Erstwhile Affairs...

The idea of waking up in the morning drenched in cold sweat never crossed my mind, I mean, why should it when things were seemingly normal the night before?
What time was it? 6:38.
Sure I was depressed, but what differed from the other nights this past month? Generally the subconscious id/super id bullshit just made my mindful self thwart evil robots or participate in outlandishly sureal scavanger hunts with people so familiar, I've never even met them... This time seemed different.
I peeled my back off the sheets and sat upright. I had skipped past the groggy morning feeling and ended up in the post-morning "wet and disturbed" feeling.
To top it all off, things felt different. It was too quite. Something was wrong. My breathing quicken as unnerving images raced through my mind Something was out of place. Was something missing or added? I had that feeling you get you think someone is watching you. In those situations noone is ever really watching you, but what if it was different this time? My eyes were still strangely unadjusted to the darkness. My eyes had apparently been on vacation in san padro when they should have been pupil-deep in eyesocket discovering the wonders of the backside of my eyelids. I wanted to see, but at the same time, I didn't want to see what was around me. Generally in movies the victims always see the killer right before the face gets torn off, or stomach impaled, or genatalia get violated and raped... The last part didn't exactly sound too unappealing seeing as how I hadn't had any kind of real action in a while. Things could potentially work themselves out. My rapist ties me up, has her way with me. I feebly wimper and cry; not with tears of fear, but of happiness... for my penis. Maybe she'll be a pianist! Wordplay is fun...
I leaned over to my side and turned on the light on the nightstand. No rapist, no axe murderer, not even a friendly handshake. How disapointing, I was all hot and bothered for nothing.
Hot?
I put two and two together and realized I might have been hasty on my presupposition of nightmare and erotism. False alarm, sent back the troops, the air conditioner was just not working.
"I guess it's a good thing I didn't take off all my clothes and go out fighting in a fiery blaze of glory..." I sighed.
Despite the fact that I was indeed alone in the room, I still couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, something... out of place. I surveyed the rest of the room. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, or at least I didn't think anything had changed, but I decided to investigate things a little more thouroughly. Okay let's see here, bed, sheets, pillows... Everything checked out for the most part. No signs of anything out of the ordinary, well, anything more out of the ordinary it would seem.
Scratch that. There was one thing different. Looking away from the light, I gazed at shadows on the wall. Generally the shadows include the bed, the lamp, myself, and the occasional dog, duck, or abraham lincoln.
My perfect attendance had bee ruined. It seems as though I had lost my shadow.

Now what the hell am I supposed to do?
I stared at the wall for a few minutes letting everything sink in. Apparently I was no longer the ratiation intercepting opaque object that I used to be. I put my hads up in the air, waved them around like I just didn't care but still didn't see anything. Apathy apparently doesn't work in situations such as this.
Just then I noticed that I did in fact miss something. There was a small shadow in the general proximity of where minshould have been. I looked down beside me to find my ideal rapist: a small green rubber dinosaur. What the hell?
"I need a cup of coffee," I said aloud.
I had a real bad habit of talking to myself. I think it stems back from not having too many friends as a kid, but realistically it's probably just something random in me. I never was one to believe all that psycho-babble hoo-hah.
While the coffee brewed, I took care of some post-investigating procedure. With way too much thinking time on your hands you tend to come up with procedures for all kinds of specific situations. Of course, i didn't have one specifically for losing my shadow, but, I did have one for solving pseudo-murder mysteries. You never really know when something like this is going to happen and you got to be ready to point fingers and exclaim, "...it was Colonel Mustard with the Q-tip in the water closet!"
First I splashed some water on my face and then brushed my teeth; pretty ordinary stuff. I tend to do things in life in order from least fun to most fun. That way you end up leaving things on a high note. The morning routine high note was urinating. I sometimes make up pretend scenarious while I'm urinating. mostly it's just the usual "there's a fire on 5th and Main, and you're the only one that can put it out!!"
It's the simple pleasures in life...
Today however I just couldn't bring myself to put out that pesky fire. I mean, don't get me wrong, I peed so much that I thought that there might have been a water shortage somewhere in New Mexico, but without my shadow I couldn't start the fire. My mindwasn't running its usual course. Seems like the little green bastard knew something I didn't.
I scooped him up from the bed and carried him to the kitchen table. What a weird couple we made. It's a good thing no one saw me. I set him down on the table and sat on the opposite end so I could have a good look at him.
After about an hour and three cups of coffee later, I came to a few key observations. The first observation was that 3 cups of coffee in the span of one hour can really fill up the bladder, so I took care of that. Reports of neighborhood fires were still non-existent. The next, was that what I had here was a two inch tall Apatosaurus, which pop culturally would be called a Brontosaurus, it was hunter green and rubber. Other than that, I couldn’t make out any distinguishing features so I just decided to leave it at that.
My mind started to wander. I thought that if Gumby and Pokey had sexual relations with each other and somewhere they spliced in some dinosaur genes that it would look something like that. That would be a crazy movie. At the end of the movie the hideous beast would go up to Dr. Randall and exclaim, “Why did you do this to me?” and the doctor would just say something like, “Because I made a bet…” Of course this plotline wouldn’t hold up in theaters but for me it was just fine; under budget and ideal for the target audience.

