Shock Tea (4)
Previous episodes: 1, 2, 3,
What makes monsters, the world or the womb? A pearl handle on a rusty blade. Green grass on a forgotten grave. A bright star in a cold vacuum. A time bomb ticking in a church. Lunatics know how to smile. Sometimes they laugh, giggle, have fun. Sometimes they are charming. Sometimes they run the whole gambit. Like deadly nightshade in a diamond decanter.
Apple pie comes hot out of the oven. Fills the house with warm golden goodness. There are toys strewn across the family room; the toys of the golden child. Legos, action figures, remote control ‘thises’ and some assembly required ‘thats.’ The toys of the beloved child, the only child, the medical science said it couldn’t happen child. He might as well be named Precious as he wanders around the house committing miracles with his every action.
When she was young, Slam’s mom would tell her friends:
-I’m going to have four kids. Two boys, two girls. Each two years apart, and I’ll marry a great man, and we’ll all get together and sing. He’ll play the guitar and love the outdoors. We’ll all go camping and fishing. I’ll tell my girls about boys and love. I’m going to be a good mom.-
She found him. He worked with his hands, played ball in High School. He went backpacking and rock climbing in the Summer, skiing in the Winter. A laugh like the bells of Christmas; giddy with the love of humanity. Handsome. Handsome and caring and loving and understanding. She waited by the phone, but she didn’t have to wait for very long. He played the guitar and...oh God! He had the voice of an angel, and he was going to make one hell of a father to her four children, two boys, two girls, spaced two years apart. Mellissa, Amanda, Johnathon (Johnny) and Gabriel. Their names like a chant spaced two years apart.
Clock goes tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, takes away Mellissa’s name. Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock takes away Johnathon’s name. Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock Amanda. Each tick, each tock drops the corner of the mouth a little more. Each brings a bit more loneliness, a little more hopelessness, a few more tears. The ticks teach terms like low sperm count. The tocks teach words like uteral condition and invetro fertilization. They teach odds like one in ten thousand, and they make Moms and Pops huddle together in hospital rooms wondering whether the darkness of a barren womb can make a heart numb to love. Pop watches children play in the park and mom kneels next to her bed at night and prays to the almighty. She takes to saying grace before meals, making her non-religious friends a little nervous, as she tries to earn a chance from the powers that be; the biological clock going tickety tock.
The spaces between their laughter grow longer, deeper. Mom’s tears begin to soak pop’s shoulder until, and he never said anything by way of complaint, she senses that she’s drenched him right through; sort of drowned him in impotent saline. He says nothing as she screams, "why, why, why," at no one in particular. He says nothing when her eyes come to the conclusion, "You. You. You," while they glare directly at him. And in the absence of his voice or laughter, in the absence of her willingness to adopt, there is a horrible pall that stretches over the house as they grind each other up desperately to conceive under the glow of the orange sky.
And then one gray day, it happens. The little test comes out blue. Maybe it is because the whole of the decent world has disappeared along with those little tick tock names, or maybe mom just isn’t sure that a bad marriage without children could really be turned into a good marriage by one little baby; one little Gabriel, but when she goes to the doctor, not knowing what to do if the little blue test has turned out right, and he tells her she’s pregnant, she feints. Pop is called at work, and quite suddenly, the future is set in stone. She cannot turn back, even if she now wants to. There will be a Gabriel. Tick...
Which brings us back to where we started. Apple pie coming out of the oven, toys strewn across the floor, miracles committed with every action, and all that. Remember? Which, in turn, brings us back to Slam. There he is now, only five years old, and bouncing up on his Opa’s knee.
