dreadcrumbs

"Paradox by Proxy"

For the third time this week, my housemate flings the front door of the house open and collapses noisily onto the living room floor. I look up from the book I was supposed to have read for class a week ago to see if he's bleeding or anything. He isn't.
Briefly debating an attempt to leave the room before he says anything, I settle on pretending to be invisible and turn back to my book.
Seconds later there is a dramatic groan from the floor and I ignore it.
"Dave," he calls. "Dave, you there? It...it's Jake."
I don't say anything. I am concentrating fiercely on the sentence that I've re-read three times since his Entrance.
He fumbles himself into an awkward crouch, and finds me sitting on the couch. To my chagrin, he happens to catch me looking in his direction.
"What day is it?" he asks.
I stare at him, trying desperately to convey the deep irritation of the soul I have since grade school reserved for paste-eaters.
"The date, Dave!" he sputters. "What is the date?"
"The thirtieth," I say, still staring.
He opens his mouth, and I hold up a finger.
"If you ask me what year it is," I say, "I will straight up punch you in the face."
He stands awkwardly and clears his throat, his eyes dart around the room briefly and then fix on me.
"In the face," I say again.
He stalks back toward the front door, stopping at the threshold.
"Tell me one thing?" he asks, not turning around.
"Fine," I say.
"Who is the president of these United States?" he asks.
I sigh. "It's Stalin, Jake," I say. "It has been for years."
His head drops.
"Then I'm too late," he whispers, and runs out the door.
I shake my head and turn back to my sentence. I have just enough time to read it again when the door to the second bedroom opens and Jake stumbles out, groggy with sleep.
"Was somebody here?" he asks, rubbing his eyes.
"You," I say. "Again."
He stops and looks at me. "Serious?" he asks.
I nod.
"Lame," he says, padding to the pantry in bare feet. "You tell him the president was Hitler again?"
"Stalin," I say. "He didn't take it well."
Jake shakes his head, almost ashamed, as he surveys the available breakfast cereals. "What a tool," he says.

"Arts and Crafts"

The mottled gray thing on the dinner plate was dotted with bits of what might have been poorly-treated kernels of corn.
It looked vaguely like a gingerbread man, but large. Bloated. Pregnant with something besides dough. Like a gingerbread man pie, baked out of something clearly inedible.
"This isn't dinner, I hope," I say to my wife who is busily doing something in the kitchen. Cleaning, probably, though I can't be sure.
The abrupt silence that follows makes me re-evaluate my words to see if they could possibly be taken in insult. I was trying to be funny, trying to lighten an already dark mood after my news about the cat. But what if the thing on the plate was dinner? I made the comment because I thought that was impossible, that this was a craft project or something, but....
"What exactly is that supposed to mean?" she asks, bustling back into the dining room, clearly irritated.
"Nothing," I say. "I just thought it was funny, because, well...I don't know...It's...uh...it's...not, though...right? Not food?"
She lets out an exasperated sigh and plops down in front of the abomination on the plate.
"Of course not," she says, leaning over the thing with a fork held edgewise.
"But why would you say that?" she asks. "Do I make you eat things like this?"
She was starting to get angry.
"No, I..." I start, holding up my hands.
"Do I make you eat anything?" she says, still hunched over the Gingerthing, drawing something on it, maybe. "You should be glad I make dinner at all. Ever."
"I am, I am," I say, trying to salvage the conversation. "I love everything you make. Let's um...let's just forget I said anything and start over."
"Fine," she says, sitting up, surveying her handywork.
I look over her shoulder. She's poked two holes into the "head" to serve as eyes, and crudely scratched "LIVE" across the chest.
"What is this?" I ask, careful to keep an upbeat tone.
"A golem," she says tightly, brushing a few crumbs off the chest with her hand. I edge forward for a closer look.
"Aren't they supposed to have...I don't know...like Hebrew letters on them or something?" I ask, realizing just as I've said it that it was the wrong thing to say.
She throws the fork down hard, and it skitters noisily across our hardwood floor, marking its path with a jagged tan line.
"Can't you just NOT criticize for once!? For once?" she shouts.
"No," I say. "I mean, I didn't mean...anything...it looks nice, really."
She drops her voice an octave, the way she does when she wants to mock me. "Isn't it supposed to have Hebrew on it," she says, then reverts back to her normal voice, albeit a bit more strident. "Do you think I know Hebrew!? Do I look like a rabbit to you?!"
It takes me a second to realize what she meant to say, and when I do, my mouth twists as I try to stifle approaching laughter.
She stares at me. "Don't you laugh," she says. "I swear I'll slap you if you laugh."
I can't keep it in, though, and with the first snort, she is true to her word and slaps me hard across the cheek.
There is a moment of silence as we stare at each other, interrupted suddenly by a muffled shriek from the dinner plate. As I turn to look at my wife's golem, the shrill noise sounds again, desperate, and then the Thing twitches slightly.
"It's moving," I whisper.
"All the noise probably woke the hamster up," she says.
I turn toward her. "The what?" I ask.
"The hamst..." she starts to repeat, and then stops herself, turning to me. "Don't you dare," she says.
"What?" I ask. "I'm not...what are you talking about?"
"Don't you dare criticize how I gave this life," she says, gathering up the squealing, twitching thing. "You're going to say it needed to be with magic, or kabbalah or something, aren't you?"
"I..." I say.
"Well I sealed a stunned hamster inside, and now its awake, and my golem is moving, and that means its animated, so you just SHUT YOUR MOUTH," she blurts, and stalks angrily out of the room.
I wait for a few seconds, and then call, "So what is for dinner, then?"
Somewhere in the house, I hear a door slam.

