Filed under: Fiction
“I do not believe in fate, only marvelous coincidences”
As Daniel entered the twenty-four hour café he scanned the room twice. He was looking for someone, but he didn’t know who that someone was. He had gotten it into his head that something of cosmic importance was going to happen to him that night. He didn’t know how this was going to happen, or why it was going to happen.
“Just one,” he told the waitress as she approached from behind the podium.
“Is there any way I can…. can I sit in that booth over there so I can plug in my laptop”.
“Sure”.
“Thanks,” Daniel mumbled as he slid into the booth.
“What can I ge….”
“I just want a coffee and some sourdough toast,” Daniel cut in.
“Okay, I will have that right out for you,” replied his waitress as she made her way back into the bowels of the kitchen.
Daniel let out a sigh as he scanned the room again. He opened the front pocket of his backpack and took out the cord to his laptop. He gingerly placed it on the table in front of him. He opened the main pocket of his back pack and removed his laptop. He placed it ceremoniously on the table, as he had many times before. A feeling of déjà vu crept over him as he turned to plug it in. He had sat in that very both earlier in the week. The only difference tonight was that it was much earlier, 11:15 p.m. to be exact, and he was waiting for something of cosmic importance to happen to him.
His waitress returned with the coffee.
“Do you want any special creamer with this?”
“Actually, I don’t want any creamer.”
Back to the bowels she went.
As Daniel took the first sip of his coffee, he braced himself for the burning sensation that was soon to engulf his tongue, the all too familiar sensation that is the usual companion of a first sip of coffee. It didn’t come. In fact, the coffee was rather luke-warm, the elusive and undesirable temperature that occurs when something is either too hot, or not hot enough. He placed the mug back on the table and waited.
Tired of waiting he scanned through some of his previous writings looking for an idea for something to write about. He was stuck. He spread some strawberry jam on a piece of his sourdough toast. His waitress had only brought him two packets of jam. His waiter from earlier in the week had brought him four. It would come out of her tip. He took a bite of his toast and scanned the room again. His booth was by a window overlooking the front entrance of the restaurant. It gave him a perfect view of the customers as they entered and exited the building. Would he know who he was looking for when he saw them? Would they be obvious? Would they come up to him, or would he have to approach them? All of these questions remained, for the moment, unanswered. He waited.
He hoped it would be the guy who had come into his work earlier that day. He let out a sigh as he thought about him. Daniel didn’t even know his name, but he hadn’t been able to get him out of his head for the last two days. When he had come in earlier that day Daniel’s heart had pounded, quite visibly, out of his chest. He had wanted to say something to him, have an actual conversation with him, but he didn’t know what to say. Daniel had smiled as friendly of a smile as he could muster as he took the mystery guy’s order and asked him if he wanted any enhancers added to his drink.
“No thanks, I don’t really come because they are healthy. I just like how they taste”.
Daniel smiled, but he didn’t say anything. He already knew that the guy didn’t want any enhancers in his drink. He had been a regular there since Daniel had first started working there in high school.
After Daniel had finished the mystery guy’s drink he handed it to him. They smiled at each other.
“Thank you,” the mystery guy had said as he turned to leave.
“Have a good one!” Daniel had replied generically. Then the mystery guy turned his head and smiled again as he exited the store.
“What does have a good one even mean,” Daniel had thought to himself.
“A good what? … A good night? … A good ride back to your house? … A good night sleep? … A good life? … A… good…”
Daniel was still waiting as he spread jam on his last half of toast. He glanced at the door and nervously wiped his thumb across his lower lip. It was a habit of his to touch his face when he was nervous. He didn’t know why he did this, and most of the time he was not even aware that he was doing it until he thought about it later. He was aware of it this time because he had just written about how he had just done it. After drinking three cups of coffee, Daniel really needed to take a trip to the men’s room.
Nothing of cosmic importance had happened to Daniel on the way to the men’s room, or his way back. Daniel reflected on this. He thought about how late it was getting. If something of cosmic importance was going to happen to him that night, maybe it was going to happen to him on the way home from the café. Maybe that was the only reason he had gone to the café in the first place. Maybe it was going to happen a week after he left the café, a month after, a year. It was possible. Anything is possible.