-Well, Gabe what do you want to be when you grow up?-
-I don’t know.-
-Do you want to play ball like your father?-
-Yes Opa.-
-Good, we’ll teach you to play some football. You’re going to be a star quarterback.-
-Teach me good Opa. I want to be good. I want to be so good that everyone will be my friend.-
-Oh don’t worry Gabe, you’ll have lots of friends.-
-I like that Opa. I really like that. I want to have so many friends that I can’t even count them all. I want to have so many friends that I don’t even know them all. I just want to pass them in the halls and they’ll shout out GABRIEL, and I’ll wave back, but I really won’t know them and they won’t really know me. I want to cross gaps. Hang out with the ‘in’ crowd, and then turn around and hang out with the ‘nowheres.’ I want envy. I want lackeys and toadies. I want a veritable army who’ll hang on my every word just for a chance that I might notice them. Just for a chance that a little of me might wear off on them. I want girls to line up with smiles on their faces and words on their lips like, "don’t tell my boyfriend." I want those that think they have me to be lined up to forgive me when they find out the truth. Or at least part of the truth. I don’t want anyone to know all of the truth.-
-I have the face of an angel. Don’t I, Opa?-
-Yes Gabriel, you most certainly do.-
-Well I plan on using it. I’m going to go into the city. Meet all the right people, hang out at all the right places, and bring all the right drugs back with me to sell. People will line up to take what I deal, and who Opa, who will suspect that bright boy Gabe is a spider at the center of the web? You’ll be cheering touchdown passes and conversions while my handiwork breathes its last overdosing breath, and later that night, I’ll fuck three different chicks, two at the same time, come out of that room to a keg bought in my honor, body licked by the adoring glances of everyone around me. You know what Opa? I’m not even going to notice. That’s going to be business as usual for me. People will say, "That Gabriel is a great guy," or "that Gabriel is incredible," or, "I want Gabriel to fuck me hard and I don’t care who knows it," or
-That Gabriel sure knows how to party. The other night I saw him and he was fucked up-
-Yeah, I heard he’s not just smoking it anymore.-
-What do you mean?-
-I heard he slams. You know, shoots up.-
-No shit.-
-And no shit Opa, they’ll be right. You want to know what I want to do when I grow up? I want to move to the city. I don’t just want to end up there like I was forgotten or thrown away. I really want to go there and prey on all those poor little nobodies who are hiding. Because I won’t be hiding Opa. I want it all. I want that ‘who knows what the next day will bring’ lifestyle. I want to see the things that other people shudder to think of. I want to be Hades, Pluto, the devil himself, king of the dead, lord of the underworld. Because Opa, who really needs it? If someone’s good to you, does it feel any less fulfilling if you’re fucking them over. And if you fuck them over in just the right way, don’t they have to keep being nice to you. I mean sure, they’ll say you’re breaking their heart, but they have to forgive you once they come to rely on you. And who would suspect? Who would suspect that I care so little for them, that I only want their adoration, that the little slipknots I tie for them will end up around their necks.-
No, no, no, no, no, no, no. Yet another mistake in our attempt to track down the elusive First. What have we really learned? We find out something about Slam, sure. We even discover something about what sort of attitude drives Slam to take Bobby under his wing, to act as his mentor in the sick sick city, but we do not discover the power that he has. We are given Slam’s attitudes and abilities in such a roundabout way that we can’t take them very seriously at all. We certainly can’t attribute their effect to the breaking of Bobby. Again we find that the scene lacks reality given what we know of Next, it lacks detail, and above all, it lacks a direct relation to Bobby’s breaking.
What’s worse is that we have all but lost all reference to other characters. All we have is Slam’s attitudes towards life and his fellow human beings (which we can assume is not healthy), but it doesn’t really jibe exactly with what we know about Slam and Bobby. For instance, why does Slam save Bobby on that balcony? Why are Slam and Bobby alone in the Presidential Suite if Slam is expected to be some kind of self serving attention whore? Why does Bobby assume that he can run away and live with Slam in the city? As we are given nothing of how Slam truly treats people, we cannot assume that we have been given any sort of accurate description concerning how Slam will treat somebody like Bobby. Even the degree of strength in their friendship is called into question.
Maybe what we should do is exact our resources and send someone (perhaps even the as yet unintroduced Urial) to give us a little anecdote concerning what Slam is really like. Perhaps we could ask someone generally acknowledged as one of Slam’s near and dear such as Coyote. Well, at this point, I think we’ll all agree it’s worth a shot.