---------------------------------------------

I woke up to the deafening roar of a ferocious beast. Think fast, what was the last thing I remembered? I was sitting at my round glass-topped table with a cup of coffee and a green rubber dinosaur. Wait, could that sound have come from the dinosaur? I stared at it with the utmost intensity but to my dissatisfaction nothing happened. No blood curdling bellow occurred; not even a small sneeze. I was about to give up all hope but then I heard it again, this time though it seemed farther away and deep within the earth. Or was it in me? I suddenly realized that I had not eaten anything for my daily meal and quickly solved the mystery.
There I go again creating weird situations; maybe I just needed something to eat. First though, I had to take care of some pre-eating procedure which meant I had to take a shower.
Unless a woman is either living or married to a man, I don’t think they realized how fast it really takes us to take a shower. It takes me exactly two minutes and 34 seconds. I timed myself for a week out of sheer boredom and sure enough I had this showering thing down to an art. First I would splash on a thin layer of water just to get wet, Then, I would lather up my body with soap while getting my hair wet and then while washing off my body I would tilt my head back far enough not to get in the water so I could shampoo it, but to where my body would rinse itself off in the shower stream. Wash the shampoo from the hair, and all you have to do is dry yourself off and you my friend, are done. Of course, there are times when this perfectly tuned cleaning machine falters and I end up spending half my day in the shower. I have a bad habit of falling asleep in the shower. In a way it’s almost more comfortable standing upright with warm water splashing on you then laying cozy in your bed. At least that way you can have an easy cleanup if you have a wet dream, but that’s neither here nor there so I guess we’ll move on…
I picked out a pair of blue jeans and a white cotton shirt. It’s not like I was trying to impress the little guy so I thought I would dress down for his convenience.
“What do you feel like having,” I asked my miniature friend.
Silence only meant “I’ll have what you’re having…” so I made us some eggs, sunny side-up, hash browns and some toast. He didn’t seem very hungry so I ended up eating his portion. Poor little thing, I thought he would have been hungry after doing nothing all morning and hiding secrets from me. “Secrets don’t make friends,” people used to say when I was a kid. What do kids know? They live they’re simple little lives and eat paste all day long. If it was up to me, I would leave small traces of arsenic in the paste so that the dumber kids would weed themselves out of society. Sure the “just-smart-enough” kids would be ridden with brain damage, but that’s a risk I’m willing to take.
Small talk was never anywhere close to an area of expertise, but I figure awkward conversation was a least a little move civil than awkward silence.
“So how are the wife and kids?”
“Oh, they’re great! Little Suzie just started eating solid stalk greens and me and the misses are just so proud. Pretty soon she’ll be able to scavenge for herself. They just grow up so fast don’t they.”
"Yeah, they sure do, but at least with them out of the house you can take up golfing like you always wanted.”
“You know, I almost forgot about that. Uncle Louie just sent over his old putters and I’ve been dying to try them out. Steve in accounting will be so jealous.”
“That is, if you can hold the club ya’ opposable thumb-less bastard.”
I chuckled to myself, “Too bad small rubber dinosaurs can’t talk.”
The clock on the kitchen counter said 11:45. It was cloudy outside and the fact that it was Saturday didn’t rouse any excitement to get out so I decided to curl up on the sofa with the new Murakami book with Beethoven’s Sonata 32 playing in the background. I saw no use in worrying my head off over the current situation so I just didn’t. Simple as that. Things tend to just work themselves out, and I’m pretty sure nothing I did would change my current predicament, or at least not without some kind of information.
I got a little too comfortable and ended up falling asleep and was soon woken up by a loud knocking on my door. I certainly wasn’t expecting anyone, so I first just played it off as my imagination. A louder more dedicated knocked followed the first set of knocks and then I knew that this was happening in the real world.

