Archive for April, 2010
What Goes Around, Stays Around
Friday, April 2nd, 2010
“Mechaieh … the poet?”
“Of course the poet.”
“But I heard that all of her poems turned into flocks of birds when you read them.”
“That’s only her recent ones. This is one of the old ones.”
“So you’ve read it?”
“Of course not. You think I want it to turn into a flock of birds?”
“I thought you said it was one of the older ones.”
“I lied. I thought maybe you’d lose interest and go away.”
The tall robot shuttered his photoreceptors in surprise and backed away from the short, wheeled robot. “Why do you want me to go away?” the tall robot said.
“I’ve decided not to read it at all. Ever. So that I’ll always have it.”
“You might as well never have it if you never read it. But why do you want me to go away?”
“You know what I’d like to do sometime? I’d like to seal myself in plastic and walk on the bottom of the ocean.”
“Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m feeling … orange,” said the short robot. “The stars are tickling me. You know what would go down good now? A …” Then he hiccupped, and abruptly, his brain exploded.
This was a downloadable virus that had been going around, which caused loops that overstressed processors, generating more heat than the robot heads had been designed to handle.
The tall robot backed away, leery of contagion. After a moment, though, he scooted forward and picked up the poem. He sidled off into a dim corner of the factory where they both worked, where he’d be less likely to be noticed, and opened the poem. He wondered if the flock of birds would appear when he began reading or as soon as he had pronounced the last word. He wondered if they would appear at all.
“What’ve you got there?” asked another robot, a bulbous, yellow one.
The tall robot looked up. “Something by Mechaieh.”
“Mechaieh … the poet?”
All at once, the tall robot began to wonder how the virus was spread.
Guardian Angel
Thursday, April 1st, 2010
Author’s warning: Some curse words are used in this piece.
People call it “hunger,” but that’s not it. You can live with hunger. Actors, models—they go hungry for years. They’re miserable, but they do it.
Need. That’s the word. Addiction.
*
Tom’s felt sick for two months now. Keeps getting worse. Doctors have a word for it. Something like enema, but without a hosepipe up your ass. Something with his blood. But the doctors don’t know why it’s happening. Stupid goddamn doctors. Take his co-pay and tell him jack and shit.
*
I don’t believe in evil. Not some malevolent force moving through the world. Selfishness. The inability to see another’s point of view. To see the consequences of your actions to anyone but yourself. That I believe in. Tom is selfish.
Killed a man once. Didn’t like the color of his skin, the creed of his politics. It didn’t take much for Tom to pull the trigger.
In many ways, things would be easier if I just killed Tom.
*
Tom never liked New York city. Full of hippies in business suits. Just wrong. But the big doctors are there so he goes, and they take his money, and tell him even less than the goddamn quacks at home. And that’s before the subway gets him turned around and the three skinheads roll him for his wallet in the alleyway.
Time was he could have taken the knife from the kid and jammed it six inches into his eye. Now he can barely get the wallet out. The kids get impatient, get mean, give him a taste of the blade, open his cheek.
And then… what? A man? A blur? A shadow? Just the smack of flesh on flesh and the crack of breaking bones. And then the three skinheads are on the floor and they aren’t moving. And a man. Yes, a man. In front of him. The man reaches out, touches the wound on Tom’s cheek, wipes the blood away. And then he’s gone.
*
I watch Tom leave before I lick the crimson drop from my finger. It’s like a grenade behind the eyes. The world fracturing. Ecstasies and infinity. Addiction. Need. And then, over. So quickly, over. The world back to black and white.
And, yes, it would be easier to just kill Tom. But I need him. Am addicted to him. And so I’ll keep him alive for just a little longer.