What makes monsters, the world or the womb? A pearl handle on a rusty blade. Green grass on a forgotten grave. A bright star in a cold vacuum. A time bomb ticking in a church. Lunatics know how to smile. Sometimes they laugh, giggle, have fun. Sometimes they are charming. Sometimes they run the whole gambit. Like deadly nightshade in a diamond decanter.
Apple pie comes hot out of the oven. Fills the house with warm golden goodness. There are toys strewn across the family room; the toys of the golden child. Legos, action figures, remote control ‘thises’ and some assembly required ‘thats.’ The toys of the beloved child, the only child, the medical science said it couldn’t happen child. He might as well be named Precious as he wanders around the house committing miracles with his every action.
When she was young, Slam’s mom would tell her friends:
-I’m going to have four kids. Two boys, two girls. Each two years apart, and I’ll marry a great man, and we’ll all get together and sing. He’ll play the guitar and love the outdoors. We’ll all go camping and fishing. I’ll tell my girls about boys and love. I’m going to be a good mom.-
She found him. He worked with his hands, played ball in High School. He went backpacking and rock climbing in the Summer, skiing in the Winter. A laugh like the bells of Christmas; giddy with the love of humanity. Handsome. Handsome and caring and loving and understanding. She waited by the phone, but she didn’t have to wait for very long. He played the guitar and...oh God! He had the voice of an angel, and he was going to make one hell of a father to her four children, two boys, two girls, spaced two years apart. Mellissa, Amanda, Johnathon (Johnny) and Gabriel. Their names like a chant spaced two years apart.
Clock goes tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, takes away Mellissa’s name. Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock takes away Johnathon’s name. Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock Amanda. Each tick, each tock drops the corner of the mouth a little more. Each brings a bit more loneliness, a little more hopelessness, a few more tears. The ticks teach terms like low sperm count. The tocks teach words like uteral condition and invetro fertilization. They teach odds like one in ten thousand, and they make Moms and Pops huddle together in hospital rooms wondering whether the darkness of a barren womb can make a heart numb to love. Pop watches children play in the park and mom kneels next to her bed at night and prays to the almighty. She takes to saying grace before meals, making her non-religious friends a little nervous, as she tries to earn a chance from the powers that be; the biological clock going tickety tock.
The spaces between their laughter grow longer, deeper. Mom’s tears begin to soak pop’s shoulder until, and he never said anything by way of complaint, she senses that she’s drenched him right through; sort of drowned him in impotent saline. He says nothing as she screams, "why, why, why," at no one in particular. He says nothing when her eyes come to the conclusion, "You. You. You," while they glare directly at him. And in the absence of his voice or laughter, in the absence of her willingness to adopt, there is a horrible pall that stretches over the house as they grind each other up desperately to conceive under the glow of the orange sky.
And then one gray day, it happens. The little test comes out blue. Maybe it is because the whole of the decent world has disappeared along with those little tick tock names, or maybe mom just isn’t sure that a bad marriage without children could really be turned into a good marriage by one little baby; one little Gabriel, but when she goes to the doctor, not knowing what to do if the little blue test has turned out right, and he tells her she’s pregnant, she feints. Pop is called at work, and quite suddenly, the future is set in stone. She cannot turn back, even if she now wants to. There will be a Gabriel. Tick...
Which brings us back to where we started. Apple pie coming out of the oven, toys strewn across the floor, miracles committed with every action, and all that. Remember? Which, in turn, brings us back to Slam. There he is now, only five years old, and bouncing up on his Opa’s knee.