The End of Another Bad Idea…

     The night was an unforgiving mistress. I kept on periodically waking up all night long. At least I felt slightly rested. I look at my cell phone next to me. 7:45, fifteen minutes until I have to actually get up.
     I start to hear a slow tapping on the roof and I can only imagine that this cannot be good news. Rain starts to fall hard. Real hard. I contemplate if whether or not my small car is a suitable vessel worthy of sea exploration. Perhaps if I put on some goulashes, get out, and tie some tree stalks to the sides of the car I can get her afloatin’ and head off wherever the sea will take me. The sea seems like a more ideal unforgiving mistress than the night. Then again the night will always be following me. It’ll be like I never divorced her and she’ll be following me around forever. Actually now that I think about it, a mistress is someone you see on the side, so if both of those are my mistress then what am I married to in the first place? Oh yeah I forgot… bad luck.
     The rain finally lets up. I prepare myself for my last ditch effort to salvage my new life. I change into a red t-shirt, jeans, and a black hoodie; grab my bag; and then get out of my car. The sun is up and that is definitely a plus, but there are a couple of deep pools around my car. I nimbly maneuver around the puddles and then jump down the ledge at the end of the lot. I hastily start unbuttoning my jeans with some difficultly due to the fact that I really have to pee. The streaming urine coming out of my penis helps to make the dirt around my feet look even more like pudding. I was never a big fan of pudding, mainly because it’s almost a little too similar to shit. I’m mean sure it doesn’t smell or taste like shit, but aesthetics is still something I look for when it comes to food. Imagine my problem with mayonnaise…
     Finished with my current urethral endeavor, I start to move on to the task of brushing my teeth, but before I can reach into my bag I hear a voice from above me.
“Hey man, what’s up?”
Slightly surprised I look up to see a black man, probably in his late thirties looming above me. He’s wearing some black athletic pants and a white shirt.
     “Oh, hey man…”
     “It sure was raining a lot this morning, wasn’t it?”
     I’m starting to think maybe he’s just in for some random conversation, but why in at the edge in the middle of the parking lot for all places? I should probably keep things to a minimum so that he doesn’t think I’m sleeping in my car and also to seem uninteresting as to make him end the conversation soon.
     “Oh. Yeah. I hope it won’t be like this all day.”
     “Actually I think it’s supposed to start raining again soon. Wanna come on up to my apartment to get out of the rain?”
     Crap, I hope he doesn’t think I’m homeless. I mean I know I am, but still… The more people in the area that know this, the greater the probability will be that I’ll get booted out sooner than expected. Trying not to add to the validity of my own suspicions I try to just reply as polite as possible.
     “Um, no thanks man; I’m actually about to head to a job interview thing over on the west side of town, but thanks anyway…”
     “Oh okay, that’s cool.”
     He starts turning around to walk off, but then stops after a few steps and walks toward me again. Thinking the conversation was over I also had turned around to look in my bag but seeing him moving toward me out of the corner of my eye led me to react and look towards him again.
     “Are you gay?”
     Dammit, why me?
     “Uh, no man… I’m sorry.”
     “Oh, okay.”
     He starts walking away and I keep my eyes on him till he leaves the area. Got to stay on my guard, who knows what kind of creepy things could happen when I’m not looking.
     I groan to myself and then get back to work. Finishing with a record time of fifteen minutes and a rather awkward interaction later, I’m ready to head on out.

