Forty-Fifth Paradox Writing

Note: Words in quotes are  said either by the members of Flatfoot 56, Project 86, or the fans at a recent concert in Portland, OR. Words in italics are my thoughts. Fifty percent of them should be read with sarcasm.  

One of these days I’m gonna raise a kid just like this guy did, and take her to Project 86 concerts. She’s guaranteed to have amazing taste in music and serious angst by age six. No worries though, I’ll frolic with her to Flatfoot 56 to balance everything out.

“If you don’t leave here with bruises, bloodied bodies, and a piece of your skull on the concert floor, something’s wrong.”  

Circle pit!?

“Put your arm around the person next to you, and girls, if a guy tries to cop a feel, deck him in the face.”

Not only does he play bagpipes, but he gets bonus points for wearing a kilt.

“Ninth reason why we love our fans: some of them love songs off our first album even though we never play them.”

Oo…fog machines.

“We love you!” “Run!”

Somebody should name their band To Be Announced, or TBA for short. Really.

“We regularly post on Facebook and other evil social-networking sites.”  

Is that flowers he has tattooed on his arm? Does that say: ‘I’m sensitive’? Must be, I think he’s married.

“Hopah!”

Like all hospital waiting rooms, the staff had it painted a soft yellow, a comforting color for visitors inside. Cushy couches lined every wall, and divided the room in half, in case the visitors decided to war over their divided territory. Even at eight o’ clock at night a few visitors chattered away, not allowing the 2 ft lampshades a bit of rest. The lampshades continued to dampen the light, despite the fact that it hurt their eyes, eyes that peaked out from every tiny hole in the lampshades’ fabric. A child’s toy sat in boredom on one couch-side table; no child had played with it in months. Wisely the hospital had barred young visitors from this wing of the hospital, knowing how little children like to carry diseases in their cotton-lined pockets.

Any visitor sitting on the couches long enough would notice how strange the designer’s tastes were. White contact lens shaped lamps hanged from the ceiling, with black pupils at the bottom watching the visitor’s every move. Wooden shelves too narrow to hold books branched out from the far wall. Perhaps the decorator intended them to be windows, only to realize this wall only opened to the inside of the building, not the outside.

A desk and a door kept guard over the intensive care unit, scrutinizing each and every visitor that came their way. A slight groan in their wooden bodies indicated a yes, while two said  no. When a visitor didn’t past the unspoken test, the door would fail to open when a visitor pulled on his handle. By the time the visitor arrived with hospital help, the door would have already sent messages through the floor tiles to all the other doors to keep alert. So far no incidents had occurred to warrant summoning floor-wet signs in the closet, but the waiting door room and desk dutifully kept on watching. Two days before they had celebrated their two month anniversary, though no other piece of furniture could figure out what they had done two months earlier to warrant such an occasion.

A separate room had a television, a vending machine, and several more tables. The room was deceptively dark, because no one ever turned the lights on. Unsuspecting visitors would suppose the room to be quiet, when in fact the television seemed permanently set between two channels: one with 24 hour news casts in English, and the other with telenovas in Español. Two person tables kept each other company, still trying to both learn English and Spanish. (Both tables had been made in China, and they only understood Mandarin.) Newspapers kept the tables warm, and entertained visitors with the news when they dared.  Meanwhile the individually wrapped junk food in the vending machine watched the visitors nervously. They always hated whenever one visitor decided to purchase one of them, but no more than they hated being twisted by the coils and cruelly dropped to the dispenser without a thought. The junk food packages didn’t dare contemplate what awaited them on the other side of the glass.

Some spouses squabble over life-insurance, others cash and jewels. Oddly, we had those all worked out. We had more dire issues to deal with in our marriage. I had to take drastic measures; I didn’t have time to see a marriage counselor.

I tried running upstairs to quell my rage. Over and over again I washed my hands, trying to think about happier things: pink roses on our first date, warmth in our first kiss. Still, all I could think about was how he had insulted my taste.

And so I went down to the kitchen where he washed the dishes, the very fine china he had insisted eating fast food with. I grabbed one of the steak knives he had just washed, turned it in my hand, and watched him die. He shouldn’t have insulted my taste in tacos.

“I’m sorry Mr. Death, but Penny Jacobs isn’t in that room anymore.” Her eyes, brimming with innocence, stared back at his empty ones.

“Then who is?” Mr. Death sighed, smoothing his pale hair back. He could feel in his hands where this headed.

The nurse glanced at the open binder on her desk. “Pam Jacobs.  Completely different person Penny’s family says.”

Mr. Death, or Al, as he preferred to be called, rubbed his face wearily. (Angel O. Death tended to give people the wrong impression.) “You’re absolutely sure?”

The nurse twirled a blonde curl in her hand. “Absolutely.”

“Alright.” She half expected him to sigh in defeat, but he almost looked relieved. “You said there was somebody I should see in room 50?”

