subtitle: urban hitch hiking, the new trend
a novel
by Scott Wayne Indiana
1
It made perfect sense. It was absolutely positively crystal clear. But not one fucking person could understand it. My manual. I wrote a manual to enhance operations for the night shift, but they didn’t get it. I was convinced that no one even read it. It made perfectly fine sense to me. It was such a smooth document. My stylist even understood it. I made him listen to me read each page while he cut my hair. I mean, I don’t think he liked it, but he understood it.
Quite frankly, my haircut that day was better than usual. Theory: my stylist was a little more tense than usual because I was forcing him to listen. So he was really concentrating on the haircut, more than usual. This paragraph should have been a footnote, but does anyone read the footnotes? Let me rephrase, does anyone with a life read footnotes? Does that question make me sound dumb? When the editors tell me they want to take this paragraph out of the story, I’ll probably let them. That is, if there’s any money on the line. But personally, I think it’s entertaining, this paragraph. You can always skip to the end of paragraphs like this, if you choose to, and continue with the rest of the story. Maybe that’s why paragraphs like this are generally footnotes? You learn so much when you write.
Back to the issue, I even put pictures in the bloody manual. (By the way, I’m not British, in case you were wondering. I’m American.) Color photos of monkeys and other animals. That’s right, color photos. Everyone likes pictures of monkeys. That alone should have grabbed their attention. Instead, our productivity was still in the toilet and it was my ass that was on the line. That’s right, my ass.
“Whatever,” I said aloud to myself in my office. “What – ever.” I was impersonating the manager of the video store where I used to work when I was still in school. Ray. He was so gay. Flaming. Which is awesome. He always made me feel attractive.
So, this manual. I realized that I needed to rework it. Spice it up a bit. And then, most importantly, I needed to call another meeting. Of course, most importantly of all, I needed to get productivity back to where it used to be.
“Pizza,” I said aloud as I thought about the meeting. The rest of the idea was in my mind, a thought.
“We’ll have pizza. That will please them.”
“Mr. Cosby, your haircut is in a half hour.” The voice was amplified by my speakerphone. My secretary was well trained.
“Thanks Bill.”
Packed up my briefcase, put my fingers to my lips and lightly tapped Bob Marley on the forehead on my way out of the office, passed by the workers, most of them acting like they were doing what they were supposed to be doing, and into the sunshine. Loosened my tie. It was my day. It was my time.
I didn’t need Mrs. Stone or her deal. Kidney Stone. That’s what I’d been calling her lately. I didn’t need anything, except a little gas in the engine of my BMW, a half hour head massage, shampoo and conditioning, and then an hour long foot massage while my stylist worked on my hair. Highlights and a trim.
“Conversation topic,” I said aloud once in the car, “how to improve the manual.”
The phone rang.
“Bill?”
“Yes Mrs. Stone.”
“Is Mr. Cosby in?”
“No Mrs. Stone, he just left for an appointment.”
“Another fucking haircut? That man gets more haircuts than a Tibetan Monk. Jesus fucking Christ I know he’s avoiding me. That bastard. That rat bastard. A haircut? Seriously?” Her lightning shrill entered Bill’s bloodstream, and he felt both irritated and turned on. For such a mixture of emotions, he did what he thought was best. It would require another call back, or perhaps a visit.
Click. Bill hung up.
The phone rang again.
“Bill, please do not hang up on me.”
“Mrs. Stone, if you yell into the phone, I will refuse to have a conversation with you.”
“Is it just me Bill? Is it really just me? Or does Mr. Cosby get more haircuts than a fucking...” Mrs. Stone was trying to think of another comparison.
“He gets a lot of haircuts. Is that a crime Mrs. Stone?”
“No Bill, have him call me when he gets back.”
“Will do Mrs. Stone.”
“And stop repeating my name Bill.” She screamed again.
Click. This time, it was Mrs. Stone who hung up first.
2
Later, in another chapter all together. (Not intended for this chapter, but stuck here after “the accident,” and could not be edited.)