Five subtle ways to demonstrate your disapproval

...of Big Media's perpetuation of false standards of beauty

1. Create a "Comeliness Shrine" in your basement and populate it with heads taken from pretty people. Smirk at the grisly display often.
2. If male, wear spandex biking shorts and a bright-colored sleeveless top with the word "ADONIS" on it. If female, carry a naked barbie doll around and insist people talking to you address the doll.
3. Make disgusted little "feh" noises every time you see someone you think is attractive. Also sneer.
4. Get hard-to-miss implants in one or more body parts and afterwards sadly introduce yourself to everyone as "Evil's plaything"
5. If YOU are a pretty person, express solidarity with your ugly brothers and sisters by keeping your hands moist with the body fluid of your choice.

NOTE: I've heard these techniques also work when renegotiating union contracts, though your mileage may vary.

"Business Pitch"

Dave slides the glossy business plan across the table. The cover reads "XXX Technical College."
I look up at Dave, who is smiling a lot more than anyone should, really, at any time.
"A porn school?" I ask.
His smile tweaks a bit and I see a bit of red flush his cheeks.
"No, no, no," he says, letting out a coughing laugh. "I just haven't settled on the acronym yet. The three x's are a placeholder."
"Oh," I say, and flip open the document. It's the typical fare, lots of questionable justifications as to the necessity of the proposal, financial needs, and so on.
I sigh, idly turning pages but reading nothing.
"You can't really make money in education, you know," I say, and look up, apologetically. "Not really." "I agree," he says, and stands.
Walking over to the conference room door, Dave shuts it quietly and turns back to me.
"I want to say one word to you," he says. "Just one word."
"Okay," I say.
"Are you listening?" he asks.
"Um, yes," I say, and glance around the room to see if there is anyone else in the room he might have been talking to.
"Marrow," he says.
I stare at him, unsure what to say.
He tilts his head and smiles at me.
"You look lost," he says.
"Um, no," I say. "I just thought you were going to say 'Plastics'."
"What?" he asks, straightening up. "Why?"
"No reason," I say, and my eyes dart to the pale stick in his hand that I assumed was a dry erase marker. "So, uh...marrow. Wow."
"It's the future, Tom," he says. "A magical pudding to cure all the world's ills and make its masters rich."
"Here," he says, rifling in his pockets for something. "Let me show you."
He pulls out something that looks like a metal thumbscrew and sleeves the small bone he had been holding into it.
I clear my throat. "It's okay, Dave," I say. "I know what marrow is. Stem cells and all that, right?"
He looks disappointed, fingers poised on the butterfly screw. "But have you seen it, Tom? Have you seen the marrow?" he asks.
"No, but, I...look, Dave," I say. "What does this have to do with the school? Research or something?"
"Oh! Right!" he says, setting the bonescrew down.
He pulls the copy of the business plan in front of him and stares at the cover.
"The thing is," he says, "In the end, it's not so much a school, as a...um..."
"Skeleton farm?" I ask.
He stares at me, a half-smile frozen on his face.
"I...er...I was going to say 'tax dodge'," he says.
"That's good too," I say, standing. "But make the school a skeleton farm, and I'm in."

