It had been six years since his last spell of insomnia. But now it had returned. His eyeballs felt as if they were about to pop out; the skin around them feeling tight and as if it was being pulled tighter and tighter every second. He hunched over on the edge of his band, arms folded holding each other, as he tried to keep them from shaking. Then his scalp started itched. He ran his fingers through his hair as if trying to scratch his entire head at once. Not being able to get rid of the itch, he started shaking his had violently trying to regain some kind of feeling that he recognized instead of what he figured was happening—his slow and imminent decomposition.
This was Richard Sebastian slowly loosing it again.
He sat in the dark bedroom, staring out the wall though in the darkness he could not see said wall. He wanted to cry. But nothing would come. No tears, no sobs, no goddamned nothing, why can’t I just cry and fall asleep. Richard curled his hands into fist and began hitting himself in the head. “Cry motherfucker cry. Why don’t you do anything. Get it out, just get it out.” Then, not being able to cry, he curled up into a fetal position on the bed and gently rocked back and forth.
For six years Richard had maintained a fairly happy disposition. Through three years of prescription drugs and therapy he had overcome years of clinical depression. The thought of suicide stopped appearing in his mind as a solution. He was able to go outside and talk to complete strangers. He was able to sleep.
And now he could not.
Richard continue to gently rock back and forth in the fetal position. Sleep, sleep, sleep. sleep. I need to sleep. I have to wake up in two hours for work. I need sleep before work. I can’t go to work with another night of no sleep. Sleep. Sleep. “Sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep,” Richard continued to repeat to himself until the word sleep no longer seemed like a word, “Please, please sleep. Why can’t I do this right.” His eyes felt dry as he could not cry.
Richard sat up on his knees. “God, damn you, I can’t handle going back to this. I liked being happy. I don’t want to be how I was. Please. I won’t be able to handle it again.” Then he knelt there in silence. “God.” “Please.”
“I can’t do this again.” He waited in the silence again.
“I like being happy. I know I used to think happy people were idiots that didn’t understand the reality of life. But not anymore, God. Please, I liked being happy. I liked not being scared all the time.” Richard gulped and knelt in the silence, rocking back and forth.
Then he lifted up the comforter on his bed and wrapped himself up as a mummy in it and laid down in his bed. He closed his eyes. He listened to himself breathe. His breath was heavy. Richard felt mucus run down from his nose onto the pillow. He used all his strength to close the tightened skin around his eyes, but his eyes hurt even when he was able to shut his lids. He thought about all the tears that he wish he could cry. He thought about all the people he wished he could stomp to a bloody pulp for causing him stress and worry. He thought about the days when he did not have to think at all to fall asleep. Then he fell asleep; and awoke forty-five minutes later when the alarm clock rang.
2.28.2007
2.25.2007
100 People in 100 Days:
viii. Jack Drower
Jack Drower, who at thirty-five was still unsure how Jack was derived as a nickname for Patrick, sat in front of his computer and, for lack of better phrasing, surfed the internet. It was Oscar season, so he jumped from one link to another about various celebrities’ or columnists’ top five, ten, or twelve picks for 2006.
While visiting one site about the best documentaries of the year he found a link to enter a contest—or perhaps just a search, as there was no million-dollar prize—to have one’s life documented. Jack clicked on the other link to go to the entry form. He digitally checked off little bubbles indicating his race, marital status, annual income, and such. He filled in blank fields with his name, address, phone number, and whatever other information that could not be expressed by filling in a digital bubble.
Then he came to the essay portion of the entry form. A simple question: Why should we document your life?
Jack stared at the screen for a while. It’s blue-white light the only light in the dark half-kitchen, half-office, half-homework room, in his home. His wife upstairs asleep. His three children, one downstairs and two up-, asleep. The dog occasionally walking by Jack, sitting next to his legs until Jack reached down and scratched its head, and then walking away. Outside the sprinklers sprinkled the grass with water.
Jack clicked the mouse so the cursor populated the blank field for the essay portion. And in five hundred words or less he typed:
My name is Jack Drower. I am an American. I live a life consumed with living, without ever doing anything to live for. I’m to scared to become a painter, which is what I really wanted to do. Traveling between New York and Paris. Sleeping with eighteen year old girls who have just started art school and as many hookers as possible. I wanted to be a madman, an artist. Instead I did what most people do; I dropped out of art school to console my nagging mother. I received of business degree and married the first girl that did not find my obnoxious when I was drunk. I have a white collar job that could be easily outsourced to India any day. I am completely useless with my hands except for the two or three paintings I try to paint a year. I am scared of risking anything. I am miserable with me life. I am an American.
Sometimes I yell at my son when I see him sitting around doodling in his notebook instead of doing his homework. I talk to him about responsibility and the future and marketable skills and responsibility and work ethic. I lie to him. Maybe I’m afraid he will end up like me because he didn’t do what he wanted to in life and resent his family. That is what I am like.
I envy my teenage daughter because she spends twelve hours a week at dance school. She loves dancing and is very good at it. She could be a famous ballerina once day. Or maybe interpretive dance. Why do I envy her? Because she is free to do what she wants. If the whole dance thing works out then she will be living her dream. If it doesn’t, then she can just grab herself a husband and live off of him. Or if she doesn’t want to get married, she can still manipulate so man to provide her a living anyways. I know that may not sound fair, but that is how life is.
I guess you could say that the way I see my wife is like that consolation price the losing contestant gets on a game show. Sorry you didn’t win the twenty-thousand dollars, but you get this really nice home version of the game show. I know that doesn’t sound nice. And I know sometimes she feels my resentment. But sometimes I do truly love her. It is just that she never understands why I like to paint pictures that seem like nothing more a bunch of splattered paint.
One time I told her it was like producing a giant come stain that the world found beauty in. An ejaculation that didn’t tell a tale of rape or domination or submission or patriarchy behind it; just something beautiful. She didn’t find that meaningful, or even funny. We didn’t talk for two months.
I wish I had courage. I wish I could live my dreams. But I am afraid.
Jack clicked on the submit button. He exited the browser and stood up. He stretched his arms and back, went to refrigerator, and pulled out the carton of milk. He took a swig of milk straight from the carton and then returned it back to the refrigerator. He noticed the little light inside had burned out. Jack walked back over to the computer, opened the internet browser, and began searching for what kind of lightbulb he needed and how he could replace the burned out one he had just discovered.