Filed under: Articles
Every year during the Ghost Festival, Chinese citizens burn paper effigies of every day material goods with the belief that these goods will reach their deceased relatives in Hell. This age old tradition has gone on for centuries without conflict, and has its origin in Chinese mythology. However, the Chinese population explosion over the last century has created a difficult situation for administrators in Hell. With Chinese citizens dying at such high rates, excess “Hell Money” is now streaming in. This excess money has had a profound impact on Hell’s economy, which is now enduring a period of extreme inflation.
In an effort to combat this inflation the administrators of Hell are now urging Chinese citizens to stop burning “Hell Money”, and instead burn paper effigies of non-perishable food items, such as canned goods and rice to help their deceased loved ones get through the tough economic slump.
The administrators are also urging the Chinese government to make it illegal to sell paper effigies of energy inefficient cars in an effort to lower fuel prices in Hell. The administrators are hoping that lower fuel prices will allow them to burn and torment souls at a lower cost, a necessary measure due to the recent influx of souls entering into Hell.
Dameon Baal, Hell’s ambassador to the U.N. and member of the Human Rights Committee, fears that the economic slump has had a profound effect on the conditions in Hell.
“We are [snarl] having to reduce the amount of brimstone we use by around 30 percent,” said Baal. “It just isn’t the same down here.”
In an effort to restore Hell to its original conditions some religious groups have created non-profit organizations that allow their members to sponsor a tormented soul in Hell. One such group is “Hell’s Purse”, which has its headquarters in Colorado Springs, Colorado.
“For just $30 a month you can provide one tormented soul with a bed of hot coals, and enough fuel to keep it burning for the duration of the month,” said Ernest Davidson, regional manager of Hell’s Purse.
Carole King, 57, of Minneapolis, has participated in the program for 5 months.
“I just love this program,” said King. “I am glad that I am able to do my part to ensure that these souls get the total experience of being in Hell!”
As part of the program, participants receive a monthly photo of their sponsored soul, as well as a hand written letter. King likes to keep her photos on her refrigerator.
“It’s a great conversation starter,” said King, who is considering creating a line of specialty greeting cards from the photos.
While Hell’s Purse and similar non-profits are doing what they can to alleviate the situation, some worry it will not be enough.
Satan recently released a statement saying that he is considering releasing 15-20 percent of Hell’s occupants into rural Arkansas because of the similarity in living conditions. Satan and his administrators are hoping that this move would be enough to pull Hell out of its economic slump.
Filed under: Poetry
The city is silent as the Hikikomori emerge from their crypts,
From their meticulously maintained apartments,
Apartments where books are organized by size and color,
Apartments with carefully organized pantries.
This is a society of wraiths.
In a world where nothing moves,
The shadows of the Hikikomori float across the surface of the pavement.
They make their way into the bowels of the city,
Beneath the surface of its streets into the subterranean world of the sewers.
They converse with one another in a cacophony of whispers.
Amassed at their pre-established location,
Bodies pressed against the walls, heads bowed, hearts pounding,
They stamp their feet to the collective rhythm of their beating hearts,
Swaying from side to side.
They are one.
The empty buildings above begin to tremble,
Begin to crumble.
Their meticulously organized possessions fall from shelves in an unorganized chaos,
Windows bow and break into thousands of pieces.
This is the last stand of the Hikikomori.
The streets above are empty.
There is no one to scream into the rubble,
To search for the mangled bodies of children.
There are no children.
This is a city of Hikikomori.
A city of closed curtains,
Of solitary confinement,
Of days spent watching the shadows grow longer and shorter,
Days spent conversing with faces hidden in the peeling plaster of the ceiling.
Silence.
The Hikikomori sit with their heads between their knees.
All openings to the world above have been sealed.
They wait for asphyxiation.
They wait for morning.
Filed under: Non-Fiction
CALORIES PER BAR:
Hershey’s Milk Chocolate Bar = 200
Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups = 90
Kit Kat = 210
Whoppers = 180
Air Head = 131
!!!Candy=Happiness!!!