     I can’t really tell whether it’s the bus or I that is late, but either way I leave from the bus stop later than expected. The ride through town is a rather enjoyable one for the most part. Winter always seems to make the trees stand out more on these kinds of excursions. At first I think it’s due to the wind blowing more during the winter season, but the more I thought about it, it seems to really make little different which season it was. I’m sure it mainly stems from the fact that it’s cold. Since the temperature is low, it’s even more uncomfortable when the wind blows. By noticing this, you then notice how the wind affects other things as well. Maybe that’s just me though…

Semantics…

     In college, Thursday meant the end of the week for me generally. I liked my weekends like I liked my woman; long and easy. Well, only one of those accurately portrays the women preference but you can’t have a saying like that with only one adjective. That would be like Bert without Ernie, Peanut Butter without Jelly…
     The motto couldn’t be far from the truth though in reality. I had, and actually still have, the bad habit of acting relatively stupid when I get nervous. I wanted people to consider me stupid/funny and not uninteresting; hence mottos such as this were created.
     Now that I think about it, I’m not all that undesirable. I graduated from college after seven long years with eight languages under my belt. If you asked any of the girls that I dated while in college what my major was, they would all give you different answers. Telling people I was a linguistics major only ended with an “Oh, that’s neat…” comment but never anything else. On the other hand, if you told them something like Premed or Microeconomics you would be in their pants faster then you could say Rohypnol.
     During my third year, I regrettable enrolled in General Physics. Friends would tell me what an easy time they had with the class and I figured that that particular semester should be an easy one. How was I supposed to know that the professor would decide to end his tenure at the last minute? Apparently the fact that he was caught boning down with a freshman had nothing to do with his decision. I’m thinking that the fact that the freshman was a male student was the clincher.
     The new teacher loved physics a little too much, and somehow I always became the human factor/participant when it came to dangerous experimentation. The thing about this teacher was he wanted everyone to know the original intent behind what not to do. If Nikola Tesla found out that alternating current was not to be used on oneself whilst in a pool of water, then our class had to concurrently find out… the hard way. Two years ago I read an article about how due to a chemical imbalance a certain teacher at my old college had to quit teaching physics.
     The defining moment for this class though, was the moment I met Judy. We were partners in an experiment to show the relationship between time and momentum in inelastic collisions. The lab consisted of me running as fast as I could into her while she did the same, only she got to be in a golf cart. Girls have it so easy sometimes.
     When I eventually woke up I found my self lying in a pool of what appeared to be my own urine and my head on an angels lap.
     “Geez guy, you really got messed up on that one.”
     “Did I just get hit by a cow?”
     “No, just a golf cart, but those things are pretty similar,” she snickered.
     “Where are we?” I asked.
     “Um, I think in parking lot B. Something about this not technically being on campus so this was the best legal spot for the lab.”
     My brain felt like it was made out of yogurt.
     “Why do we have to do stupid things like this all the time?”
     “Eh, I kind of like it when we do stupid stuff like this. There’s something magical about the whole “human involvement” factor when it comes to the scientific process.”
     “Wow,” I said as I held my rib, “who knew that painful and magical were synonymous. Do you really believe that?”
     “Not really, I just thought it was freaking hilarious when I nailed you going twenty-three miles per hours in your leg benders.”
     “Leg-benders?”
     She laughed really hard and smiled. “It’s just another name you call your knees silly.”