While visiting one site about the best documentaries of the year he found a link to enter a contest—or perhaps just a search, as there was no million-dollar prize—to have one’s life documented. Jack clicked on the other link to go to the entry form. He digitally checked off little bubbles indicating his race, marital status, annual income, and such. He filled in blank fields with his name, address, phone number, and whatever other information that could not be expressed by filling in a digital bubble.
Then he came to the essay portion of the entry form. A simple question: Why should we document your life?
Jack stared at the screen for a while. It’s blue-white light the only light in the dark half-kitchen, half-office, half-homework room, in his home. His wife upstairs asleep. His three children, one downstairs and two up-, asleep. The dog occasionally walking by Jack, sitting next to his legs until Jack reached down and scratched its head, and then walking away. Outside the sprinklers sprinkled the grass with water.
Jack clicked the mouse so the cursor populated the blank field for the essay portion. And in five hundred words or less he typed:
My name is Jack Drower. I am an American. I live a life consumed with living, without ever doing anything to live for. I’m to scared to become a painter, which is what I really wanted to do. Traveling between New York and Paris. Sleeping with eighteen year old girls who have just started art school and as many hookers as possible. I wanted to be a madman, an artist. Instead I did what most people do; I dropped out of art school to console my nagging mother. I received of business degree and married the first girl that did not find my obnoxious when I was drunk. I have a white collar job that could be easily outsourced to India any day. I am completely useless with my hands except for the two or three paintings I try to paint a year. I am scared of risking anything. I am miserable with me life. I am an American.
Sometimes I yell at my son when I see him sitting around doodling in his notebook instead of doing his homework. I talk to him about responsibility and the future and marketable skills and responsibility and work ethic. I lie to him. Maybe I’m afraid he will end up like me because he didn’t do what he wanted to in life and resent his family. That is what I am like.
I envy my teenage daughter because she spends twelve hours a week at dance school. She loves dancing and is very good at it. She could be a famous ballerina once day. Or maybe interpretive dance. Why do I envy her? Because she is free to do what she wants. If the whole dance thing works out then she will be living her dream. If it doesn’t, then she can just grab herself a husband and live off of him. Or if she doesn’t want to get married, she can still manipulate so man to provide her a living anyways. I know that may not sound fair, but that is how life is.
I guess you could say that the way I see my wife is like that consolation price the losing contestant gets on a game show. Sorry you didn’t win the twenty-thousand dollars, but you get this really nice home version of the game show. I know that doesn’t sound nice. And I know sometimes she feels my resentment. But sometimes I do truly love her. It is just that she never understands why I like to paint pictures that seem like nothing more a bunch of splattered paint.
One time I told her it was like producing a giant come stain that the world found beauty in. An ejaculation that didn’t tell a tale of rape or domination or submission or patriarchy behind it; just something beautiful. She didn’t find that meaningful, or even funny. We didn’t talk for two months.
I wish I had courage. I wish I could live my dreams. But I am afraid.
Jack clicked on the submit button. He exited the browser and stood up. He stretched his arms and back, went to refrigerator, and pulled out the carton of milk. He took a swig of milk straight from the carton and then returned it back to the refrigerator. He noticed the little light inside had burned out. Jack walked back over to the computer, opened the internet browser, and began searching for what kind of lightbulb he needed and how he could replace the burned out one he had just discovered.
2.24.2007
100 People in 100 Days:
vii. Terry Phat
Terry Phat, a teenage Asian-American who worked at the fast food franchise Del Mex in a northern suburb of Los Angeles which was populated mostly by Hispanic immigrants, stood by the register of the fast food store waiting for someone to place an order. In the back, backing burritos and french fries where Juan and Miguel who were having a very animated and loud discussion in Spanish.
Then a ping in Terry’s headset chimed. He pushed a button on the little control box strapped to his wasted, “Welcome to Del Mex. Would you like to try our new shrimp tacos?”
A disembodies voice replied back through the headset, “No. Can I get…uh…chicken or beef? A chicken supreme burrito, two green half-pounders, and three soft tacos…oh, and a regular nacho.” All the while Terry pushed various buttons on the cash register.
He pushed the button again, “So I got A chicken supreme, two half-pounders with green sauce, three soft tacos, and a regular nacho.” He looked at the total price, “And drinks with that?”
“No. Thank you.”
“Alright, your total is six-sixty-six.”
Terry pushed the button to send the complete order to the kitchen. The car pulled up to the drive-thru window. Inside was a Caucasian man and woman.
Terry opened the little window and said, “You don’t look like the devil.”
The man driving the car furrowed his brow and counted the change in his hand.
“That will be six dollars and sixty-six cents.” The man handed Terry a ten dollar bill and sixty-six sense. “You know, when most people here that total—you know six six six—they usually freak out and ask if they can add something else to the order.”
The man, finally understanding the odd greeting, smiled, “Oh, I don’t care. It doesn’t bother me.”
“Not the superstitious type I guess,” Terry replied to the man. Terry gave the driver four one dollar bills and then closed the little window. He turned around and stared at the stainless steel counter until Juan and Miguel finished cooking the order. Then Terry bagged up the food into two bags and turned back to the little window and opened it.
He reached out and handed one bag to the man, “There are your burritos…and here are the tacos and nachos,” he said as he handed the driver the other bag. “Hey, thanks for coming and have a good night.”
“Thanks,” said the man.
Terry then closed the small window and waited for the next ping to chime in his ear.
Then a ping in Terry’s headset chimed. He pushed a button on the little control box strapped to his wasted, “Welcome to Del Mex. Would you like to try our new shrimp tacos?”
A disembodies voice replied back through the headset, “No. Can I get…uh…chicken or beef? A chicken supreme burrito, two green half-pounders, and three soft tacos…oh, and a regular nacho.” All the while Terry pushed various buttons on the cash register.
He pushed the button again, “So I got A chicken supreme, two half-pounders with green sauce, three soft tacos, and a regular nacho.” He looked at the total price, “And drinks with that?”
“No. Thank you.”
“Alright, your total is six-sixty-six.”
Terry pushed the button to send the complete order to the kitchen. The car pulled up to the drive-thru window. Inside was a Caucasian man and woman.
Terry opened the little window and said, “You don’t look like the devil.”
The man driving the car furrowed his brow and counted the change in his hand.
“That will be six dollars and sixty-six cents.” The man handed Terry a ten dollar bill and sixty-six sense. “You know, when most people here that total—you know six six six—they usually freak out and ask if they can add something else to the order.”
The man, finally understanding the odd greeting, smiled, “Oh, I don’t care. It doesn’t bother me.”