When the experiments were complete, he sold the rats to snake handlers.
An advertisement was placed in the newspaper calling for volunteers to try the new drug. The FDA had not approved the drug, but that didn’t seem to matter to George. He was convinced he’d synthesized a safe barbiturate that he could prescribe to well paying top shelf clients, under the table, along with their normal course of pain meds for imagined spinal pain.
His plan: to bring in a handful of volunteers, tell them they were about to test approved headache medicine, and then administer the drug to each of them, in a small comfortable locked room. Sure, they might get addicted. Anyway, that’s what he hoped.
“Susan, Gary, Ramona, and you must be Jim?” Jim nodded, but the blank look on his face did not change. George shook their hands one by one.
Iman handed George the paperwork. He scanned through it quickly, checking each packet for a signed and dated waiver form.
“They’re all signed.” Iman was a loyal assistant. As an addict, she had no choice. Essentially, she was George’s robot, and she did whatever he ordered her to.
“Great.”
“How much do we get paid?” Gary seemed nervous about the tests. George and Iman knew that his anxiety would not last long, once the administration began.
“Two thousand dollars for your one week stay.”
Three of them smiled at the answer, but Jim remained stoic and unaffected.
“Are you okay Jim?” George stood in front of him and looked into his eyes.
“I’m fine, when do we get the drugs?”
“Good question, follow me.”
George led them into the clinic, and down along hallway. The walls were lined with doors. He had been hoping for twenty participants in the study, but four would have to do for now.
“Gary, this room is for you.” Iman led him in.
“Susan,” George opened her door and motioned her inside with his arm and a smile.
“And Ramona, here’s yours. And Jim, room number four.”
Each participant sat on a large chair in the separate rooms, a television screen in front of their eyes.
Iman quietly locked the doors, and George appeared on each screen.
“Comfortable? I hope so. Okay, welcome, we are about to begin. You should first know that I can see all of you the way you can see me because of the camera above your screen. On the table to your right is a small plastic cup with a pill in it. Next to that is a cup of water. Take that pill now.”
Without hesitating, all four people swallowed the pill. This pleased George a great deal. No problems. His image disappeared from each screen and the lights dimmed in each room.
All four participants passed out in their chairs, in their rooms.
“Okay, we have about seven minutes.”
George and Iman rushed into each room and injected the drug into the patients. Then, back to the control center.
George could sense that Iman wanted a shot too, but she knew she’d have to wait a few hours until the first phase of experiments were over with the new test.
That’s when the initial side effects started to kick in. Rapidly, like machine gun fire.
3
One after another, they crossed the street and the river. Finally, it was Jill’s turn. She started running across the asphalt and then started swimming. The water was cold and she felt the current taking her downstream like it had with the others.
“Gold,” she thought, and kept going faster and faster. “Gold.”
The heat of the afternoon dried everyone off on the other side.
There were so many cars, and so much traffic, all stopped.
Jill made a new friend before the swim, but couldn’t see her now.
“Jill,” she called out.
“Gold,” she whispered to herself.
“Jill,” she yelled again, louder.
And out of the crowd of naked drying people emerged Jill. She was smiling with a mouth that could have been a banana. They hugged.
“I was beginning to get a little worried about you.”
“I made it.”
“It was harder than I thought it would be.”
“Me too.”
The two women looked into each other’s eyes and hugged again, both still breathing hard. Their bodies were warming in the sun, still wet, still naked.
“I think I need a hug too.” A man stood next to them, shivering.
“No problem, what’s your name?” Both Jill and Jill took the man into their circle and the three hugged.
“I’m George.”
4
Chico ’s
The car chase was already fifteen minutes old. Speeding through the city, out of the city, back into the city. Brock had already hit three pedestrians, but he was not about to get caught. His gun was on the passenger seat next to him. He knew he’d probably have to use it when the chase ended, but Brock still had hope that he could elude the cops, even though there was also a helicopter now overhead.
The sirens wound around his mind.
He looked up at the blue sky and smiled. It was so beautiful. Brock noticed a little cloud over the horizon to the east. It was shaped like an umbrella.