My Five Favorite Alexander Hamilton Tales

1. "The Whiskey Demon of Delaware"
2. "The Boy Who Cried Whig"
3. "The Dog in Goat's Clothing" (or "Where Lizzy Found Her Pug")
4. "How James Madison Lost His Pants"
5. "The Second Report on the Public Credit"

"Resurrection Serenade"

Todd finishes the last verse just before breaking into a coughing fit. It's a painful sound, raw and desperate, serving no purpose but to remind the body that something is wrong.
I put my hand on his shoulder and can feel his body shudder with the rapid tiny breaths he's taking.
I take a deep breath, hoping the sound will calm him, or at least remind him on some subconscious level how to breathe normally.
"That was beautiful," I say. "But I...I don't think the songs are helping."
His head turns and he fixes me with inconsolable red eyes, long past tears. His expression pleads with me to take back what I've said, but I can't.
Todd turns away, shrugging off my hand.
"If she meant that much to you," I say, "you shouldn't have left her."
He lets out a soft raspy noise that might be words, but I can't be sure.
"You can't just leave on a two week cruise and not expect consequences," I say. "Begonias need to be watered regularly."
"GET OUT!" he hisses, the end of it coming out in a gurgle, like he's ruptured something.
"Are you okay?" I ask.
"I said get out," he whispers, still cradling the dead houseplant in his arms.
As I walk out the front door, I hazard a glance back. Todd has placed the desiccated plant on the window sill and is lowering himself to one knee, like he's about to propose marriage. I shut his door and descend the steps from his apartment in silence.
My car is parked under his second floor window, and walking to it I can hear him singing again to his dead plant. He's opened the window and the rough sound of his vocal cords being rhythmically flayed pours out. I open my car door and stare up, suddenly moved at Todd's hopeless love.
"What is that?" I hear someone say behind me. I turn to see an elderly woman staring at Todd's open window. She is holding a leash with an unkempt terrier on the other end who appears to be desperate to move on.
"I Will...Always Love You," I say to the woman, and am shocked to find my voice choked with emotion.
Collapsing into the car seat, I look back at the woman, who is now staring at me. "The Whitney Houston version," I say, shutting the door, still looking at her through the window glass. "The Whitney Houston version," I say again, but I know she can't hear me.

Five methods of lowering others' expectations of you

...that I've seen used with phenomenal success

1. Urinate while watching a professional sports game on television. When asked why you didn't go to the toilet, say you forgot.
2. Randomly put together things you've heard from other people's conversations and declare them as incontrovertible truths. ("We're all Indians. We are ALL INDIANS! And you know what? The bi-polar are our shaman-gods.")
3. Add "you know" or "right?" to the end of everything you say, the simpler the better ("I need beans, you know." "Hello, right?")
4. Attach theological significance to inherently banal subjects. ("This color of grout makes Jesus cry.")
5. Respond to any information given you with an overloud expletive of your choice. (It should work with most anything - "You'll be working on Saturday this week," "My son turned five today," "Light from the sun takes about 8 minutes to get to the Earth," etc.)
6. Describe all situations, behaviors, customs, and clothing different from what you're used to as "hilarious."
7. Demonstrate a relaxed attitude toward the concept of "numbers"

"An Alternate Path"

I am alone in the study, but can still hear the echoes of their screams. My father. My mother. They told me not to blame myself, and I don't. I blame him. That craven coward who took my parents from me. The man who laughed as my father screamed.
The police did nothing. Would do nothing. And ever will it be the case.
The door opens, and they come in to face me.
"Your mother and I have grown apart, Bruce," my father says.
"The way your father reacted to that car on the freeway was just icing on the cake," my mother says, and he glares at her.
"The way I reacted?" he starts to shout, and I turn to the study window and the daylight outside. I'm used to this. They begin to argue about the truth, but I don't listen.
Because I know the truth.
If it hadn't been for the man who cut my father off on the freeway, my parents would stay together. We would still be a family.
There is a sudden crash as a baseball comes crashing through the window and rolls to my feet. Light streams through the clouds, illuminating the ball, casting its stitches into sharp relief.
My parents run to the window. I stare at the ball. It is a message. It is a sign.
Commuters are a cowardly, supercilious lot.
I will become the thing they least expect. I will wreak vengeance upon all those that flout the law by not using turn signals.
They will know the justice of The Ball. I will break the windshield of their villainy as they have broken my life.
I know who I am now. I'm Ball-Man.