“Not the superstitious type I guess,” Terry replied to the man. Terry gave the driver four one dollar bills and then closed the little window. He turned around and stared at the stainless steel counter until Juan and Miguel finished cooking the order. Then Terry bagged up the food into two bags and turned back to the little window and opened it.
He reached out and handed one bag to the man, “There are your burritos…and here are the tacos and nachos,” he said as he handed the driver the other bag. “Hey, thanks for coming and have a good night.”
“Thanks,” said the man.
Terry then closed the small window and waited for the next ping to chime in his ear.
2.23.2007
100 People in 100 Days:
vi. Matthew Libb
Matt Libbs’s left eye was watering. He figured it was due to the fecal matter that he had unthoughtfully poked into his eye. He had been working seventeen straight hours at the factory and the ass sweat had really started loosening up any unwiped feces in his sphincter, which in turn caused the loosened stool to began to run down his crack. The itch was something fierce. Matt could have handled the itch, the sweat, the subtle stench of shit rising from him if it was hour sixteen or even fifteen of his shift. But this kicked in around hour twelve. At first he thought about the shame of some supervisor or higher-up watching him dig his hand in his pants on the factory surveillance system. But soon the irritant became a major annoyance and Matt could no longer put off what he must do.
He took a deep breath and quickly looked around him. No one was in his direct presence so Matt took his left hand and crammed it done the back of his pants, straight between the crack of his cheeks. He rubbed it up and down and then quickly pulled the hand out before anyone could catch a glimpse of what he was doing. He gave his hand a wipe onto his jeans and then rubbed his left eye that had caught a bit of sweat that had dripped from his forehead. Matt then interlocked his fingers and cracked his knuckles preparing to go back to inserting three screws into the slots of a tiny piece of airplane that he built over and over every shift.
He looked at his fingers as he cracked the knuckles. He noticed around the edge of the nails on his left hand was a brown sludge. He hoped it was lubricant from the electric driver that he used; but he was almost positive that it was shit around his fingertips. He closed his eyes, opened them, and picked up his electric tools and started placing the screws into their allotted slots.
Matt spent the rest of his shift in silence like every other shift he ever worked at the factory, except at his lunch break. This night had the added annoyance of an itch that had started in his left eye. Then the eye began to water and a steady stream of tears would gather around the eyes until Matt would wipe, which in turn only caused the eye to feel even more irritated.
After his shift was over at the factory, Matt packed his belongings from the factory floor. He went into the bathroom and went into a stall. He sat down on the toilet, dropping his pants, and began wiping his crack with what seemed like sandpaper rather than toilet paper. When he was done cleaning himself down there, we went and washed his hand. He looked in the mirror and his left eyes was a bright red.
On the way home, Matt figured a story. If his wife asked about the eye, it was a spark. Lots of metal-on-metal action at the factory. He was being stupid. Forgot to put on his safety glasses. Stupid mistake. He wouldn’t make it again.
He took a deep breath and quickly looked around him. No one was in his direct presence so Matt took his left hand and crammed it done the back of his pants, straight between the crack of his cheeks. He rubbed it up and down and then quickly pulled the hand out before anyone could catch a glimpse of what he was doing. He gave his hand a wipe onto his jeans and then rubbed his left eye that had caught a bit of sweat that had dripped from his forehead. Matt then interlocked his fingers and cracked his knuckles preparing to go back to inserting three screws into the slots of a tiny piece of airplane that he built over and over every shift.
He looked at his fingers as he cracked the knuckles. He noticed around the edge of the nails on his left hand was a brown sludge. He hoped it was lubricant from the electric driver that he used; but he was almost positive that it was shit around his fingertips. He closed his eyes, opened them, and picked up his electric tools and started placing the screws into their allotted slots.
Matt spent the rest of his shift in silence like every other shift he ever worked at the factory, except at his lunch break. This night had the added annoyance of an itch that had started in his left eye. Then the eye began to water and a steady stream of tears would gather around the eyes until Matt would wipe, which in turn only caused the eye to feel even more irritated.
After his shift was over at the factory, Matt packed his belongings from the factory floor. He went into the bathroom and went into a stall. He sat down on the toilet, dropping his pants, and began wiping his crack with what seemed like sandpaper rather than toilet paper. When he was done cleaning himself down there, we went and washed his hand. He looked in the mirror and his left eyes was a bright red.
On the way home, Matt figured a story. If his wife asked about the eye, it was a spark. Lots of metal-on-metal action at the factory. He was being stupid. Forgot to put on his safety glasses. Stupid mistake. He wouldn’t make it again.
2.22.2007
100 People in 100 Days:
v. Retro Bill
Retro Bill stood at the counter with a pompadour that stood a good ten feet into the air, The hair was dyed jet black; as all good pompadours are. He was at the copy shop to pick up his order of custom mousepads.
The mouse pad was nothing more than Bill’s head in a pink starburst; his pompadour almost passing the edge of the pad. Underneath his head, in hot pink and blue letters, were the words Retro Bill.
The manager of the copy shop walked through the shop’s backdoor. He noticed Amar repressing the mousepads.
“Why are you doing those again?” the manager asked.
Amar, in his Iranian accent said, “He thought the first ones were too dark.”
Kashawndra walked up to the manager and Amar, “Yeah. I was able to figure out how to print them out light enough.”
“Is he here waiting for them?” asked the manager.
“Yes,” said Amar.
From the front count a voice bellowed, “How many more my man?”
Amar said, “Oh…only four more, sir.”
“Alright, bro,” said Retro Bill.
The manager turned around to look at him, almost expecting to see Bill in a leather jacket and in search for a jukebox that needed turning on with a firm punch. Retro bill stood there with a grin from ear to ear, his aforementioned pompadour, sunglasses resting on his forehead, and more wrinkles than the photoshopped picture.
A seventeen year old girl walked up next to Retro Bill with an art portfolio in her arms.
“Hey, is that your art, girl?” said Bill.
She blushed. “Yes.”
“Well, come on then. Open that thing up. I wanna see what’s inside. Show me what you can do.”
The girl opened her portfolio. Inside were seven sketches of Rubenesque women.
“Hey, those are pretty good,” Bill said with a wink.
“I guess.”
“You going to be an artist?”
“No, I’m just taking the class for school”
“Oh, so your hearts not in it, eh? Well, if it’s not in it, then it’s not in it, I guess.” Said Bill, still smiling.
“But thank you for the complement,” the girl added with another Blush.
The manager of the copy shop approached Retro Bill. “Sorry for the mousepads not being to your liking?”