While he was smiling, looking at the umbrella shaped cloud, his car drove straight into the back of a stopped city bus.
There was a funeral. Closed casket. No music. Brock’s high school friends were there and told stories about how crazy he was, and how much fun he could be.
“He was also a real son of a bitch most of the time,” Bill leaned over and whispered to Iman.
“Drank too much whiskey, snorted to much cocaine and slept with too many whores.”
“Brock may have led a troubled life at times,” the priest said in the most contrived tone possible, “but his family and friends knew he would eventually settle down and have a family, and get his act together.”
That was the end.
“Awkward,” said Iman.
“Fitting,” replied Bill.
They walked out hand in hand.
“It was nice to meet you Iman. I never meet women at funerals. Maybe this will last forever.”
“Are we still on for a drink?”
“Of course, Chico’s right?”
“See you there in five minutes.”
Iman started her engine and followed Bill out of the parking lot. Within two blocks, he’d lost her. She had to call the bar for directions.
When she got there, Bill’s drink was almost gone. She sat down next to him.
“What took you so long?” Bill finished his drink.
“Are you going to have a drink with me?”
“Of course, that was just to let go.”
“Of Brock?”
“Who?” Bill asked.
“Never mind, bartender, I’d like a blue martini.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“Improvise. So Bill, do you mind if I call you William?”
“I’d prefer it actually.”
“How about Billy?”
“Whatever suits you.”
“Ok William, what in the hell is happening in Sweden?”
Bill was obviously shocked. He immediately knew why this beautiful woman hit on him at the funeral, and asked him out for a drink. No reason to act all swank anymore. He could drop the pretense. It was kind of a relief, although he was still hoping to get laid.
“And just how in the hell do you know about Sweden?”
5
code word: la luna (crazy talk)
“The end is near, repent today.” The woman held a large sign and two children stood at her side. They did not look happy to be standing with their mother in the heat, spreading the depressing message that we were all going to hell.
“Ok,” I said, “good idea.” Then I went in the door. Traffic had been a bitch getting to the salon, and I took a deep breath as I entered. Ah, the familiar fumes put a smile back on my face.
“Jean, I’m here.” He must have been in the back.
“Mr. Cosby, you made it.”
I changed my mind about the topic of conversation. I changed my mind about the manual all together. No one wants to read a stupid manual. I realized that as I sat in traffic reading through it. It was in fact very hard to understand, I concluded, and threw it out the window.
I gave Jean a hundred dollar bill, and another one. I always paid and tipped before the session. It was something my mother taught me. When people in service positions know beforehand that they are getting a good tip, they naturally treat you better. It’s just true. Try it. Seriously.
“Thanks. Ready?”
I followed Jean to the back.
“Are those new jeans?” I asked.
“I found them at a thrift store for five dollars, can you believe it?”
I couldn’t. I didn’t respond.
There was a woman in the back. She sat there with her head back. Silent.
“Who’s she?” I asked.
“That’s Iman.”
“Hi Iman,” I said, but she didn’t say anything.
“Whatever,” I said and sat down.
Jean started the hot water, and I tilted my head back into his hands. In a few minutes, the foot masseuse showed up and went to work. I never did get her name.
I could have lived there, in that chair, forever. In some ways, I wanted to die there, right in that moment, the happiest I had ever been.
But I would not be so lucky on that day.
“Hello,” said Iman, fifteen minutes into my head and foot massage.
I had no idea she was talking to me, I was almost asleep. But she stood over me and said it again, raising her voice a bit this time.
“Hello.”
I opened my eyes.
“I didn’t want to be rude,” she said, “so, hello.”
I didn’t say a word, and she turned and left. Walked out like a model on a runway.
That was the first time I ever saw Iman. You could say we met, I guess.
“Did you ever figure out what went wrong with the manual?”
I knew Jean didn’t want to talk about the manual. But he knew that I might want to.
“I figured out it was a piece of shit and useless.”
“No.”
