a stuttering imp.
I write a show for her seventeen months ago, and it’s already past.
She kissed me in the mornings and came to me, like a bird, but it’s already past.
I’m fifteen again, and the echoes make me shiver and it’s already past.
Like deja vu during a sweaty doze on a love-seat, like a jaw crack on an already popped jaw, like the jokes told to every lover, like the gull yapping that I squint at through cracked blinds, it’s already past.
Your once swimmers body, your once nimble mind, your once courageous spirit. It’s already past.
When I woke up today, I came to the conclusion that bored sadists have been breaking into my bedroom and pummeling me with soft bats. It explains the soreness, the tender treading of my body through the hours. Plus, I’m a deep sleeper. It would certainly explain a lot.
I hear two voices when I can hardly handle the one. I am skeptical that either have anything to say. I feel like an elephant in the circus balancing on the big ball. I feel there is a new vernacular I am not caught up on – a trudging monster along the plains, I’m riding it’s back, bored with the country and the old reminders of the new world. It needs to slow down.
The next day I caught the light for the third day in a row. I thought about this. I’ve been told to pay attention to things that come in rows of threes, that the world is trying to tell you something. It’s best to keep your antenna up, your senses alive, and your world copasetic regardless of the circumstances of the events that transpired after your accidental birth. If you give in, the world will continue. The earth will pour itself new.
I avoid driving that particular route home now. And I don’t let the pangs carve out my stomach when I see the flowers in the grocery store in the late stages of a Sunday morning. Colors, car models, a sketch pad, a photograph, the old building, a mispronunciation, all echoed in powers greater than three, in certain rows, tingling and dancing near my skin. I’m reminded. And though the world can dissipate, I am always reminded.
I avoid driving that route now.
Posted in Lists, Stream | Tagged Cities, dreams, driving, flowers, Love | Leave a Comment »
WOMAN: Hello, thanks for meeting me here, I hope it wasn’t too far out of the way.
MAN: No, not at all. Coffee was a great idea. You look great. Did you just come from work?
WOMAN: Um…thanks? Yes, yes…I did.
MAN: Cool.
WOMAN: Right, let’s get started.
MAN: Whoa, you’re got a clipboard? You must be taking this pretty seriously.
WOMAN: Well, I think it’s important to take notes of all the candidates. It helps me remember.
MAN: Well, if I do this right you won’t need any notes to remember me.
WOMAN: Haha, well I suppouse you’re right about that.
MAN: Yeaaaaa.
WOMAN: So why did you apply for the position?
MAN: Um, well I guess like anyone else, I saw the ad on Craigslist and it just seemed like a good fit, you know.
WOMAN: Sure, sure. I will say, your application stood out, and not just because of the attached image of you posing shirtless.
MAN: Thanks! I feel like we could accomplish something with our time together, maybe make life a little more meaningful.
WOMAN: That’s a profound goal for the position – most people are all business, in-and-out, just showing up for the benefits.
MAN: That’s…understandable. Well, you should know, I’m good at the, you know, business ends of those things anyway, I’m very experienced.
WOMAN: How old you when you found your first position?
MAN: That’s a very forward question.
WOMAN: Doesn’t seem strange to me.
MAN: …I was twelve. It was at the local theater.
WOMAN: That’s quite young. I imagine there would be some laws against that.
MAN: Yeah, you’d think…it had a pretty…profound impact on me.
WOMAN: I imagined it instilled a strong work ethic for future positions?
MAN: Oh yeah. Totally. You could say it became sort of a fixation.
WOMAN: Now that’s the sort of drive we’re interested in!
MAN: There’s others?
WOMAN: Oh yes. We’re a group, it wouldn’t be a one-on-one or assistant job.
MAN: …assistant? Does that mean….?
WOMAN: There’s about a dozen of us all together. It’d be a group thing. We’re all pretty committed.
MAN: Wow! I’ve never held a position with a group that large. That’s incredible you’ve all found each other.
WOMAN: It did take some time. We’re pretty close knit. Some of us even live together.
MAN: That’s hot.
WOMAN: Uhh…sure. Are you interested in the compensation package?
MAN: I mean, I can imagine, there’s only so many variations of…compensation, that’s a strange way to phrase it.