-Well, Gabe what do you want to be when you grow up?-
-I don’t know.-
-Do you want to play ball like your father?-
-Yes Opa.-
-Good, we’ll teach you to play some football. You’re going to be a star quarterback.-
-Teach me good Opa. I want to be good. I want to be so good that everyone will be my friend.-
-Oh don’t worry Gabe, you’ll have lots of friends.-
-I like that Opa. I really like that. I want to have so many friends that I can’t even count them all. I want to have so many friends that I don’t even know them all. I just want to pass them in the halls and they’ll shout out GABRIEL, and I’ll wave back, but I really won’t know them and they won’t really know me. I want to cross gaps. Hang out with the ‘in’ crowd, and then turn around and hang out with the ‘nowheres.’ I want envy. I want lackeys and toadies. I want a veritable army who’ll hang on my every word just for a chance that I might notice them. Just for a chance that a little of me might wear off on them. I want girls to line up with smiles on their faces and words on their lips like, "don’t tell my boyfriend." I want those that think they have me to be lined up to forgive me when they find out the truth. Or at least part of the truth. I don’t want anyone to know all of the truth.-
-I have the face of an angel. Don’t I, Opa?-
-Yes Gabriel, you most certainly do.-
-Well I plan on using it. I’m going to go into the city. Meet all the right people, hang out at all the right places, and bring all the right drugs back with me to sell. People will line up to take what I deal, and who Opa, who will suspect that bright boy Gabe is a spider at the center of the web? You’ll be cheering touchdown passes and conversions while my handiwork breathes its last overdosing breath, and later that night, I’ll fuck three different chicks, two at the same time, come out of that room to a keg bought in my honor, body licked by the adoring glances of everyone around me. You know what Opa? I’m not even going to notice. That’s going to be business as usual for me. People will say, "That Gabriel is a great guy," or "that Gabriel is incredible," or, "I want Gabriel to fuck me hard and I don’t care who knows it," or
-That Gabriel sure knows how to party. The other night I saw him and he was fucked up-
-Yeah, I heard he’s not just smoking it anymore.-
-What do you mean?-
-I heard he slams. You know, shoots up.-
-No shit.-
-And no shit Opa, they’ll be right. You want to know what I want to do when I grow up? I want to move to the city. I don’t just want to end up there like I was forgotten or thrown away. I really want to go there and prey on all those poor little nobodies who are hiding. Because I won’t be hiding Opa. I want it all. I want that ‘who knows what the next day will bring’ lifestyle. I want to see the things that other people shudder to think of. I want to be Hades, Pluto, the devil himself, king of the dead, lord of the underworld. Because Opa, who really needs it? If someone’s good to you, does it feel any less fulfilling if you’re fucking them over. And if you fuck them over in just the right way, don’t they have to keep being nice to you. I mean sure, they’ll say you’re breaking their heart, but they have to forgive you once they come to rely on you. And who would suspect? Who would suspect that I care so little for them, that I only want their adoration, that the little slipknots I tie for them will end up around their necks.-
No, no, no, no, no, no, no. Yet another mistake in our attempt to track down the elusive First. What have we really learned? We find out something about Slam, sure. We even discover something about what sort of attitude drives Slam to take Bobby under his wing, to act as his mentor in the sick sick city, but we do not discover the power that he has. We are given Slam’s attitudes and abilities in such a roundabout way that we can’t take them very seriously at all. We certainly can’t attribute their effect to the breaking of Bobby. Again we find that the scene lacks reality given what we know of Next, it lacks detail, and above all, it lacks a direct relation to Bobby’s breaking.
What’s worse is that we have all but lost all reference to other characters. All we have is Slam’s attitudes towards life and his fellow human beings (which we can assume is not healthy), but it doesn’t really jibe exactly with what we know about Slam and Bobby. For instance, why does Slam save Bobby on that balcony? Why are Slam and Bobby alone in the Presidential Suite if Slam is expected to be some kind of self serving attention whore? Why does Bobby assume that he can run away and live with Slam in the city? As we are given nothing of how Slam truly treats people, we cannot assume that we have been given any sort of accurate description concerning how Slam will treat somebody like Bobby. Even the degree of strength in their friendship is called into question.
Maybe what we should do is exact our resources and send someone (perhaps even the as yet unintroduced Urial) to give us a little anecdote concerning what Slam is really like. Perhaps we could ask someone generally acknowledged as one of Slam’s near and dear such as Coyote. Well, at this point, I think we’ll all agree it’s worth a shot.
posted by Monstro D. Whale at
2:48 PM
2 Comments:
I usually don't say this about writers in-utero, but genius, man.
(And the 18th C crowd goes wild.) Well done, dare I say that after reading this I really do suspect that someday "you'll get yours." I particularly like the way the text breaks the narrative frame with the direct addresses to the reader (although this is admittedly a hobby-horse of mine). Down with free indirect discourse!
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