“I wasted a lot of time on that thing. I have other ideas.”
“I’m sure things will work out.”
“Thanks.”
After the session, I went home and opened a bottle of rum. It was supposed to be a happy drink. I knew I wasn’t going to make it to work the next day as I took the first sip. The phone rang.
“Cos?”
“Yeah.”
“Drinks at La Luna at eleven.”
It was only six. I was going to have to pace myself.
6
angels
forever machines like medicine
forever, at the desert place
an old house
all the angels
waiting
with pink dresses
waiting to be angels
loosening
teeth falling out
putting them back in
plugged into their pink dry gums
and laughing
like they’d plugged their teeth into a laughing socket
rows of them
angels
waiting
to become angels
in the house in the desert
where the rock band practices
with their drinks and their pink dresses
7
Backing the car out of the parking spot. Driving through the garage, past all the shoppers and all the other parked cars. It was dark in the garage. But it was the middle of the daytime. She looked down the aisles for the exit. For light.
The juice from the sloppy rainbow snow cone dripped from the bottom of the paper cone onto her white skirt.
“Fuck it all to hell,” she moaned, throwing the snow come out the window and lighting a cigarette in one fluid motion, also turning the steering wheel and driving into the light.
The smoke eased her nerves. She glanced down at the shopping bags full of clothes on the floor of the passenger side. Two thousand dollars worth of clothes.
“And I probably won’t even wear anything in there.”
Jill needed a change.
She parked the car and continued smoking.
“It’s time for a change,” she said aloud.
She got out of her car and started walking up the city street. The traffic passed by. Jill stood with one foot on the edge of the road, her hand on her hip, and thumb in the air.
“Urban hitch hiking,” she said, “the new trend.”
That was the day that things changed for Jill.
8
“Where did I parallel park my car at?” The drunk lady walked arm in arm with her novia, which means girlfriend in Spanish. They were both short and they both wore rubber rain coats, one green, one gray.
I was walking home as well. It was raining and all I had on was a sweater. It had become my second favorite sweater in line after the one my friend gave me. His was a wool sweater from the south of Chile, from a small village in the Andes Mountains. Naturally, that was my favorite sweater. My second favorite sweater wasn’t even really my sweater. It was borrowed from a friend two years earlier, and I had yet to return it. However, my friend had gained some weight since he wore it and it no longer fit him anyway. So, I never even knew if he wanted it back. I think he even saw me in it a few times and never said anything about it. It was my sweater. I decided that at last. It was not keeping me very warm. Originally, I was going to say I was drunk, like the two ladies, but the truth is I was just walking home from a book store where I was reading Bukowski poetry as well as a biography of some artist. So, I sort of wanted to be drunk. But, I’d quit drinking months earlier, and as the ladies passed by, looking for their car in the rain, I just laughed and headed home where angel food cake with whipped cream made from scratch topped with toasted coconut and a strawberry waited for me. It wasn’t long before I finished that and turned back to decisions that had to be made about the experiments. George and Iman, and her role in everyone else’s lives.
I pretended to be Mr. Cosby as I sat there, still wet. I called myself Cos. Koz is a better way of writing how it actually sounds. I pretended to be Cos because his was the voice that was in the first person. And that’s how I started writing this chapter.
I finished reading the poems back at the bookstore when I came to a particular word that prompted me to close the book because it was the same word that stood out from a quote that I’d heard the day before.
I wish I could tell you what the word is.
Then it would stand out for you as well, in your mind.
But I just can’t. Not now.
I promised.
I sat there
waiting like a drunk starfish
for the tide
weary
waxy like starfishes are out of the water
the air on me like a wolf’s breath
I knew my rock
it pulsed under me
like a woman for a man
I was waiting for the bus
the collective consciousness bus
to pick me up
I had my ticket
and was ready to board
I knew the destination
but I didn’t know the way.
all the windows were shattered in the shelter
I could see everything clearly
there was no glass
just air.