WOMAN: What would you call it?
MAN: Uhh…benefits? I dunno. I guess I never thought about it.
WOMAN: Well the hours are between 12 and 4. You’re free to use the break room and the staff fridge before and after you’re shift.
MAN: You’ve got it all organized into shifts?
WOMAN: Oh yeah, people come on, people come off, it’s all very organized.
MAN: Awesome.
WOMAN: Yeah…sometimes people bring their kids in.
MAN: What?!?!?
WOMAN: Oh yeah. It’s no big deal. Have you never experienced something like that before?
MAN: Uhh no…that’s pretty out there I have to say.
WOMAN: Oh well, that’s odd you’ve never seen that. I was exposed to my parent’s positions at the office quite often.
MAN: ..
WOMAN: ..
MAN: I guess I’d try anything once.
WOMAN: That’s great. You get more comfortable with the kids the more you do it. Anyway, like I said we’re kind of one big family. Though you’ll be new and still being trained,
MAN: What are training me on? I think I’ll manage.
WOMAN: There’s a fair amount of improvisation, but there are some strange things, some strange messes basically, that you’ll have to clean up that might surprise you.
MAN: Wow. I guess that’s cool. This is pretty out there.
WOMAN: The position does seem weird but you’ll get used to it fast. We all did. Pretty soon it’ll just become the daily chore.
MAN: Cool.
WOMAN: Yeah, so anyway, we’ll train you but don’t be surprised if someone expects you to just jump in there.
MAN: Hot.
WOMAN: Yeah…sure. So would you like to accept the position?
MAN: Well,
WOMAN: What are you doing?
MAN: Why don’t we get a room and start training there.
WOMAN: Oh sure, but just let go of my hand first. That was…odd. I do have a boyfriend, so let’s keep this professional and contain it to the office. You know how it can seep into your personal life.
MAN: Yeah, I know.
WOMAN: I have some training materials and some exercises we can do in the car, this is just perfect.
MAN: Do you have lube?
WOMAN: …whatever for?
Posted in Fiction, Short Story | Tagged Craigslist, Job Interview, Miunsderstanding, Sex | 1 Comment »
Dear Mr. Case,
First of all, we would like to thank you for the volume of letters you have written us. We happened to be on holiday during the previous three weeks, and were surprised to find the generous correspondence in our foyer. We were impressed that you had chosen to color-code the envelopes based on the day of the week you anticipated them to arrive for our filing system. We were impressed and well, frankly alarmed that you were cogent to our filing system, which my wife and I had elaborately constructed to help with her budding neurosis surrounding her well-publicized aphasia. She wanted to write this letter but she was well – to be frank - shaken by what she is beginning to consider an invasion of privacy. Now, she has contacted our lawyers about her concern, and it is clear, as I stated to her, that you have broken no law. You seem to be simply very observant, caring even, of our mail patterns. There is nothing illegal about this, but it is impressive, in a sense my wife didn’t imagine once we began our correspondence with you. To be frank, she is the one who is concerned, I for one am flattered, though simply because we write our books together doesn’t necessarily always mean we are on the same page, haha. Yes.
Anyway, we managed to enjoy the majority of your letters, however we had trouble picking up specific words in the ones that you wrote presumably in crayon. There is also the matter of the pictograms drawn in what appears to be a reddish brown paint, that we are preparing on mailing back to you for clarification. I am flattered by your overall good nature and pleasant intentions in your correspondence. To be frank, the volume alone is somewhat overwhelming. Do not be alarmed if it takes my wife and I at least two-to-six weeks to fully respond to your proposals, suggestions and light-hearted demands contained in your letters. As I mentioned earlier, we have just returned from our holiday, and have a multitude of other unrelated concerns to deal with. You know how problems stack once you look away, yes? Also, due to other unrelated circumstances my wife and I are speculating whether to relocate our permanent residence. I promise you, that we will keep you informed of our mailing address, as we look forward to the great regularity of your letters. I have already drafted a letter to the postmistress regarding forwarding the parcels that originate from you with the utmost expediency. I would be happy to mail you a copy of that draft. However you should know that the postmistress is rather long in the tooth and has been to known to well…you know, forget things. So don’t be alarmed if we don’t respond immediately or if by some unfortunate circumstance we don’t receive one of your cherished letters. It would not be of a malicious intent. But of course you know that, haha. Yes.