Directions for use:
1. Pick up piece of candy
2. Remove the plastic wrapper
3. Open mouth
4. Insert candy into mouth
5. Close mouth
6. Eat the contents
7. Don’t forget to swallow
Disclaimer:
Please take either one (1) piece, three (3) pieces, or five (5) pieces. By taking an odd number of pieces you can be assured that even if you have to share your candy with another party you will be allotted one (1) extra piece of candy for yourself. It is important to know that the Air Heads will rot your teeth. If you are an unfortunate individual who has no teeth feel free to eat as many pieces as you like. However, the Hershey’s Milk Chocolate Bars may be easier for you to eat since they can dissolve in your mouth easily without any chewing (or gumming in your case). Please take as many Kit Kats as you like as I abhor them. If you do decide to take one you must share it with another individual as you dance around and sing the “give me a break song”. Please do not put the whoppers up your nose or in your ears. We are not responsible for any stomach aches, cavities, or injuries sustained while under the influence of our candy. If you do decide to injure yourself please do it in the neighbor’s yard. This product is intended for eating purposes only. You should not consume it if you are operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. No solicitors. No alcohol, asthmatic dogs, or people in Sarah Palin costumes are permitted on these premises (If you are dressed up as Sarah Palin and are reading this disclaimer please return to your own home immediately. After returning home spend a few moments to reflect on the unoriginality of your “creative” costume. The only acceptable Sarah Palin costumes are ones that are combined with other costumes: Sarah Palin as a vampire. Sarah Palin as a dead wolf. Sarah Palin as a sexy school girl. Sarah Palin as Rambo. Sarah Palin as an abortion doctor, etc.). WARNING: contents may contribute to the development of fat on your thighs and buttocks, and the development of a gut and a double chin. If any of the candy comes in contact with your eyes flush them immediately with Evian bottled water (If you do not have any Evian bottled water handy I suppose Disani will suffice, but your friends or children may think less of you). Product is provided “as is” without any warranty. This product contains no natural fruit juice or any substance that can be misconstrued as nutritious. Please remove plastic wrapper before eating. Do not remove this disclaimer under penalty of law!
Filed under: Non-Fiction
It took me two years of Advanced Placement classes in high school to come to the not so startling realization that I am a complete idiot. I always performed well in English on papers and timed writings, but that is only because I am gifted at making arguments that are vague enough that my teachers can interpret them in any way they choose. I could write three pages of vague ramblings about a book during a timed writing and easily receive the score of an eight. My technique was to make my argument have just enough details to convince the teacher that I had read the book, while allowing the teacher to unconsciously develop my argument for me.
I found the first validation of my long suspected idiocy through the dreaded group discussions of AP English. Every time we had one I would always raise my hand and then say some idiotic statement that had no connection to the book or even the topic. The main cause of the problem is my five second memory. I would literally think of an argument, begin to raise my hand, and then forget what I was going to say by the time my hand was finally raised. I would then make some idiotic statement about how it was the white man’s fault the Africans were dying by the river in The Heart of Darkness.
“Umm….. It’s because white men are evil, and, and…. It’s just the white man’s fault because they are…. Ummmm… aaaaaa… abusing the natives, because they are black and not white like the white men, because it is all because of the white men that they are dying. Did I mention that it was the white man’s fault? … Um.. Yeah, that’s all I have to say.”
The Conrad discussion was the pits, but it can by no means be overshadowed by my Pride and Prejudice presentation. My partner and I decided to do a Marxist criticism of the novel. It was a novel idea, but I failed to do sufficient research on Marxism before our presentation, and the little I had learned I soon forgot. During the presentation I read line from line from the power point my partner had made; with each line I died a little. When I had to elaborate on what I was saying I merely said various contradicting statements which eventually revealed that Marxism had nothing to do with Pride and Prejudice (I now realize it does—so much class conflict).
My senior year of high school I took AP Economics. I would rather sell one of my kidneys on the Indian black market then take economics again. No, I take that back. I would give the kidney away for free, and allow an untrained physician to cut it out with a blunt and rusty paring knife.