“Hey, no problem. You’re getting them down,” Bill said, still smiling. “By the way, I like your hair,” he said to the manager.
The manager had no pompadour. Rather he wore it short but messy; perhaps like Sid Vicious would if he had lived to thirty-five. The manager smiled and said, “Thank you.”
"Man, you need to check out this girls art," Bill said nodding to the seventeen year old, "Open that thing up. Show the man what you got."
She opened up the portfolio for the manager and he looked at the sketches. He complimented the girl and she blushed. "Man, can you believe it though man. Her heart just isn't into it. A girl as good as that, and not into it," Bill said, still smiling.
"Well, you're good miss," said the manager. Then Amar walked up with Retro Bill’s mousepads.
“Alright. My man,” Bill said. He pulled out his wallet and paid for his order. “You got me at three bills per pad, right-o?”
“Yep, no problem,” said the manager.
“Excellent,” Bill said, still smiling. He paid for his order, picked up the bag, and walked out the electric doors into the gray, raining day.
The mouse pad was nothing more than Bill’s head in a pink starburst; his pompadour almost passing the edge of the pad. Underneath his head, in hot pink and blue letters, were the words Retro Bill.
The manager of the copy shop walked through the shop’s backdoor. He noticed Amar repressing the mousepads.
“Why are you doing those again?” the manager asked.
Amar, in his Iranian accent said, “He thought the first ones were too dark.”
Kashawndra walked up to the manager and Amar, “Yeah. I was able to figure out how to print them out light enough.”
“Is he here waiting for them?” asked the manager.
“Yes,” said Amar.
From the front count a voice bellowed, “How many more my man?”
Amar said, “Oh…only four more, sir.”
“Alright, bro,” said Retro Bill.
The manager turned around to look at him, almost expecting to see Bill in a leather jacket and in search for a jukebox that needed turning on with a firm punch. Retro bill stood there with a grin from ear to ear, his aforementioned pompadour, sunglasses resting on his forehead, and more wrinkles than the photoshopped picture.
A seventeen year old girl walked up next to Retro Bill with an art portfolio in her arms.
“Hey, is that your art, girl?” said Bill.
She blushed. “Yes.”
“Well, come on then. Open that thing up. I wanna see what’s inside. Show me what you can do.”
The girl opened her portfolio. Inside were seven sketches of Rubenesque women.
“Hey, those are pretty good,” Bill said with a wink.
“I guess.”
“You going to be an artist?”
“No, I’m just taking the class for school”
“Oh, so your hearts not in it, eh? Well, if it’s not in it, then it’s not in it, I guess.” Said Bill, still smiling.
“But thank you for the complement,” the girl added with another Blush.
The manager of the copy shop approached Retro Bill. “Sorry for the mousepads not being to your liking?”
“Hey, no problem. You’re getting them down,” Bill said, still smiling. “By the way, I like your hair,” he said to the manager.
The manager had no pompadour. Rather he wore it short but messy; perhaps like Sid Vicious would if he had lived to thirty-five. The manager smiled and said, “Thank you.”
"Man, you need to check out this girls art," Bill said nodding to the seventeen year old, "Open that thing up. Show the man what you got."
She opened up the portfolio for the manager and he looked at the sketches. He complimented the girl and she blushed. "Man, can you believe it though man. Her heart just isn't into it. A girl as good as that, and not into it," Bill said, still smiling.
"Well, you're good miss," said the manager. Then Amar walked up with Retro Bill’s mousepads.
“Alright. My man,” Bill said. He pulled out his wallet and paid for his order. “You got me at three bills per pad, right-o?”
“Yep, no problem,” said the manager.
“Excellent,” Bill said, still smiling. He paid for his order, picked up the bag, and walked out the electric doors into the gray, raining day.
2.21.2007
100 People in 100 Days:
iv. Grant Johnson
If Grant Johnson had known he would be murdered that day, he may—may—have spent the day doing things different. But since he could not know about his impending death, he did things the only way he knew how. And even if he knew about his forthcoming cessation of life, he would have only been troubled because that did not fit into his scheduled events.
He started the morning by loading his truck with ceiling tiles, lead pipes, and cans of paint. Then he opened up his suitcase and looked over the balance sheets from the past month. There were large red-Sharpie’d circles around certain numbers. He pulled out his pocket calculator and added up the numbers one more time. $8,745.00. Grant pushed up his glasses that had began to slide down his nose.
His wife came out to the driveway. “Grant, will you be home for dinner tonight?”
“I have a lot of repairs at the restaurants. Then I need to talk to one of the managers about some numbers. I’ve got to stop by to pick up the books for the silk-screen business and then I need to stop by the office to answer requests from clients.”
“Then, no.” His wife’s lips twitched. She opened her mouth, nothing came out, and so she closed it. “We make enough money.”
Grant blinked and put the ledger he had been looking over back into his suitcase. He opened the door to the truck, entered, started up the vehicle, and drove off.
Grant stopped at one of the three restaurants he owned to replace some of the old, rotted ceiling tiles. His nineteen year old daughter was working in the back kitchen prepping food. “Dad, I hate working her. I wanted tonight off. It’s Saturday.”
“I need you to work.”
“But I wanted to go out with my fiancé.”
“I said I needed you to work. Why do you have to fight about this every time, Mary? I pay you tuition. I pay your insurance. For your car. You owe me. You owe me something for taking care of you.” Grant’s usually white stone face had become red.
“Well, I’m quitting when I get married,” Mary said. She wiped a tear from her cheek and some flour stuck to her face.
“Be sure to wash your hands. You shouldn’t be touching your face and then go and touch food. That could be a problem if the inspector was her.” Grant looked at Mary from head to toe. “And why the damn hell aren’t you wearing gloves. Damn it, are you trying to put me out of business.”
Mary closed her eyes, but that could not stop the tears. Grant turned around and pulled out a stepsladder so he could reach the rotted tiles. He could hear Mary crying behind him. Grant replaced two tiles. Mary was still crying. He began removing the third. Mary began to sob heavily. Grant left the third rotted ceiling tile in place and climbed down the stepladder. He put away the ladder and picked up his tools and remaining tiles, walked out to his truck, and left.
Grant arrived at the second restaurant he owned. He did not unload any tools or supplies. He only exited the truck with his suitcase with the ledger and the red circled numbers inside. Ben, the store manager, was inside talking with the cook.
“Ben, can I see you in the office,” said Grant.
Ben gritted his teeth. “I hate this guy,” he whispered to the cook.