Anyway, while I have your attention, don’t be surprised if my wife answers well, rashly while answering any interview questions regarding rumors of her well, chaotic inner life, and she makes reference to you and our larger correspondence. Do not take it the wrong way. My wife is under considerable stress and she tends to project internal issues onto external forces. She is not trying to victimize or embarrass you. And though we haven’t ever met you, we have taken to you rather fondly. You know women, hurting the ones they love. Don’t be surprised, and don’t say I didn’t warn you…don’t be surprised if it happens around the twentieth, it’s that time of the month for her, and she gets most persnickety. If she mentions anything about a restraining order I know nothing about it. I imagine she would have simply misspoke.
Alas, Mr. Case my wife and our troubled Doberman and poorly trained Tibetan Mastiff require an unleashed walk past the confines of the highly-charged electric barbed wire fence that surrounds our compound featuring remote survelliance. I hope your white Bentley gets out of the shop soon. We do miss seeing it across the way from our driveway!
Take care!
Sincerely,
Roosevelt P. Sternum
Edna Sternum (unsigned)
Posted in Fiction | Leave a Comment »
Horace was a wiener dog. The other dogs made fun of Horace because her name was a boy’s.
She was pretty though – as far as dogs go. Nobody cared though, because of her name. They heard her name, and she disappeared.
Horace never understood why her parents named her Horace. She told herself if she ever figured out where they were, she would ask them. Horace was probably homeless but since she never remembered where she slept, or the patterns of her movements, no one could say for sure.
At the dog school, nobody acted like she existed. If she was late to class, or attempted to answer a question, it was like she was a ghost.
Her homework (when she pulled it from the teacher’s trash can) always got good marks, because once the teacher read her name, she cringed and marked the paper as quickly as possible, closing her eyes and slash red marker gibberish on her homework, an A+ scrawled at the top.
Since Horace was horrendously stupid, this was how she passed each grade. This was also how Horace remained so horrendously stupid.
One day she found her mother. This was a good thing. Unfortunately her mother was remarkably stupid as well, as most wiener dogs are. So it went.
When she was two (fourteen in dog years), Horace grew a pair of wings. They were white, and thick, naturally strong, billowing out with brilliantly white feathers. They were like the wings of a swan.
Horace was at first mystified by the presence of the feathery materials among the usual auburn sheath of hair on her bed. Had she been sleeping beside an ostrich? A seagull? She did not know. After the first five minutes of each morning, she forgot about the presence of the feathers.
Nobody at the dog school said anything about her gorgeous wings, because they despised her so much. Her mother did not say anything. Her mother figured it was best to not make waves. Weiner dogs are short. So it went.
One day, Horace was shopping with her mother at the local dog mall. One of the many vagrant tabbies (the cat homelessness issue becoming a growing thorn) went to approach Horace and her mother for change to score cat nip when the cat noticed Horace’s wings.
“Young lady.”
Horace looked back and forth, confused to be addressed, but more confused to be accurately addressed as a young lady.
“Yes you,” the cat, who was named Arnold, said to Horace.
“What, what is it? Do you want my money?” Horace replied. She noticed her mother had disappeared, abandoning her once again.
“Your wings. They’re absolutely filthy.”
“What wings?”
Arnold swatted at the (admittedly) filthy wings with his own filthy paw. Cats typically criticize the very things they should be criticized for. Cats are hypocrites. And bad with money. So it went.
“The ones growing out of your sides you silly girl.” Arnold said.
“What wings? This isn’t funny.”
Arnold realized that this wasn’t an ordinary stupid dog. This dog was exceptionally stupid. Arnold applied his scuzzy mitt to Horace’s long jaw and gently tilted her head to each of her side.
“Do you see your wings?”
“I saw something. Were they brown?”
“No. Lord no.”
Arnold repeated the process with Horace. Horace had finally noticed her wings! She became very excited and ran in a series of small circles and barked. She did not know she had wings. It was exciting. This was new.
Horace extended her wings, moving them in the air, brushing them against the ground.
“I have wings!” Horace exclaimed.