Economics is a completely foreign language to me. I would sit blurry eyed in class everyday and not even understand the questions the students were asking. The horrifying thing is that it is not that I just didn’t understand the concept of what the students were asking, I didn’t even understand any of the words. It was like they were speaking in Mandarin or Ancient Greek. At the end of every period I would emerged from class with further validation of my long suspected idiocy. It initially came as a surprise to me, but it shouldn’t have. My sudden realization at age fifteen that pickles are made from cucumbers should have been enough warning of this truth. I guess up to that point I had just thought that they were already sour when they were picked from their vines. Do cucumbers grow on vines?
To mask my idiocy I switched to a hot white chocolate mocha during our macroeconomics study groups because I thought it made me look more studious (Frappuccinos seem a little too trendy). I even considered getting fake glasses to make me look more like an intellectual, but I didn’t have the courage to go through with the plan. It would have been too drastic of a makeover. Also, what would have happened if there was an American resurfacing of the Khmer Rouge? I would be clubbed to death simply because I had on fake glasses. It was not a risk I was willing to take. I therefore, simply allowed the people in my study group to baby-sit me. I had nothing else to do, so I figured I might as well provide a little comic relief to distract them from their confusing world of monetary policy and stagflation.
My comic relief quickly grew old and I wandered off outside to make clover necklaces for my fellow studiers. Their excitement over my new craft was a great deal less than I anticipated. We (I should say “they”) eventually decided that we should go over to a friend’s house so I would cook them dinner. I obviously had nothing better to do with my time. I suppose I could have gone home and resorted to my usual past time of sitting on my futon and staring blankly at my wall while pretending to read great works of literature (I will convince them yet!), but that gets boring after a few hours. I therefore employed my excellent cooking skills to bring to them a Giada de Laurintis worthy meal of Fettuccini Alfredo.
I took the macroeconomics exam the next morning and failed it fabulously. Instead of bull-shitting my way through the short answer section I decided to draw pictures. My favorite one was of a deranged lion commanding a stick man to draw a graph of the foreign exchange market or he would devour him. I’m sure that one was a favorite of the exam graders, along with my depiction of the invisible hand with a line drawn across the wrist that said, “Please cut here.” I also drew a graph of the production possibilities curve showing the correlation between contraceptives and baby food, as well as soy and soy.
The validation of my idiocy in high school has been extremely helpful to me now that I am in college. I have now learned that being intelligent is not as important as appearing intelligent. As I traverse the campus of Texas State I come in contact with many people who appear intelligent but are actually imbeciles, and many people who appear rather unintelligent and are actually geniuses. My goal is to be perceived as a synthesis of the two.
Filed under: Fiction
Jake Tomlin hated it when people defied stereotypes. He hated it because it made it that much more difficult for him to pre-judge them. As he sipped his third cup of coffee and surveyed the rest of the people in the twenty-four hour café, he managed to pre-judge all of the other customers in a manner of sixteen seconds. Jake, it should be said, based his entire existence on the validity of his pre-judgments, most of which were based upon sixteen seconds of observation, and most of them were false. Had he based the validity of his pre-judgments on seventeen seconds of observation this would likely be a different story. Jake had once managed to pre-judge every person who had ever lived in a manner of three seconds. However, this was an unusual feat for Jake. It had followed an all-nighter for his philosophy class in which he was instructed to write an essay on “bullshit”. He had come to the conclusion that night in a manner of three seconds that all people who had ever lived, including the Greeks, the Sumerians, the Egyptians, the Phonetians, the Hittites, the Romans, the Huns, the Celts, the Anglo-Saxons, the Welsh, the San, the Jews, the Gentiles, and especially Bill O’Reilly were or are proliferators of bullshit. The reason for this judgment: Jake could think of several. They were all clearly incorporated into his well organized essay of three body paragraphs, held in place between a rather clever intro paragraph and a rather condemning and incendiary conclusion. After Jake paid his bill, he surveyed the room one final time. His eyes fell upon a booth that contained six drunken girls who were clearly trying to wind down from a night of bar-hopping.