“Don’t we all?” said the cook.
Ben entered into the office. Grant had removed the ledger from the suitcase and then asked Ben to take a look at it. “All those voids are during your shift. Those kind of numbers don’t pop at any other time.” Ben looked at the circled numbers. “It’s over eight-thousand dollars, Ben.”
“So, what’s going on?” asked Ben.
“Well, that’s what I’m asking you.”
“You think I’m stealing. Because if that’s what you think you just need to say it.”
“No, no,” said Grant, readjusting his glasses, “I’m just trying to understand why it is so high during your shift and not others. I’m just trying to understand.”
Ben gritted his teeth and rubbed his chin. He eyes looks around the office. Grant stared at Ben. “So how do you explain it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, take a look at the ledger. I’ve got to grab my tools so I can trying to fix the toilet. I want some answers when I get back.” Grant handed Ben the ledger to look over and took his briefcase and left the through the backdoor to retrieve his toolbox.
Behind the restaurant was a motel. Rooms were rented by the hour, the day, the week, the month. Rooms were raided by the police were performed on a semi-regular basis. The employees of the restaurant would often watch as the cops carried out people, meth labs, baggies full of white, clear, or yellowish substances. Then the next day the owners of the be seen throwing out old clothes and belongings and replacing the mattresses.
As the backdoor closed there was a shout and then a bang. And then a second bang. Loud bangs. A man stood over the fallen body of Grant. He reached down and grabbed the suitcase from his arms. Grant wheezed as he repeated the line, “No money in there.”
Ben Racklesford opened the backdoor and saw Grant lying on the ground bleeding from the chest and the right shoulder. Ben closed the back door. He told the cook to keep on cooking. Ben went into the office, crumpled up the ledger that he was to investigate, and dropped it in the trash. Then he picked up the telephone and reported a murder to the police.
Grant closed his eyes. “No money,” he whispered. And then he died.
He started the morning by loading his truck with ceiling tiles, lead pipes, and cans of paint. Then he opened up his suitcase and looked over the balance sheets from the past month. There were large red-Sharpie’d circles around certain numbers. He pulled out his pocket calculator and added up the numbers one more time. $8,745.00. Grant pushed up his glasses that had began to slide down his nose.
His wife came out to the driveway. “Grant, will you be home for dinner tonight?”
“I have a lot of repairs at the restaurants. Then I need to talk to one of the managers about some numbers. I’ve got to stop by to pick up the books for the silk-screen business and then I need to stop by the office to answer requests from clients.”
“Then, no.” His wife’s lips twitched. She opened her mouth, nothing came out, and so she closed it. “We make enough money.”
Grant blinked and put the ledger he had been looking over back into his suitcase. He opened the door to the truck, entered, started up the vehicle, and drove off.
Grant stopped at one of the three restaurants he owned to replace some of the old, rotted ceiling tiles. His nineteen year old daughter was working in the back kitchen prepping food. “Dad, I hate working her. I wanted tonight off. It’s Saturday.”
“I need you to work.”
“But I wanted to go out with my fiancé.”
“I said I needed you to work. Why do you have to fight about this every time, Mary? I pay you tuition. I pay your insurance. For your car. You owe me. You owe me something for taking care of you.” Grant’s usually white stone face had become red.
“Well, I’m quitting when I get married,” Mary said. She wiped a tear from her cheek and some flour stuck to her face.
“Be sure to wash your hands. You shouldn’t be touching your face and then go and touch food. That could be a problem if the inspector was her.” Grant looked at Mary from head to toe. “And why the damn hell aren’t you wearing gloves. Damn it, are you trying to put me out of business.”
Mary closed her eyes, but that could not stop the tears. Grant turned around and pulled out a stepsladder so he could reach the rotted tiles. He could hear Mary crying behind him. Grant replaced two tiles. Mary was still crying. He began removing the third. Mary began to sob heavily. Grant left the third rotted ceiling tile in place and climbed down the stepladder. He put away the ladder and picked up his tools and remaining tiles, walked out to his truck, and left.
Grant arrived at the second restaurant he owned. He did not unload any tools or supplies. He only exited the truck with his suitcase with the ledger and the red circled numbers inside. Ben, the store manager, was inside talking with the cook.
“Ben, can I see you in the office,” said Grant.
Ben gritted his teeth. “I hate this guy,” he whispered to the cook.
“Don’t we all?” said the cook.
Ben entered into the office. Grant had removed the ledger from the suitcase and then asked Ben to take a look at it. “All those voids are during your shift. Those kind of numbers don’t pop at any other time.” Ben looked at the circled numbers. “It’s over eight-thousand dollars, Ben.”
“So, what’s going on?” asked Ben.
“Well, that’s what I’m asking you.”
“You think I’m stealing. Because if that’s what you think you just need to say it.”
“No, no,” said Grant, readjusting his glasses, “I’m just trying to understand why it is so high during your shift and not others. I’m just trying to understand.”
Ben gritted his teeth and rubbed his chin. He eyes looks around the office. Grant stared at Ben. “So how do you explain it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, take a look at the ledger. I’ve got to grab my tools so I can trying to fix the toilet. I want some answers when I get back.” Grant handed Ben the ledger to look over and took his briefcase and left the through the backdoor to retrieve his toolbox.
Behind the restaurant was a motel. Rooms were rented by the hour, the day, the week, the month. Rooms were raided by the police were performed on a semi-regular basis. The employees of the restaurant would often watch as the cops carried out people, meth labs, baggies full of white, clear, or yellowish substances. Then the next day the owners of the be seen throwing out old clothes and belongings and replacing the mattresses.
As the backdoor closed there was a shout and then a bang. And then a second bang. Loud bangs. A man stood over the fallen body of Grant. He reached down and grabbed the suitcase from his arms. Grant wheezed as he repeated the line, “No money in there.”
Ben Racklesford opened the backdoor and saw Grant lying on the ground bleeding from the chest and the right shoulder. Ben closed the back door. He told the cook to keep on cooking. Ben went into the office, crumpled up the ledger that he was to investigate, and dropped it in the trash. Then he picked up the telephone and reported a murder to the police.
Grant closed his eyes. “No money,” he whispered. And then he died.
2.20.2007
100 People in 100 Days:
iii. Benjamin Racklesford
At five years old, Benjamin Racklesford, learned he was immune to the demands of justice. He had been attending kindergarten for the past three months. He did as he was told and never talked out of turn.