Misdirection and a side of coleslaw…

     “As a valued employee, what do you think you could bring to us here at Bob’s Fried Chicken Shack?”
     How does one gauge his or her response to such a question presented in such a manner? Should the answer be based on abilities alone or perhaps on physical prowess? If the answer is too short then the inability to communicate will be known. On the other hand, if the answer is too long, then the employer might experience a sense of inferiority and you will be deemed “over-qualified”.
     I made this mistake previously while applying at a local hospital. The position was the graveyard shift concerning historical data entry. My answer was apparently too long. An hour of my life was wasted. I died a little bit more inside; minus 5 confidence points. Moving on…
     I clear my throat a bit and respond, “I hope to bring a positive and attentive work attitude to this established environment and I can only pray that my best can be sufficient for the tasks and tribulations ahead of me.”
     The person in front of me is somewhere in his early twenties, possibly still in his late teens. He seems to be looking at his notes, but clearly is just stalling for time to have a sort of air about him. His breath is crusty and makes me think of old fillings. We’re sitting in one of the booths toward the back. The place reminds me of the Seventies. Brown, green, yellow, and orange cover everything in the joint. If it wasn’t for the overpowering smell of chicken, I’d think of was in some kind of bad porno flick. Hmm, maybe the smell only intensifies the feeling. All I'd have to do is wait for a man to walk up to me and offer to fix my cable.
     “No thanks, as you can see I just got out of the shower and besides, I just don’t roll that way…” I mutter to myself.
     “Excuse me, did you just say something?”
     Crap, that one was a little too loud.
     “No sir, ahem… I was just clearing my throat and I didn’t want to be rude…”
     “Oh, well then, everything seems to be in order.”
     He shuffles his all two papers.
     “The duties for the position are to deal with customers, take their orders, and then go to the bins and process their meals. Go ahead and come in on Thursday and we’ll have a training schedule ready for you.”
     He stands up.
     “Welcome aboard.”
     I give him a warm smile, shake his hand and then walk through the doors out to the parking lot.

     Overtime you get used to these sorts of interviews. Everyone goes through a couple of jobs before finding the one you get suckered into finally for the rest of your life. Me? I guess you could say I’m still looking, but not really looking too hard…
     I’ve had exactly one hundred twenty-three interviews in the last three years. Twenty-three of those interviews ended with a “we’ll call you in a couple of days if we do need the position filled” or an “I’m sorry, you just aren’t what we’re looking for”. Oh yeah, and there’s also the business about the over-qualification jazz. Ninety-nine of the interviews ended with, well, me getting the job. You’re probably thinking that only accounts for one hundred and twenty-two interviews. You’re right. One of the interviews ended with the death of the store manager. Don’t worry, I didn’t kill him; funny story…

     During that interview, the man had a habit of talking to me with his mouth full. I can only imagine that he was absent the day they taught how to conduct interviews in Junior High. He popped a corn nut into his mouth and then mid sentence started choking. We were in the back of this electronics store and no one was around to save him so it seemed it was all up to me. I had never had any training for that sort of thing so I first tried to give him the Heimlich maneuver. When that didn’t work I thought that if I applied more pressure it would help. I drop kicked him; at least that’s what the official report says. I thought it would seriously work. Fortunately the security camera caught the whole incident on tape so there was substantial evidence that homicide was not the cause of death. After everything was straightened out at the police station I learned that if you slip the detective fifty bucks, then he’ll actually give you copies of any surveillance material they’ve already had a look at. I’ve got the tape to this day sitting on top of my coffee table.