The booth the girls were sitting in was a rather normal booth, one you might expect to find in a twenty four hour café. However, what the girls did not know about the booth was that it had been a womanizer named Darryl Jones in its previous life. Darryl had spent the majority of his adult years trying to feel up women in bars, without much success. Now, as a direct result of karma, he had been reincarnated as a booth in a twenty four hour café, a café that was frequented by drunken women who freely sat on top of him every night. However, without any hands or the sense of touch the booth, who had once been Darryl Jones, was unable to enjoy this sensation. The irony of the situation was probably lost the booth though. It had given up on trying to think years before, although it was not aware of this. Thinking, it must be noted, is a rather difficult skill for a booth to acquire. Most of them give up very early on in the process although a few have gone on to get PhD’s. Had this booth, who had once been Darryl Jones in a previous life, attained the ability to think it would probably have been very worried about the rather suspicious stain it had recently acquired.
As Michelle Adams stared at the rather suspicious stain on the booth she was sitting in with her five sorority sisters, she couldn’t help but think about her boyfriend Guy Stripling. She and Guy had been dating for the last seven months and were madly in love with each other. In fact, they were so in love with each other that they couldn’t stand being around each other, a trait they share with most happily married couples. Michelle and Guy had recently spent their spring breaks together in Cancun, but that wasn’t what Michelle was thinking about. For some reason she kept getting the mental image of Guy laying in bed and her standing over him holding a knife. She was rather disturbed by the image, and she had a hard time thinking of anything else. She had also had a hard time earlier in the evening when she tried to explain to her sorority sisters why Guy had not joined them in their evening of bar-hopping. However, her thoughts were temporarily interrupted when her waitress, who was apparently trying to defy physics, failed in her endeavor.
As Audrey Blackman watched the plates that she had been balancing four seconds before tumble to the floor and shatter into two-thousand-three-hundred-and-thirty-nine pieces she couldn’t help but feel satisfied with her life. She was living her dream. Single mother at age twenty-seven, three children under the age of five, an ex-husband who refused to pay child support, a fifty hour work week, and fifteen pounds gained over the past two months. Hers was the life. As she picked up the pieces of her culinary fresco, she caught sight of Daniel Renfrow who was sitting at a table close to the wall typing madly on his laptop. She had forgotten to take his order.
As Daniel Renfrow sat at his table and moved his fingers rhythmically over the keys he couldn’t help but think about all of the homework he had to do before finals started. He had also recently come to the realization that he was out of ideas, and if he wrote anything else it probably would not be very good. He stopped typing, saved his writing as a word document, and shut off his computer. He would likely upload it later onto Facebook as a note, marvel at his cleverness, work on some French homework, and then fall asleep in a sea of narcissistic thoughts.
Filed under: Non-Fiction
Alice and I are plummeting down the rabbit hole. Jaeger-Bombs, Blue-Hawaiians, Buttery-Nipples, Kamikazes, Washington-Apples, and Red-Headed-Sluts, still in their shot tubes, careen past us into the abyss below. Glitter… glitter is everywhere. I fall asleep before we reach the bottom.
It usually takes me two hours to prepare for work. I start my preparations by going tanning, followed by a not so rigorous work out session at the gym. I quickly head home to shower, shave my face, shave my legs, shave my legs again, again, and again (Why have I not mastered this yet?). After showering I begin applying my makeup. I start with foundation, than apply some concealer below my eyes. I attempt to apply some eyeliner, and poke myself in my eye several times (Now that my eyes are tearing I must reapply the eyeliner). With the eyeliner haphazardly applied, I put on my uniform: underwear and body glitter (If I am going for a more formal look I might put on a bowtie and vest). I check out my ass several times in the mirror before donning my civilian clothing. I look at myself again in the mirror and pretend that I am holding a tray of shots. “Do you gentlemen want some shots,” I ask in as sexy of a voice I can come up with. I say it again, changing my tone a little and raising one eyebrow. My cats are staring at me. Now I am embarrassed. I pick up a copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland from off of my desk, and I am out the door. The trip to Austin usually takes me thirty minutes. I go below the speed limit because I am afraid of getting pulled over and having to explain all of the glitter on my face to a police officer (This has happened to me before, and it is not an experience I would like to repeat). I finally reach Austin, park, and head over to Halcyon for a cup of coffee and an hour of reading before walking to the club to begin my shift as a shotboy at “Sodom” (Not the actual name of the club).