“Yes, yes you do young lady.”
“Oh my! Do you think I can fly?”
“I gather that there could be a chance.”
“So I can fly!” she yelped with excitement.
“Well…maybe, but you’re awful short.”
“Wow! Have you seen my mother? She will be excited too, to know that I can fly” Horace asked.
“She went inside the mall.”
“OK! Thanks!” Horace said and turned towards the entrance, excited to show her mother her new wings, which were not new at all, which were actually quite tattered and old looking.
“Wait,” Arnold said, rubbing his dirty paws against his dirty t-shirt.
“What is it Wing-Shower?”
“Do you spare any change?” Arnold asked.
“I am sure a change will come, Wing-Shower.”
And then she left, promptly forgetting she had wings.
2.
The dog school was in a brick building. Naturally, all of the entrances were dog doors. It was a two-room school house. One room was for what they considered the “normal” dogs which was the room for Horace and her class. The other room was for the “irregular” dogs, but no dogs went in there, and the teacher sat in the room each day, each and every day and waited for a dog to come in. No irregular dogs came. She figured a dog would come eventually. None ever did. The teacher just watched the door and thought of nothing everyday between eight and five. Thinking of nothing didn’t bother her. Time passed rather quickly as the years went on. She took lunch with the other teacher each day.When the two teachers talked shop, the irregular dog teacher made up dogs and dog anecdotes about her ficticous class to make it seem like she had a class. The irregular dog teachera greed with the sentiments and observations of the regular dog teacher so she wouldn’t catch onto the fact that she really wasn’t a teacher. She was just a dog sitting in a room waiting for irregular dogs to come in. She liked that life.
And besides, it would’ve made for an awkward conversation if anyone ever figured it out. Nobody did. The irregular dog teacher was happy.
In the normal dog classroom nearly all of the dogs had a desk, except for Horace, and a one-legged whippet named Diego who continued to fall over whenever a small gust of wind came through the classroom. Some industrious dogs fashioned a cardboard box to support Diego. He couldn’t see the blackboard and failed out of school. Nobody knows what happened to Diego.
Anyway, since Horace didn’t have a desk, as she was too short for her stubby arms and legs to use the provided chair. Other short dogs could use the chair. The wiener dog had no use for a chair.
The shortest one was a foot tall. Horce couldn’t even see the top of the tallest one, which was three feet, and reserved for danes and wolf hounds, due to the limited flexibility of her neck. Horace did her work from the floor and held her pencil in her mouth because her arms were too short for her to write. She concocted a scheme where she held paper with her paws while she wrote with the pencil in her mouth. Her scribblings were illegible, but it made no difference because her teacher didn’t read her homework anyway. The whole system was very inefficient. It went on like this.
Horace’s mother had disappeared again. Horace hadn’t noticed. One day the phone rang.
Horace managed to kick the phone off the receiver and yell at the phone. She didn’t have the physical abilities to lean over to hear the receiver. It was her mother. She was calling to tell Horace she had no idea where she was. Horace couldn’t hang up the phone so she didn’t get anymore phone calls. This was the same day that Horace figured out that her house was actually two overturned wheelbarrows leaning against one another. She was proud to have figured this out. Horace had heard of wheelbarrows before.
One day, the school went on a field trip to the ocean, and Horace snuck onto the bus. The other dogs were learning about sand, and the art of fetching on a beach, and nobody noticed or cared when Horace wandered off down the beach on her own, as everyone despised her. As she walked down the beach, a tennis ball fell in front of her. She looked at it for a moment and then began barking at the ocean, which she had understood had thrown the ball at her.
Once she got tired of barking, Horace noticed that she was hearing a distinct, squeaky voice coming from the water. There was a dolphin standing a few feet away from her.
“A little help, young lady?”
“With what?”
“Why, that yellow ball that fell in front of you. Would you be kind enough to toss it my way?”
The dolphin knew that Horace was not well-equipped. The dolphin knew this in advance. The dolphin knew the ball would fall in front of Horace. The dolphin knew all that was to pass between him and Horace. The dolphin knew the future, and was wise enough to know he could not change it. Things go the way they go.
Horace picked up the ball with her mouth and tossed it towards the dolphin.