9
Iman flipped on the lights as she entered the little gym. Mirrors on all four walls. It was time to teach. Twenty-some girls filed in behind her, all serene and cheerful. Also, a couple of thin guys in trendy workout clothes. And one scruffy looking chub with a beard. Why not?
Iman didn’t give them much time to become accustomed to the space. She dimmed the lights, turned some music on, and started instructing her daily yoga class.
It was six in the morning.
Afterwards, the scruffy chub hung around. Of course.
“Bill told me that you’re in on Sweden.”
“You came to my yoga class to talk about this?”
“Yeah, you know I didn’t think yoga was for me. I mean, I was pretty awkward and it just didn’t feel right. I sued to lift weights, maybe jog now and then. But the truth is when we were laying there in the end, breathing and everything, I haven’t felt that good in years. Made me want to quit drinking. I ain’t gonna, but it made me want to.”
“Why didn’t you just wait until after the class?”
“Low pro. Keeping my low pro Iman. Dig it.”
“Okay, so what do you want to talk about?”
“Bill just asked me to introduce myself and let you know that he’ll be in touch soon. He needs to talk with you again. He wants you to call him at work soon. Maybe today if you can.”
“Are you Bill’s little bitch?”
“Basically. He provides me with supplies and I do various little deeds of dirty work for him, mainly courier type shit. Stupid shit, you know.”
“Supplies?”
“Yeah, I require a lot of supplies for my lifestyle.
“What the hell kind of supplies?”
“You know, all sorts. Shit, all sorts.”
“Okay,” Iman said as they sat there on the hardwood floor, their reflections on every wall, bouncing around, “I’ll call Bill this morning.”
“Great,” the man popped up. “I am definitely going to stick with this yoga thing.”
“I never caught your name.”
“Sam. Yeah, tell Bill I popped in.”
“Will do.”
“I’m going to go get some of that steam in the men’s locker room. Dig that shit.”
“Right on Sam.”
“Fuck yeah. Thanks Iman. You are one awesome chick.”
She could not help but crack a smile as Sam wobbled out.
10
low production, reasons why
That was when I showed up and saw two workers fucking, on the job, on the conveyor belt, in front of everyone. I have to admit, I stood there and watched for a few minutes from the office before busting in on the company.
“You see? People, this is why the company is going to shit. You are all fired. You have ten minutes to gather your belongings and leave the premises. If you are not off the property in eleven minutes, I will be calling the police. Good god.”
Back into my office. Wow. I could not believe that. Sure, if I had to work the graveyard shift in a factory, that kind of thing might make it more bearable. Sure. Whatever.
It was three am.
A knock at the door.
“Yeah.”
“Cos, I just wanted to apologize and thank you for giving me a chance the last two years. I know I messed up a lot.” It was Carl. The night shift operations manager.
“Good lord Carl, we’re in the biggest bind for your entire time here and that’s how you run the floor?”
“I know, they were on drugs, I was going to fire them afterwards. I don’t even think they knew we were all watching.”
“Wow.”
“I know, it was stupid. I just wanted to apologize before I left.”
“Okay.”
He left. I never liked Carl. Carl. Lazy, overweight, balding. No personality. A guy with those physical characteristics overcomes them all with a little personality. Not Carl. Slouched and low self esteem. Awesome name though. And he smelled good too. I know, odd characteristic, but true. Worth mentioning.
Dialed Bill. Woke him.
“Mr. Cosby?”
“Yeah, Bill, you awake?”
“Nope.”
“I had to fire the night shift. I need you in here an hour early today. We have to get a new crew hired by the end of the day. We have got to make our deadline or we’re going to get shut down. We’ll all be out of a job.”
“Do you need me to come in now?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
I just needed to find twenty people like Bill.
Starting up the coffee maker, I got online. Email. Three from Mrs. Stone, of course. And one from Iman, sent five minutes ago.
“I’m calling you in four hours.”
Clicked on reply.
“I’m up now, why wait.”
Clicked on send.
Four minutes later, the phone rang.
11
the blanket on Jill’s bed
12
the South Dakota problem
That was how Jill found herself. In South Dakota.