Sodom is a “Gay Mecca,” with patrons circling the dance floor instead of the Ka’bah, consuming copious (Verging on obscene) amounts of alcohol instead of fasting, and donning as little clothing as possible. To continue the analogy: I suppose the patrons end their nights by reciting the lyrics of Lady Gaga songs as they lie prostrate with their bodies aligned to the Castro District of San Francisco (I know I do). “Po-po-po-po-po-po-po-po-pokerface… Amen.”
As I navigate the staircases and narrow passages of the club I pretend I am Margaret Mead, examining the sexual relationships of the natives of Samoa. “Hmmm… How interesting.” (Scribbles frantically in moleskin, and simultaneously swats fly from shoulder—aka, hand reaching for my groin). “The older males tend to favor younger boys, more specifically boys who have consumed several units of alcohol….” (Stares puzzled at moleskin, then at older man grinding on younger boy, then back at moleskin) “Perhaps the union of a younger male with an older male promotes social solidarity. Is the younger male in a liminal stage? Is that why he consumes so much alcohol? Is it a rite of passage?”
As I squeeze through the narrow passage between the dance floor and the wall, I raise my tray of shots as high as my sinuous arms can reach. However, this does not prevent the shots from being jostled in their trays, and creates a perfect opportunity for a stray hand to grab my ass. “Fuck… He didn’t even tip me,” I think as I make my way to the outdoor patio.
A gust of frigid air collides with my nearly naked body as I step onto the patio. It sends a shiver up my body that begins in my toes, travels up my thighs, my chest, my arms, and exits my body through the tips of my fingers, causing me to once again jostle my tray of shots. “It’s so FUCKING cold!” I mutter to Oona, my favorite Drag Queen, who is standing by the bar taking sensuous drags from her cigarette. “Come here baby,” she coos at me. As she wraps her slightly muscular arm around my shoulders I am surprised by the doughiness of her skin, but I am thankful for the warmth.
After selling several shots on the lower patio I head upstairs and do the same on the upper one before quickly making my way back inside the club. The temperature inside the club usually starts out rather cold, but it is eventually warmed by the body heat of the patrons. I am seriously considering recruiting some gay men to grind, half-naked by my bed as I sleep. I would save so much money on heating!
I make my way past the go-go dancers, who are dancing away in their cages in all of their glittery Greek-god glory. “One day…” I think to myself.
“I want to fuck him,” I hear someone say as I pass the bathrooms. This only fuels my budding narcissism, a narcissism that is beginning to seriously alarm me. I first became aware of it after trying to find pictures of myself on the Internet. I began by googling “shot boy at Sodom,” no images. I then searched for “sexy shotboy at Sodom,” again, nothing. I googled, “hot gay shotboy at Sodom,” nothing. I tried “skinny shotboy at Sodom,” then “anorexic shotboy at Sodom.” There were no results for any of my searches.
I approach a group of Lesbians taking a respite on a couch tucked away in a dark corner of the club. “Do you ladies want some shots?” I ask as I sway my hips to the music (I am trying to appear outgoing, and play up the gay stereotype a little in the process). They don’t want any, so I tell them to enjoy the rest of their night and sashay over to a group of Drag Queens dancing on a balcony overlooking the dance floor. “Do you ladies want some shots?” I ask as I wink at the tallest one (well over six feet tall- sans heels). “Whoa, baby! You’re so skinny,” she yells at me, “You need to eat a BigMac.” How many times have I been told this tonight? Add one more to the tally. I am now at four, and I still have an hour left before I get off. Why not tell me to eat a Twinkie, a banana split, an entire tub of ice cream (I already do this regularly), the entire country of Lichtenstein (Not so regularly)? I try not to let it get to me, but after I get off of work I will make a late night run to McDonalds, order a BigMac, feel my ribs, order another, and add two apple pies to my order. “Fuck you metabolism! Why are you so fucking fast,” I ask myself as I finish my last bite. My stomach gurgles, as if it is trying to answer. “What’s that,” I ask it. No response.
That is the same response I get when I ask the scary man with the painted on eyebrows if he wants a shot. I am thankful for his silence and quickly escape from him, heading back downstairs. As I circle the dance floor I am swallowed up by the energy of the club. My body sways, and my heart pounds to the music of ATB. For the first time in several years I feel alive. I am exactly where I want to be at that very moment, swept away in the pulsating music as I watch the sweat glisten off the bodies of the men on the dance floor.