She flipped through her notebook, sliding her finger down to the appropriate name. “Yep, that’s the one.”

“Thank you.” As Al left, the nurse swore she saw his shadow linger longer than the others.

Waiting until Angel O. Death vanished around the corner, the nurse headed to “Pam” Jacobs room. The nurse sat in the chair next to the hospital bed and whispered “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but your husband was right.’

They covered their eyes in the bright sunlight, forgetting how such light could sting after so much darkness. Every color, every smell, every sound overwhelmed their senses, but they didn’t dare go back. Five long months the two of them had spent in isolation cells, and the wash of faces and bodies shattered them to the core. Still, they held hands, so they would not be separated again.

Five months of watching personality cult propaganda, five months of pacing around their cells, five months of losing time. Now time was theirs. Now the world was theirs. As for their souls, they had forfeited those long ago to the one Person the government could confiscate them from.

“I think we should’ve turned right three palm trees ago.” The sand rustled along the hooves, and two of the riders tightened the cloths covering their mouths.

“Three, huh.”

“Yeah, three. That one by that mountain.”

“You call that a mountain? That was more like a foothill!”

“Um…I think my cammel needs to pee.”

The others glanced at him, their turbans billowing in the dessert wind. Still, they didn’t stop just yet.

One sighed, the narrow band of gold circling his turban glinting in the moonlight. “I suppose he didn’t need to when we were at that oasis not to long ago.”

“Not at all.” The second answered, scrutinizing his robes of fine scarlet while his skin tried to match their hue.

“Hm, well, we could always try the next one.” The third added optimistically, trying to juggle his star chart and his looking glass.

“I’m sure there won’t be one for another few days. You should’ve checked your camel while you had the chance.”

“I did! I swear, no signs at all of any… potential leakage.”

“You sure we couldn’t just take a break? I’m feeling a little tired myself.”

“We can’t. That camel will be doing its business until the moon wanes at this rate. We’re already late.”

“Oh come on. That child has waited for over a year now, it’s not like he’s still waiting in some manger for our gifts.”

“I don’t know..this myrrh might spoil, or that frankincense. It’s not like gold, you know.”

“Hey Dad?” She bobbed on her heels, the curls in her pigtails bouncing. Her small pink hands grasped onto the corner of his armchair as she leaned towards him.

“Yes Princess? He glanced down through the narrow passage between the newspaper and his face.

“Would you pray for me?”

The newspaper sank a little, crackling slightly as it wrinkled in his hands. “What’s wrong?”

Princess beamed, her curls bouncing a second time. “Oh, nothing’s wrong Daddy.”

“Oh?”

“Mommy says that when two or more people pray, God’s with ‘em.”

“Mm-hm.” One of his eyebrows stretched to the ceiling knowingly. “And what are you praying for?”

“A pony.”

“A pony? But Princess….”

“Would you please pray for me? Pretty please?”

“Of course. But don’t get mad at me if God says to wait.”

I apologize for the delay of this reply. It seems this year, it’s a bit harder to spread the Christmas cheer. You see Lucy, it’s only people like you who keep the spirit of the season going. What, with all the wars, diseases, and grumbling complaints, it’s a wonder that people smile on Christmas day anymore than the other 364 days in a year.

I’m afraid I need your help, Lucy. According to news reporters, a notoriously bad person sneaked into my toy shop. He then proceeded to pretend to be me, and nearly answered a letter to a girl much like yourself. Thankfully, we caught him before he could send the letter out. Unfortunately, many people have overreacted to this bad situation, and made it even more tragic. Now the post office won’t deliver the letters to the North Pole.

Lucy, I need you to continue doing nice things instead of naughty things. I need you to be cheerful year round, but especially when it’s close to Christmas. Maybe then people will regain some hope in the human race, and I can recieve your letters and answer them more easily. We can only hope.

Faithfully yours,

Santa.

Dear Camelback High School Librarian,

Enclosed in this package is two long overdue books. Hopefully those poor bird-watchers didn’t miss them. It’s too bad that I packed them away before I could use them for my report. To this day, I’m still not sure if my teacher noticed or not when I gave my presentation in class.

I’m pretty sure though, if she’s still around, that Ms. Whatever-Her-Name-Was has an exact count of how many days of my two cents that I owe. Hopefully this check covers it all (knowing her, the rates may have changed.) May that likely retired librarian sleep peacefully at night from now on. If she hasn’t retired, allow me to apologize to any students under her jurisdiction.

Yours Truly,

A student from the class of ‘58

The restraining order has been sitting in my wallet so long, I think the two of them have melded together. I should burn it. He’s dead. That man can’t come near me once they’ve locked him in his casket.

I should frame it. Any time I should begin to forget what he did, I’ll glance up and see it through the glass. Even when the children ask me questions, I’ll be able to tell them the truth. Even when I begin to go soft, he can’t hurt me again.

Perhaps I should file it away, and try to forget it ever happened. This way no one else would ever forget, but I could, at least for a little while.