In fact, the only instance of any kind of defiance was when he would doodle additions to the pictures on the worksheets that were supposed to be teaching them the alphabet. When the class was learning about the sound of CH, they were given a worksheet with a picture of a chicken. Benjamin decided to draw poo coming out of the chicken’s butt. While he was sure he would get in trouble for the additions, after forgetting to erase the feces, he did not. The teacher thought he was just making eggs coming out of whatever a chicken laid eggs from. Benjamin’s father, perhaps even knowing it was feces, was proud of his son’s creativity—no matter how crude.
Benjamin understood his surroundings but was often quiet about his observations and fascinations. When he learned about Jessica Cohen being Jewish and celebrating Hanukah, Benjamin was fascinated by the fact that other people rather light candles for a week than open presents on Christmas. But he was never able to stir up the courage to ask Jessica about anything else about her peculiar practices. Most days at recess, he spent in a corner of the playground by himself recounting tales of Star Wars.
On particular recess, Benjamin found himself playing with another young boy. The boy was the kind that would find himself often ridiculed and at the bottom of the social ladder. Already he wore thick glasses. Benjamin and the boy with the thick glasses, sitting in a sandbox had found themselves sticks. And like two healthy young boys, they began to sword fight. Benjamin, being strong with the force, thrust at the face of the other boy. Managing to jab the stick underneath the glasses, it found itself square in the boy’s eye.
He cried.
Benjamin quickly dropped his stick. “Stop crying. Please stop crying. It wasn’t on purpose.” The boy continued to cry. “It was an accident. I did it on accident. Don’t cry.” Desperate, Benjamin picked one of the discarded sticks back up and tried placing it into the hands of the other boy. “Poke me in the eye. Poke me. Then it will be fair. Stop crying. Poke me in the eye. It’ll be even then.”
The boy refused to take the stick and only cried more. He paused for a brief moment to inform Benjamin, “I’m telling teacher.” Benjamin gulped. He almost began to cry himself. He did not know when the bell would ring to call the children back to class, to bring the teacher back to their presences, but he knew that time would come. He gulped again and then found a quiet spot under a tree to sit and wait for the bell to ring.
He tried to figure out what would happen to him. He had never had been in trouble before. He had never had to take home a yellow note. Or have his name written on the board. Or be sent to that other teacher, which is what happened to the really bad kids.
And then the bell rang.
Benjamin stood from his quiet spot and walked over to the line that his other classmates had begun to form. The boy which he had poked in the eye was three in back of Benjamin. His eyes was red and swollen. He held his hand over it and Benjamin though that the other boy even wore a grin because he knew what was in store. The teacher walked up and began to lead the queue of children back to the classroom.
“Mrs. Paulson. Mrs. Paulson,” cried the other boy. Benjamin gulped. Mrs. Paulson walked back to the boy to ask him what the matter was. Benjamin was almost in tears. He covered his ears and hummed so he could not hear what the boy was telling Mrs. Paulson, nor could he hear whatever punishment Mrs. Paulson promised to the boy.
Then Benjamin saw the teacher walk past him, to the front of the line, and open the door to the classroom. He walked to his seat, to afraid to look up at her as he walked past. He sat almost motionless the rest of the day.
And then the final bell rang. Benjamin put on his jacket. Put his E.T. folder into his Superman backpack. He walked to the door to pick up his Dukes of Hazzard lunchbox. And then he left the classroom and walked home. Mrs. Paulson never said a word that day or any other.
After that day Benjamin Racklesford learned what it was like to be Superman and Luke Skywalker. What the Duke boys felt like when the slid across the hood of the General Lee. One had to be cunning. Sit still for hours, days, months. But if one sat still long enough. If one did what they were told long enough. At some point they would have the trust of others to do anything. Benjamin Racklesford was five years old.
In fact, the only instance of any kind of defiance was when he would doodle additions to the pictures on the worksheets that were supposed to be teaching them the alphabet. When the class was learning about the sound of CH, they were given a worksheet with a picture of a chicken. Benjamin decided to draw poo coming out of the chicken’s butt. While he was sure he would get in trouble for the additions, after forgetting to erase the feces, he did not. The teacher thought he was just making eggs coming out of whatever a chicken laid eggs from. Benjamin’s father, perhaps even knowing it was feces, was proud of his son’s creativity—no matter how crude.
Benjamin understood his surroundings but was often quiet about his observations and fascinations. When he learned about Jessica Cohen being Jewish and celebrating Hanukah, Benjamin was fascinated by the fact that other people rather light candles for a week than open presents on Christmas. But he was never able to stir up the courage to ask Jessica about anything else about her peculiar practices. Most days at recess, he spent in a corner of the playground by himself recounting tales of Star Wars.
On particular recess, Benjamin found himself playing with another young boy. The boy was the kind that would find himself often ridiculed and at the bottom of the social ladder. Already he wore thick glasses. Benjamin and the boy with the thick glasses, sitting in a sandbox had found themselves sticks. And like two healthy young boys, they began to sword fight. Benjamin, being strong with the force, thrust at the face of the other boy. Managing to jab the stick underneath the glasses, it found itself square in the boy’s eye.
He cried.
Benjamin quickly dropped his stick. “Stop crying. Please stop crying. It wasn’t on purpose.” The boy continued to cry. “It was an accident. I did it on accident. Don’t cry.” Desperate, Benjamin picked one of the discarded sticks back up and tried placing it into the hands of the other boy. “Poke me in the eye. Poke me. Then it will be fair. Stop crying. Poke me in the eye. It’ll be even then.”
The boy refused to take the stick and only cried more. He paused for a brief moment to inform Benjamin, “I’m telling teacher.” Benjamin gulped. He almost began to cry himself. He did not know when the bell would ring to call the children back to class, to bring the teacher back to their presences, but he knew that time would come. He gulped again and then found a quiet spot under a tree to sit and wait for the bell to ring.
He tried to figure out what would happen to him. He had never had been in trouble before. He had never had to take home a yellow note. Or have his name written on the board. Or be sent to that other teacher, which is what happened to the really bad kids.
And then the bell rang.
Benjamin stood from his quiet spot and walked over to the line that his other classmates had begun to form. The boy which he had poked in the eye was three in back of Benjamin. His eyes was red and swollen. He held his hand over it and Benjamin though that the other boy even wore a grin because he knew what was in store. The teacher walked up and began to lead the queue of children back to the classroom.