     I walk over to my car and lean on the door. I drive a Dodge Stratus. I know, I know. I’ve heard them all before… I start digging into my pocket for my last pack of cigarettes. I quit today, or at least I think I quit today. I open the pack and count seven more cigarettes.
     “Let’s see how long these last,” I chuckle to myself.
     I take one out of the pack; twirl it around once between my pointer and middle finger and on the last half of the rotation slip the thing into my mouth. When lit, it feels like heaven. I’m sure when their gone it’ll feel like hell. I take a long drag and think about Bob and his chicken shack. My interview had gone exactly as I had planned. Take for example my response to my interviewer’s last question. I first start out with what he wants to hear, that I’m a hard and dedicated worker, but then add that the piece of crap shack that he manages is an “established environment”. The part I left out was the part that establishes it as a health violation with a part-time drug trafficking business in the parking lot. Tack on a “pray” and reference to “tribulations” and I automatically please the Christian demographic.
     I didn’t always have this formula. Most of the interviews that went bad were mainly the ones during the first year. You just don’t find yourself in an interview position very often, and if you do it’s never in bulk to the point where you need to remember what you exactly did the last time. Usually you try a couple of times and then eventually get hired and then never have to take an interview until you leave that job which could be months or even years. For me though, it’s just about the interview. You find out what works and then eventually it just becomes mechanical.
     It’s too bad for good ol’ Bob though. I won’t be going in on Thursday for my training schedule. I actually already have a job. I’ve had it for the past five years. I work freelance translating books for publishers. I just sit in my office waiting for the FedEx guy to knock on my door, hand me a package and then translate the hell out of it until the next batch comes in. Sometimes the companies vary it up and send representatives or authors over when they have specific needs for the book or whatever else they can make up. Obsessive compulsive is more like it. I enjoy the work for the most part, but it’s nothing to write home about. That is, unless what I wrote home about needed to be translates into French, or Latin, or Japanese or whatever else you could possibly force me to do.
     Why the interviews then? Two years after I started the job I got bored. I stepped out of my office and went down the road a few blocks to a coffee shop I had never been to. It was a new business and it looked like it was its first day open. I remember that I stepped up to the counter and asked for a coffee.
     The man asked if he could help me with anything else and all of a sudden my mouth vomited out the words, “Are you guys hiring?”
     The next thing I knew I was filling out applications and being led into the backroom for an interview. Thirty minutes later I had a new job and by the time I realized it a cold cup of coffee. I couldn’t believe at what I had just done, but at the same time I didn’t have the heart to tell the guy that I wasn’t serious. After that day, whenever I was finished with all my work, I would go out and look for help wanted signs. It’s just something to do. I’m actually the type of guy that’s really shy and lack any kind of real confidence. It just sort of became this game. Victimless crimes are what I think of them as. Over the last three years, I’ve been hired by ninety-nine companies and not once have I gone in on a Thursday for a training schedule.

Digital Sunshine, Analog Melancholy...

     There's a unique feeling you can get from sitting at a computer screen at 2:23 in the morning. It is not the happiest, nor does it give one the dejected feeling of detachement. It is a state of being set apart from the real world and can only be experienced around 2:23 in the morning.
     I'm huddled around the warmth of the computer screen, its refreshing glow exciting every nerve in my ocular cavity, and I can't say I've felt more alive. How can this feeling possibly take place in this one place out of all the other places one should hope to experience this sensation? Why not a mountain top; or on a sandy beach; or even sitting on a bench watching men, women, and children, hoping to get just a glance at subtleties only a personal companion might notice? There's something about the silence of the night accompanied by the low hum of the heatsink that sets the heart ablaze and the mind wandering off the predefined staff into a melodic groove that is not a contraditory tune but one of a complimentory nature.
     The coffee next to me is a bit on the cold side and is no longer desirable enough for me to even think of drinking. I had barely made it moments earlier, but I can only imagine the short time my attention was occupied was enough for the effect of this feeling to dissipate the warmth from my mug. This ever consuming feeling pains me the more I am in contact with it, which could be the reason there is so much significance to 2:23 in the morning.
     Building up to this moment in time is a zealous pilgrimage only to reach its fervent climax, and to then be dropped swiftly into an aperture of despondency.
     Speaking of which, a glance at the clock next to me points out that it is now 2:28. How long have I been abscent from this warmth? When did my thoughts change? Maybe this isn't a good time. I quickly erase my email to her and go to bed...

A room for Sleepy McSleeperton...

     I find myself sitting on what appears to be a mid-sized brown faux suede couch. At least I think its faux suede. Maybe it is in fact real, but seeing as how I in no way am a fabric fabricator of the sort, it is nowhere in my capacity to know for sure.
     What I do know, is that there is a rather obese cat napping right next to me. The word that comes to mind is sassy. Somehow in my mind, fat and sassy just seem to fit perfectly together, as if they were one in the same with meaning. Its brownish coat reminds me of an adolescent trying to grow facial hair for the first time. Let me explain what I mean, and please tell me if this is a stretch for a definition based on tangents alone. Most young men, roughly around 14-16, sometimes for the rest of their lives, have problems growing facial hair. That problem being it grows in patches. Hair patches for the teen, varying color patches for the cat... Ok, maybe that one was a little too out there...
     The point I'm trying to make here, is that it is not a solid color, but consisting of various similiar colors around the hue of brown.