“What is your name, miss?” asked the dolphin, fully aware that her name was Horace.
“Uhm….my name?” Horace could not remember her name. It had been ages since anyone had asked.
“Take your time.” said the dolphin. Dolphins are exceedingly patient. They also smell wonderful.
Eventually Horace remembered her name and told the dolphin.
“That is an odd name for a girl dog.” said the dolphin, feigning surprise. Dolphins are the only species that can pretend to be sincere sincerely. Again, the way of the dolphin.
“Yes, the other dogs all hate me.”
“That is too bad. Dogs are stupid you know.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh nothing. Just a buzz in the air I think.”
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
“Well what is your name?” Horace asked.
“My name is Luke.”
“What a nice name.”
“Yes, I think it suits me.”
The bus made a honk, and the other dogs moved back towards it. Horace figured out that the bus would be leaving without her. She was surprised that she had comprehended something so quickly. It was as if being near the dolphin made her smarter.
“I need to be going. It was nice to meet you.”
“Yes, and you as well.”
Horace began to walk away.
“Horace. Come back for a moment.”
“Yes?”
“I think you should come back here tomorrow. I will teach you. I don’t think that school is helping you.”
“But how will I know how to get back?”
“Remember which way the bus turns on the way back, and make the opposite route to get back here.”
“Okay.”
Luke remembered what would happen in the future and added a note to Horace.
“Oh and Horace, for the love of Christmas, you need to write it down.”
“I will.”
Horace left. Luke giggled at the thought of Horace writing with her mouth. Luke could not help it. He did not feel bad because he knew it would happen.
3.
Horace wrote down the turns the bus made and where just as Luke instructed. Horace felt she was getting smarter even just on the ride home.
The next when she made her way back to the beach, she found she had remembered most of the street names, and some of the turns without looking at her chicken-scratch directions.
Horace walked out on the sand to the shoreline. Her short legs sunk into the sand with her steps, spooning sand into her mouth.
“Luke!” She called.
There was no response. She resumed spitting the sand out of her mouth. Twenty minutes later, as Luke knew, a dolphin emerged from the water and came towards the shore.
“Luke!” Horace called, having spotted a dolphin. The dolphin came closer to her.
“Yes? Do I know you?” The dolphin asked.
“Aren’t you Luke?”
The dolphin certainly did resemble Luke.
“Yeah, I’m Luke, what do you want about it?”
This dolphin was surly. He looked up and down the length of the beach, like Horace was wasting his time. This dolphin seemed like he would even fight Horace, if the circumstances came down to it. Horace started to shake.
“Aren’t you my dolphin friend? I….I….I’m looking for my friend Luke. It’s me, Horace.”
She started to tear up. Horace had realized on the trip there that Luke was her only friend. This thought at once overwhelmed her, because she had realized she had been alive for so long (which wasn’t so long) without knowing she didn’t have any friends.
“Oh. You want Luke. I’ll go get him.” said the other dolphin Luke.
“What? I thought you said,”
But before he could explain, he was gone. Within thirty seconds, another dolphin emerged from the ocean. He looked practically identical to the previous dolphin. If Horace was capable at that point to getting suspicious, she would have gotten suspicious. But, so it went.
“Hi, Luke!”
“Hi, Horace!”
“Luke, was that your brother?”
“Who? Oh, Luke?”
“Yeah, the other dolphin I just talked to.”
“No, that’s just Luke. He’s friends with my friend Luke.”
“What?”
Luke remembered that Horace wasn’t the shiniest spoon.
“Oh. Don’t you know the story?” Luke knew that Horace did not know the story.
“No.”
“Well, I’ll tell you. Sit down.”
Horace was already sitting down in the sand because her legs were so short. She looked apodal. She shrugged at Luke.
“Well, the King Dolphin, Luke, that is, to his friends, realized that all of the dolphins looked alike. Strikingly alike even. The similarity in the dolphins, at least the ones in his kingdom, made such an impression on him that he decided to commemorate it. So he concluded that since all of the dolphins look the same, that we should all have the same names too, to make things simpler.”
Horace didn’t understand any of this.
“Every dolphin is named Luke.”
Horace understood then.
“So the King Dolphin changed his name to Luke as well.” Luke said.