“Mrs. Paulson. Mrs. Paulson,” cried the other boy. Benjamin gulped. Mrs. Paulson walked back to the boy to ask him what the matter was. Benjamin was almost in tears. He covered his ears and hummed so he could not hear what the boy was telling Mrs. Paulson, nor could he hear whatever punishment Mrs. Paulson promised to the boy.
Then Benjamin saw the teacher walk past him, to the front of the line, and open the door to the classroom. He walked to his seat, to afraid to look up at her as he walked past. He sat almost motionless the rest of the day.
And then the final bell rang. Benjamin put on his jacket. Put his E.T. folder into his Superman backpack. He walked to the door to pick up his Dukes of Hazzard lunchbox. And then he left the classroom and walked home. Mrs. Paulson never said a word that day or any other.
After that day Benjamin Racklesford learned what it was like to be Superman and Luke Skywalker. What the Duke boys felt like when the slid across the hood of the General Lee. One had to be cunning. Sit still for hours, days, months. But if one sat still long enough. If one did what they were told long enough. At some point they would have the trust of others to do anything. Benjamin Racklesford was five years old.
2.19.2007
100 People in 100 Days:
ii. Tabitha Peeler
Tabitha Peeler was folding and putting away laundry when Ezekiel walked in the apartment. He walked past her in the living room, said, “Hey, stinky monkey,” and entered the bedroom where he fell onto the bed, face first.
“Why am I stinky?” Tabitha asked. She wore an oversized, tattered blue t-shirt, blue jeans, and no shoes. Her short hair stuck up in a variety of directions. She walked into the bed room, “Why am I stinky?”
Ezekiel was already half asleep, laying on the edge of the bed on his stomach. Out of his mouth he mumbled, “Because you haven’t showered and it is almost one.” Ezekiel had used deep meditation to make it through the final hour of his church meeting. Such meditation always wore him out and he usually passed out soon afterwards in a deep sleep.
Tabitha, standing next to the body of her sleeping husband, said, “This is my only day I don’t have to do anything. I don’t need to shower.” She looked at him and started pouting, “Zeke. Zeke roll over.” Then she started pushing on his body. “Roll over. Roll over. You need to roll over so you can hold me.”
She finally pushed him over onto his back. Then she began moving his limbs. She climbed into the bed, into his arms. She wrapped his limp arms around her body. “Zeke, you need to hold me. You need to hold me. I’ve been waiting all morning for you to come home so you can hold me.” Ezekiel made no sound.
“You make me feel so good when you hold me. You’re warm like a giant cookie.” Tabitha pulled Ezekiel’s arms tighter around her body. She wrapped her legs tightly around his waste and kissed him on the lips. Ezekiel made no response. “Wake up and love me. Please.”
She looked at his sleeping face. She began pinching and squeezing the small pimple and black heads she saw on his face. At first she was gentle. She would pinch for only a fraction of a second. Tabitha noticed that Ezekiel did not respond. She began pinching harder and longer, trying to extract the puss. When she was able to dig out anything she would scoop it onto her fingernail and inspect it. Then, she would wipe it on her pants and look for another imperfection to prod at.
After a while she moved on to looking at the whiskers on his face. She would gently stroke his cheeks, separating the small hairs, looking at the follicles each one protrude from. Every once in a while she would pluck at the whiskers. “Zeke, you have three hairs growing out of this follicle. Why?” Ezekiel said nothing. She continued to inspect his facial hair, occasionally plucking at the hairs.
Once she must have plucked particularly hard, as Ezekiel began to stir. He shook his head to drive her hand away like a horse does with its tail to flies. “Oh I’m sorry. Did I hurt you? Here let’s just hold each other.” Tabitha drew his body close to her again—taking his arms and placing them around her while she wrapped her arms and legs around him. “Let’s just love each other. You’re so warm like a giant cookie.” Ezekiel slept. And eventually Tabitha fell asleep too.
“Why am I stinky?” Tabitha asked. She wore an oversized, tattered blue t-shirt, blue jeans, and no shoes. Her short hair stuck up in a variety of directions. She walked into the bed room, “Why am I stinky?”
Ezekiel was already half asleep, laying on the edge of the bed on his stomach. Out of his mouth he mumbled, “Because you haven’t showered and it is almost one.” Ezekiel had used deep meditation to make it through the final hour of his church meeting. Such meditation always wore him out and he usually passed out soon afterwards in a deep sleep.
Tabitha, standing next to the body of her sleeping husband, said, “This is my only day I don’t have to do anything. I don’t need to shower.” She looked at him and started pouting, “Zeke. Zeke roll over.” Then she started pushing on his body. “Roll over. Roll over. You need to roll over so you can hold me.”
She finally pushed him over onto his back. Then she began moving his limbs. She climbed into the bed, into his arms. She wrapped his limp arms around her body. “Zeke, you need to hold me. You need to hold me. I’ve been waiting all morning for you to come home so you can hold me.” Ezekiel made no sound.
“You make me feel so good when you hold me. You’re warm like a giant cookie.” Tabitha pulled Ezekiel’s arms tighter around her body. She wrapped her legs tightly around his waste and kissed him on the lips. Ezekiel made no response. “Wake up and love me. Please.”
She looked at his sleeping face. She began pinching and squeezing the small pimple and black heads she saw on his face. At first she was gentle. She would pinch for only a fraction of a second. Tabitha noticed that Ezekiel did not respond. She began pinching harder and longer, trying to extract the puss. When she was able to dig out anything she would scoop it onto her fingernail and inspect it. Then, she would wipe it on her pants and look for another imperfection to prod at.
After a while she moved on to looking at the whiskers on his face. She would gently stroke his cheeks, separating the small hairs, looking at the follicles each one protrude from. Every once in a while she would pluck at the whiskers. “Zeke, you have three hairs growing out of this follicle. Why?” Ezekiel said nothing. She continued to inspect his facial hair, occasionally plucking at the hairs.
Once she must have plucked particularly hard, as Ezekiel began to stir. He shook his head to drive her hand away like a horse does with its tail to flies. “Oh I’m sorry. Did I hurt you? Here let’s just hold each other.” Tabitha drew his body close to her again—taking his arms and placing them around her while she wrapped her arms and legs around him. “Let’s just love each other. You’re so warm like a giant cookie.” Ezekiel slept. And eventually Tabitha fell asleep too.
