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!”

The sky is falling!

Or actually, the sky fell.

Yesterday it fell through my ceiling,

Landing square on my slug bug.

Ice from an airplane experts said.

I say the sky’s playing games with me,

And he never said no tag-backs.

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.’

The phone rang again. Patterson did his best to ignore it, preferring to listen to the whir of his fan. It did next to nothing about the heat, but the fan  did have its useful purposes.

He could hear his secretary shuffling around her desk. She only did that when she felt anxious. Let her be anxious, Patterson thought idly. What else did he pay her for anyway, than to worry about things for him?

At last, Kelsey couldn’t stand it any more. She phoned his line, and Patterson could see her gripping the phone through the frosted glass. Patterson quirked his head to the side, watching her silhouette. It’s not like he had any other sort of entertainment here. He wondered if the lighting would allow her to see him through the glass. Maybe someday he would have to have her schedule an installation of some one-way mirrors. Then Patterson wouldn’t feel boredom as constantly as he did now.

Her silhouette grew shrank in size as she approached the door, finally knocking on the frosted glass rather lightly. Patterson let her stew a bit longer before he called out with a sigh “What is it, Kelsey?”

“You have a phone call, sir.”

“From who?”

She glanced at him, then glanced at the phone, and sighed. “Maybe you should just talk to him.”

Patterson blinked, picking up his phone. “Hello?”

The voice on the other line took a moment to respond. For a moment Patterson considered pulling his anti-telemarketer tricks, but in the end he decided to entertain the offer. Unfortunately, the person on the other line didn’t have the offer he expected, in fact, this person didn’t even work as a telemarketer.

“Detective Patterson?” The voice asked quietly; he sounded both elderly and mild. He seemed the kind of person opposite the type that Patterson usually dealt with.

“What do you want?” Patterson asked tiredly.

“Sorry to bother you, but I’m Pastor Gabe…”

Pastor Gabe? Patterson hadn’t heard from one of those in a while. What did he do this time? Did he forget to pay his taxes? Did he take the tag off his mattress? “I’m afraid I can’t help you…” His hand reached to hang up the call but the pastor’s voice interrupted him.

“But, Detective Patterson, I could use your help.”

“Look, I’m not sure how much help I can be to you.”

The pastor continued undaunted. “We’re starting a prison ministry next week and–”

Patterson failed to hear the rest of the man’s request. The words ‘prison’ and ‘ministry’ headed towards one another too quickly, collided in in his mind and refused to mingle peacefully. Finally, after using the patterns in the window as inkblots, Patterson resumed conversation. “Uh, sure I guess.”

Pastor Gabe sounded surprised, and relieved. “Great! See you Tuesday at three.”

“Wait…what? Where?”

The pastor responded with a bit of a sigh in his voice. “Columbia River Correctional Facility, in the lobby. See you then.” He hung up.

Patterson stared at the receiver in his hands, and asked to no one in particular “What the hell have I got myself into this time?”

Every ring resounds like a drum roll,

as the receiver rubs against my cheek like a noose.

When the drum roll stops,

I hope to hear, not a present voice,

but a past voice, one that’s been recorded

between 5 and 20 seconds,

with  a brief message with an even briefer excuse,

asking for my name and phone number.

I hope you don’t actually answer with a hello,

with suppressed surprise.

In fact I hope this number has been mysteriously disconnected,

saving me from a potential conversation.

Dear Friends and Family,

We’d like to invite you to our wedding, but first we’d like to invite you to help pay for it. We don’t want your money, but we’d like your pop cans. You see, we’d like to turn in about 400,000 pop cans by July so we can pay for the ceremony. Hopefully we’ll see you on the 31st!

The future Geyers.

http://weddingcans.com./

PS: It’s green!

The gun cocked as he raised it toward her. “Give me your money.” His eyes stared at her own eyes firmly, holding an empty sack in his hands.

The room stood empty, everyone else had fled the moment the gun came out. Unfortunately, the barista had to earn her wages, and so she stayed. “No.” She drummed one set of fingers on the counter, while she hid the other set from view.

“Don’t make me shoot.” His eyes narrowed, as sweat began to trickle down his left temple.

“Don’t make me.” Her hidden hand pulled out her own gun, which she used to mirror his actions.

His gun thudded to the floor as his feet swept through the door as fast as they could take him.

She set down the gun and picked up the phone, dialing the police. With a unshaken voice she told the dispatcher the details of her latest adventure. “You might want to arrest this guy before I have to use my Christmas present on him. I’d hate to have to waste this ammo.”

She has a photo album enshrining

her conquests over the past four seasons.

Each photo captures

brass players, drummers, pit people,

even woodwind players

she’s had on her arm.

In total,

they count for half the people in the ensemble.

In the front cover rests a picture she’s torn in half,

one side, unmarked, has her in her pristine uniform,

the other, with devil horns and a pitch fork inscribed in sharpie,

All worn by the drum major she despises,

the one who spread a rumor about her

and the boy in the color guard,

who’s orientation everyone questions.