“Why Luke?” Horace asked.
“Why not Luke?”
“I think it’s a good name.” Horace stated.
“It is a good name.” Luke said. It certainly was a good name.
“How do you tell each other apart then if you all have the same name?”
“Oh, it’s really easy. We know who we all are. There’s not too many of us.”
“How many?”
“Seventeen thousand six-hundred and twelve.”
“Oh my. That’s a lot.”
“Oh it’s not too bad. I only know maybe sixteen thousand of them.”
Luke was lying here to protect Horace’s feelings. In fact, Luke knew all of the dolphins intimately. He knew he would know all of the dolphins intimately. He also knew he could overwhelm Horace with his knowledge, as he would do it later in life. So it went.
“You dolphins are pretty smart. Do you think you can teach me things? My teachers ignore me or burn my homework and start screaming in front of the other dogs.”
“Hmm, I’d have to talk to Luke, Luke and Luke to arrange something but I imagine we could tutor you. You don’t have gills do you?”
“I don’t think I do.”
“That may hamper things. I’ll talk to Luke and see if he will ask Luke to outfit Luke and I with something that can get us on shore.”
Luke knew that was impossible but found himself saying the words anyway. His life was rife with contradictions such as these. Luke tried not to think about it too much, because the last time he did he fell down and hit his head and woke up in an alley, and a cat using a wheelbarrow had to take him back to the ocean. The cat said his name was Arnold. He was very dirty and smelled like tuna, which disturbed Luke greatly.
“I’d like to learn more.”
Luke paused and looked at her wings. They were looking weak and frail. He remembered that Horace had no clue she had wings.
“Horace, you need to strengthen your wings. That will be your first homework assignment.”
“I don’t have wings! That’s silly.” She said.
“Yes you do. Just think about it for ten seconds.”
Horace thought about it for ten seconds. It was ten times longer than she thought of anything else.
“Oh my Christmas! I do have wings.”
“Yes. You need to make them stronger. Wings are like a garden – a muscle. You need to make them stronger.”
Dolphins have no concept of agriculture. They also have no concept of combustion or atmospheric pressure. Nobody is perfect. Dolphins are pretty close.
Horace went home, and was surprised to see her mother. She waved at Horace like she had never left. Horace ran around the yard, flapping her white wings. She got very tired very quickly. But she came back out each day and worked a little harder, and was able to exercise a little longer. Pretty soon her wings became very strong.
She returned to the beach to show her friend Luke how strong she had become. She didn’t even need to look at the roads on this trip, or think about the turns.
Luke was waiting for her beside the shoreline.
“How’d you know I was coming Luke?” she asked.
“Luke told me, he saw you crossing the river.”
“Dolphins hang out in rivers?”
“We have agents.”
“Oh. Cool.”
“How are your wings?”
Horace showed him how strong her wings had become. He told her to try to fly, and explained how fast she would need to run. Luke had forgotten that he would later learn that her legs were too short for to gain ample velocity in order to fly, no matter how high of a dune she had leapt. Unfortunately, Luke remembered this useful tidbit after twelve failed attempts and a number of bruises.
“I don’t think you can fly.”
Horace began sobbing uncontrollably. She had invested so much time in improving her wings. And although she did not know that she could fly with her wings until Luke explained it to her at the beach that day, she became emotionally attached to that idea very quickly. The memory of dogs. So it went.
She continued to sob and flail and scream and began trotting into the water, which Luke heavily protested, but Horace did not hear, even with her huge, floppy wiener dog ears, and she ran into the water. She began swimming with an inherent violence, an extreme flail and found herself far, far away from the shore. Horace began to get weak. She could not see Luke. She went under the water.
As Horace slipped farther under water, she was met by Luke, who was smiling with a purpose, grinning ecstatically. Horace began to panic. Luke held her still with his fins. Horace found she was able to breathe.
It turned out she had gills after all.
Horace and Luke were married. They had their first child, Luke, the following year.
And that is the story of the how the first winged dolphin came to be.
THE END
Posted in Fiction, Short Story | Tagged dog school, Dogs, dolphins, funny, intelligence, Short Story, wings | Leave a Comment »
I watch him driving home from work
despondent and wordless,
divers call it decompression.