I finally understand what Wonderland must have looked like through the eyes of Alice. Sodom is my wonderland. However, my Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb are dancing in cages above a dance floor, and my Mockturtle is shedding his salty tears in the stall of a unisex bathroom. There are no beheadings for my more amiable Queen of Hearts, who is reigning over the dance floor, shouting the lyrics of Britney’s new single instead of, “Off with their heads!” My Caterpillar is taking all of this in as he lays inebriated on a couch taking thoughtful puffs from his cigar. All the while I am chasing my white rabbit around and around the club, never quite catching up to him.
Filed under: Fiction
As Jackson Turner peeled off his size twenty-nine skinny jeans his thighs let out an audible sigh. The hair on his legs, basking in their temporary freedom, took part in his body’s physiological response to the cool wind the ceiling fan was circling around the studio apartment. The follicles straightened out in a way the hair on his head never would, regardless of how many times he took a straightener to them. He had given up on straightening his hair for the past couple of months. In fact, he now denies that he ever did straighten his hair. His hair, thankful for this paradigm shift, was quite content to curl lightly on its ends until its respite was cut short two months later by Jackson’s discovery that messy hair was the new straight hair, or should I say that messy hair now occupied the position straightened hair once occupied before it was deemed mainstream, and thus by some snowball effect a product of capitalist corruption. Jackson had forgotten most of the details that connected straightened hair to capitalist corruption, and he had never fully understood how it was connected in the first place, even while discussing it with his comrades at their favorite non-corporate-free-trade coffee house. In fact, none of his comrades fully understood how straightened hair was connected to capitalism, even after a two-hour-long conversation on the very topic.
It was a general rule in his circle to turn to someone wearing glasses for advice when a situation like that arose, but unfortunately all of his comrades were now wearing glasses, so they had no idea who to turn to for wisdom and were left to sulk in their sea of self-righteousness. They tried figuring out who had the strongest prescription, but only discovered that none of them actually had a prescription. Melissa, who didn’t know that you could buy fake glasses from urban outfitters, had forced herself into wearing reading glasses she had picked up for five dollars at a Walgreens. It was rather thrifty of her. It was hard on her eyes at first, but eventually the pain went away. Since she had fucked up her eyes to they point that she actually needed a prescription, she seemed like the logical choice. Unfortunately she was observing a day of silence. Her comrades didn’t know what for, since she wouldn’t say anything, but it must have been for a very important social issue. Since Melissa could not enlighten her comrades she was content to slowly sip her tall non-fat soy chai tea latte. For a few horrifying moments it looked as if there wasn’t a connection between straightened hair and capitalism and they would have to be content to write it off as a coincidence, but they were adamant about finding a connection.
Their thought pattern went something like this: “We are socialists. We do not like capitalism. We do not like straightened hair. Therefore, we do not like capitalism or straightened hair. We are socialists…. Hmm….. We are socialists….. Okay, so we are socialists, and we dislike straightened hair. We also dislike capitalism. We dislike both of them, so they must be connected. If they are both connected one of them must be a product of the other… Umm….. We are socialist…. We all agree on that right? …..Melissa…. Oh… Right… Okay….. So…. Since capitalism came first… Straightened hair must be its product…. Huzzah! …. We are so clever!”
After that moment Jackson saw his messy hair as an act of public defiance against the capitalistic pigs who ran the country he was unjustly born into. This act of political defiance, ever so subtle, turned into a ritual. Every night before he went to sleep he would wet his hair, and then fall asleep in a position that optimized the appearance of his cowlicks. His comrades were all excited by this change and called it one of the most significant things to happen to indie culture since the introduction, or should I say theft, of the bowler. Indie kids, you must understand, are rather good at stealing articles of clothing from other decades and passing them off as their own. It is strange that they are called indie kids. “Klepto Kids” seems like it would be a more appropriate name.
Jackson walked to his closet and neatly draped his pants over a lime green wire hanger that sagged sadly in the middle, weighted down by the irony of all of the clothing it was forced to bear on a daily basis, and of the man Jackson Turner. A man, I should say boy, who had the particular distinction of functioning as a parody of himself, a distinction that is in fact very indie.
Theblackmaria's Blog 