“Mathematics, you see.”
“Right.”
“I’ll take three.”
“Which three?” The farmer had a strange accent. Mexican.
“Those three.” Phil pointed at the three largest ears of corn and looked at Jill for her approval. She nodded.
“We can make it to Chicago by noon tomorrow, no problem. Sell this old thing and make it to the museum for a few hours. What do you say?”
Jill nodded again.
Back in the car, back on the highway.
Phil started singing again. He was an old guy. No reason to be taking Jill off on her dream adventure, across the country to the Chicago Art Museum. Left her car in the middle of Los Angeles, keys in the ignition. Vanished from her life. She had to.
But that was when Phil had a heart attack. Swerved across the lanes, onto the shoulder, accelerating. Jill controlled wheel, and finally got her foot onto the brake. All the traffic stopped behind her. One man jumped out and rushed to the driver’s side.
“He’s having a heart attack,” Jill screamed.
The man pulled Phil out of the car, and Jill fainted. When she woke up, she took a bus home the next day. That was her first urban hitch hiking lift. 1,207 miles.
13
ten minutes for this and that
George waited. All the subjects were totally out. They all died.
“That didn’t work.”
Iman frowned.
“I guess we need to make some changes.”
“They seemed happy at least?” Iman couldn’t believe it killed them all. She needed five or six shots a day to feel normal.
“They did at that. We didn’t even get a chance to interview one of them.”
“We probably just gave them too much.”
“That has to be it, put another ad in the paper and let’s do it again next Saturday.”
Iman retreated to her desk.
George stood there with his hands on his mouth, elbows resting on the table. He stared at the monitors in front of him, each showing a dead face.
“Huh.”
Then he flipped the switch, and made a phone.
Ten minutes later, a crew of six workers entered the clinic. It was the middle of the night. They wore all black.
Within ten minutes, the bodies were gone and each room was spotless.
“We’re done here George.”
“Thanks. Let’s hope I don’t have to call you again.”
“If you do, no problem.”
That was that. Round one was over. No need to mention that in the final report.
14 ∞
"Take these to forensics Danny."
"Yes sir."
There was not anyone named Danny in the clinic, but there was a small man who George paid to run errands. George called Danny by a different name every day, sometimes every sentence. The little man didn't mind. He actually liked having a different name everyday. He liked being anonymous. When George handed Danny the files, Danny dropped them and they spilled all over the floor. that had never happened before. Score sheets, technological blue prints, schematics, and maps to alleys slipped onto the floor and spun into chaos.
“I'm sorry sir."
"It's okay Jamison, it's not a huge deal."
"Thank you sir." George helped Jamison gather the files, and within
two minutes, Jamison was out the door, on his way to forensics.
George flipped his phone open and placed a call.
"Yeah, the files are on the way. Yep, it’s all there. Right. Whatever it takes. Get it done."
George sat down at his desk and began his afternoon sitting yoga session. his evenings were not the same without it. Iman, who usually joined him, was passed out under the desk. A drop of dried blood on her wrist. A smile on her face.
15
[QUESTION: Does this section need to be switched to first person?]
He hired an editor to re-visit the manual. Luckily, after throwing his one hard copy out the car window a day ago, there was still a copy on his hard drive. Since he had to fire the entire night crew, Mr. Cosby decided to revisit this needed rule book. Before settling on Jeff Beuys, Cos interviewed three other candidates.
First, there was Val Duchamp. She thought she was applying for a different type of job. She was not qualified, not for editing manuals. Secondly, Mr. Cosby interviewed Celina Saura. She had been the conductor of the Santa Barabra Symphony for seven years, from the impressive young age of thirty-one until she got fired at thirty-right
for missing a performance due to a drug issue that she spoke freely about with Cos. Third was Paula Miro. She was an artist who spent a lot of time wandering the beach picking up driftwood. The real problem with all three of these women is that they were simply too attractive, and Mr. Cosby didn't want that getting in the way of the
job at hand: to get the manual where it needed to be.