He listens to the breath of the other engines.
He knows the best promises are the ones he makes to himself.
He sees a painter he knows smoking outside of a bar
while he waits at a red light, thinking nothing.
He sees three lonely women trying to call a cab
as if it were a housecat lost in the night.
He announces his failures so no one else
can get in the first jab,
because in his heart
you’re riding shotgun with him any other night,
laughing about the tendency,
the unique patterns, of our own odd failures.
Composed in our chaos,
aware of the present unwrapping:
the dispossessed intentions, hard to ignore
wiping balmy sweat on paint stained jeans
before you summon nerves to talk to a pretty one,
summers of key pockets filled with bottle caps.
Our subliminal evils now a garnish
noticed and picked around
something we both see and don’t mention.
We laugh at the old photographs
of us or them passed out on couches
sprawling off the sides
bottoms of shirts brown with old blood.
We laugh because we don’t take pictures anymore.
The knuckled years left, gone and wandered
into bigger buildings with safe careers
and honest hours.
And it’s funny.
We used to think better of him
When it was worse.
These are the sparking thoughts flashing through his head
when the light
goes green.
He passes the dark avenues, he passes the barlights
he passes the gutter punks,
pushing day-next-to-day,
swallowing the night,
the ones who leave
a forwarding address for their intentions,
baiting ourselves into the projected image,
the half-dozen directions your heart wants to know
at work with what’s provided.
I have lived so many lives.
I have known so many different hearts.
The names change like our intentions.
Bluebird to Bluebeard
Old Hickory to Old Smoke
Windsail to Ship Gone Lost From This Port.
Sawmill to Sawbit
to Quiet in a Big Country
My heart skips ten beats
as she breezes past my hair
and whispers something small into my ear,
leaning over my crossed legs.
She bites her lip and gets up first.
Clouds move over the park,
and I fold my copy of the correspondence into the bag.
We walk to her car,
making brisk time, moving like rabbits.
Rain comes, filling rusted July buckets,
sharp angles of missed reprises
she drives through the puddles,
moving into the opposite lane to hit big ones.
I am thinking of the places
she keeps her hair dryer,
the place where she keeps
the stubbed heart of this year.
Secrets rise up and then spill into the storm drains
on the drive to my new house
shuttered up voices
shadows of the love letter
I found stuffed into a door jamb
addressed to the other.
The one gone missing
The one who cheated us
The voice that made me resent goodbye
and empty seats and houses
the first breath of solitude.
This is all I can think about
after we make love with the window open
before she slips back inside my bed
before the drum marches us on.
He replaces one life with another
One tone with tomorrow
One joke to seven people.
He’s never alone – he has dozens of personas.
Hats, shirts and sunglasses directing his behavior.
Something cold in the room drawing on his neck
His emotions dictate his heart.
He looked scared the last time I saw him.
Like he forgot I was in the room with him.
He got the letter you wrote to him
that suggests full dominion of the honest heart
of the quiet things.
He said you asked him
to throw away the magic beans
the ones busy
working towards the someday world
of short commutes
and crosswords coupled with unfiltered cigarettes
still nude on Sunday until three.
He can hear
the life music for this home.
The dreadless, quiet, clarity
of a full-life planned out on wall maps.
He repeats himself.
Because that’s the point.
Bless the impossible love.
Bless the sharp hearts.
May they ramble on nameless
like our friend driving home
without doubt
like the reasons for our behavior
riding eternal without reason
like passports and signatures
or birthday celebrations
or outgoing messages
opening acts and punchlines
during the long penance
of the six-sided heart.
Posted in Poetry, The Correspondence | Tagged Drinking, letters, Love, Poetry, Time | Leave a Comment »
Everyone who knows me half-decent knows that I have a reverence for bears (and cats). The previous sentence does not make the next paragraph any more or less illuminating though.
“Bearbaiting
A popular form of entertainment in 16th-century England. A bear was tied to a stake, and trained dogs were set upon it. Other variations included a bull tied to a stake and a pony with an ape tied to his back.“
Thought this embarassing practice became antiquated long ago? Guess again!
p.25, The Know-It-All, Jacobs
Posted in The More You Know | Leave a Comment »