2.18.2007
100 People in 100 Days:
i. Ezekiel Jones
His round glasses had days of dust and grime unwiped from the lenses. He did not wish to hide his eyes; rather, Ezekiel Jones wore the dirty glasses for deliberate effect. It made him feel like some madman from the distopian future that roamed a desolate earth. His unwashed hair, though short, and long handlebar moustache only added to this vision he had of himself. The year was 2005. There was constant war, shortages of energy resources, the looming threat of civil liberties being subverted by the government, and the masses tuning out by watching a constant barrage of celebrity news. But there were no ruins of Los Angeles to wander through, no prison colony created from New York City to escape from, and no city of feral children awaiting a savior that could fly them home. It was 2005, and people had been awaiting the end of the world for thousands of years. Ezekiel was just another one of those masses.
Ezekiel wore what he wore every Sunday. Black. Black dress shirt. Black slacks. Black socks. Shiny, freshly polished, black shoes. He did not wear a tie. It concerned some of the members of the Mormon congregation he attended enough that he would wear all black instead of the traditional white dress shirt. So he figured he would not wear the tie, which was also customary, as well just to grind the salt into the wounds.
He sat in the metal fold-up chair. Shifting from one butt cheek to the other trying to relieve the pain. He had been sitting for two hours already, and still had another hour until church would be over. This was the third meeting; one per hour. The first included the entire congregation. The second separated the children from the adults for instruction. This third hour separated the men from the women.
In this particular meeting, there was a guest speaker to discuss the importance of emergency preparedness. The entire lecture came across as an infomercial for ham radio, as that was the speakers specialty. “This will be the only form of reliable communication when the big one hits us. Remember when the ‘95 quake hit. No one was able to use their cell phones or landlines…” Like most religious folks, the Mormons were obsessed with the end of the world. And like true modernists, they knew they could over come Mother Nature with technology.
Ezekiel decided to escape the lecture by dropping himself into a meditative trance. He slumped down in the chair. Dropped his chin into his chest and closed his eyes. He repeated a mantra to drown out the importance of short wave radios.
Forty-five minutes later he lifted his head and opened his eyes. “I have over one hundred double-a batteries in storage. I could run this radio for weeks,” were the first words Ezekiel heard upon coming out of his self-induced trance. Then he raised his arm to ask a question.
“Yes?”
“What’s the point?” Ezekiel asked. The special guest opened his mouth but no sounds came out. “I mean it. I’ve been mediating back here for the majority of class. I’ve seen the future. You’re trying to tell us that the world is going to burn but as long as you have some wheat and a radio and a Boy Scout knife you’ll make it through. What you don’t realize is that you’re wrong. The future is going to be full of people reverting back into animals. Well, the people that want to survive anyways. People still trying to act like people, trying to contract grandma through Morse code are going to find my teeth through their skull because I haven’t eaten in two weeks. The first thing you should do to prepare for the big one or the flood or World War III is to buy a bunch of guns because I’ve just been meditating back here while you’re talking about using reason to overcome the end of the world. I’m feeling real Zen-like right now. And you know what? Forget you’re little walkie-talkie man. I’m at one with the world right now and I’m saying to buy a gun because catastrophe isn’t about testing out how evolved we are. It is about finding out how quickly we can devolve in order to survive.”
Then a debate in regards to how proper Christians should act during times of great catastrophe began. Christ would make us new. Better than the animals. So even during times of great sorrow we can be filled with joy. Faith. God has warned us so we can prepare. Ezekiel sat and listened. Never during his imagined replies of Nietzsche, post-modernism, theology, feminization of man, did the thought that he might just be in the wrong place every Sunday pass through his mind.
Ezekiel had days worth of dust and grime built up on the lenses of his round glasses. He did not do this to hide his eyes. Rather did this for another effect. He wished people to see him as he saw himself. A madman.
Ezekiel wore what he wore every Sunday. Black. Black dress shirt. Black slacks. Black socks. Shiny, freshly polished, black shoes. He did not wear a tie. It concerned some of the members of the Mormon congregation he attended enough that he would wear all black instead of the traditional white dress shirt. So he figured he would not wear the tie, which was also customary, as well just to grind the salt into the wounds.
He sat in the metal fold-up chair. Shifting from one butt cheek to the other trying to relieve the pain. He had been sitting for two hours already, and still had another hour until church would be over. This was the third meeting; one per hour. The first included the entire congregation. The second separated the children from the adults for instruction. This third hour separated the men from the women.
In this particular meeting, there was a guest speaker to discuss the importance of emergency preparedness. The entire lecture came across as an infomercial for ham radio, as that was the speakers specialty. “This will be the only form of reliable communication when the big one hits us. Remember when the ‘95 quake hit. No one was able to use their cell phones or landlines…” Like most religious folks, the Mormons were obsessed with the end of the world. And like true modernists, they knew they could over come Mother Nature with technology.
Ezekiel decided to escape the lecture by dropping himself into a meditative trance. He slumped down in the chair. Dropped his chin into his chest and closed his eyes. He repeated a mantra to drown out the importance of short wave radios.
Forty-five minutes later he lifted his head and opened his eyes. “I have over one hundred double-a batteries in storage. I could run this radio for weeks,” were the first words Ezekiel heard upon coming out of his self-induced trance. Then he raised his arm to ask a question.
“Yes?”
“What’s the point?” Ezekiel asked. The special guest opened his mouth but no sounds came out. “I mean it. I’ve been mediating back here for the majority of class. I’ve seen the future. You’re trying to tell us that the world is going to burn but as long as you have some wheat and a radio and a Boy Scout knife you’ll make it through. What you don’t realize is that you’re wrong. The future is going to be full of people reverting back into animals. Well, the people that want to survive anyways. People still trying to act like people, trying to contract grandma through Morse code are going to find my teeth through their skull because I haven’t eaten in two weeks. The first thing you should do to prepare for the big one or the flood or World War III is to buy a bunch of guns because I’ve just been meditating back here while you’re talking about using reason to overcome the end of the world. I’m feeling real Zen-like right now. And you know what? Forget you’re little walkie-talkie man. I’m at one with the world right now and I’m saying to buy a gun because catastrophe isn’t about testing out how evolved we are. It is about finding out how quickly we can devolve in order to survive.”
Then a debate in regards to how proper Christians should act during times of great catastrophe began. Christ would make us new. Better than the animals. So even during times of great sorrow we can be filled with joy. Faith. God has warned us so we can prepare. Ezekiel sat and listened. Never during his imagined replies of Nietzsche, post-modernism, theology, feminization of man, did the thought that he might just be in the wrong place every Sunday pass through his mind.
Ezekiel had days worth of dust and grime built up on the lenses of his round glasses. He did not do this to hide his eyes. Rather did this for another effect. He wished people to see him as he saw himself. A madman.
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