Jeff Beuys was the man for the job. He emailed an updated version of the manual to Cos every hour on the hour, and boy could he work fast.
When Mr. Cosby, that is, when I interviewed people for the job, I was able to give them a new version of the manual. I asked them to take it home, read it, and maybe come in for a second interview. That was how I scored a quality night crew. That was how I saved my ass.
16
in the back of the car
on sunset boulevard
never having been to los angeles
never having been anywhere
she felt both trapped and liberated
that was the fifth trip
the fifth time around
with the new trend, the new experiment, of urban hitch hiking
and jill made it
now
but that’s not what is was al supposed to be about
not just adventure
not just new fresh moments
but truth
she was after truth
and she needed it now more than ever
and so right after she came
she got out of that fucking car
and walked up the street
naked
like truth
would walk up sunset boulevard
after sex
17
The bowling files were not official bowling files of any sort. No, no, they were the plans for a conceptual art installation. They were supposed to be found on the road. It was all part of the plan. Jamison had no idea what he had in his possession as he drove across town. And that’s how George wanted it to go down. But George was not privy to the entire plan.
A car crashed into Jamison’s vehicle as he sped along Sunset. There was a naked woman, and the driver of the other car crossed the line into oncoming traffic, into Jamison.
This was not part of the plan. The plan that George did not know about never got carried out. It could not have after the crash. Instead, the naked woman rushed to the driver of the other car. That person was no longer a person, by the natural definition of the word. So, she approached Jamison.
“Take these to safety. Don’t let the police get these files,” was all he could say before passing out.
The naked girl, Jill, took the files, and feeling responsible for so much chaos amid her most clairvoyant moment in her search for truth, walked away.
Somehow, no one noticed.
18
The end of the process. Paper pushers. Central office called at noon requesting the reports.
"No problem."
"Thanks Bill."
"No problem."
Mrs. Stone walked in. Bill needed a drink. If only Mrs. Stone would be up for it.
"Hi Bill, is the man in?"
"Mr. Cosby is not in at the moment no. You will need to make an appointment, you know that. Besides Mrs. Stone, it's 3 o'clock on Friday afternoon. You know he's rarely in on Fridays, much less at 3 o'clock on a Friday."
"He's avoiding me, isn't he Bill?"
"No Mrs. Stone."
"Look-" She pointed her finger at Bill.
"No, you look. Let's go get a drink and I can share some things with you. What do you think?"
Her posture changed. She was caught off guard.
"Things?"
"Yeah, but not here."
"It's not a date Bill."
"No, no."
"Meet me at," she paused and looked up at the ceiling, "the Branch."
"Do you have a reservation?"
Mrs. Stone looked at Bill and laughed, "No Bill."
He realized that she didn't need a reservation, and suddenly felt quite inferior.
"Fifteen minutes? Or do you need to finish up here?" Mrs. Stone looked over her sunglasses.
"Fifteen is good."
"Good."
19
the (first) end
that was when the factory broke down. all the connections to sweden
were completely dismantled, the bridges burned. there was no sweden
connection. not anymore. and the car that carried jill across the
city ran out of gas. most importantly, the factory broke down. no
more novels. no more stories.
mr. cosby left the office. there was no more money. he would not be
re-writing the manual, and he would not be hiring a new night crew.
in fact, all the characters were erased from the memory banks all
together. none of it ever happened. this is the record of that which never happened.
jill will tell you about it, if you ever pick her up. look for her
standing alongside the road in los angeles, trend setting the art of
urban hitch hiking. conceptual.
20
new title: Storms
Evans found the boxes. They were stacked behind the abandoned office. Each box was wrapped with silver duct tape.
He could hear his friend playing the accordion on the corner for spare change. Evans had to piss, and so he wandered behind the building. That was when he spotted the stack of boxes. There was one stack, four boxes.
"What have we here?" Evans tore at one of the boxes like a bear and
it ripped open. "Hmm, papers," he said aloud. "Lots of papers. I wonder what these papers say?"
Oddly close to his piss puddle, Evans sat down on the gravel and started reading through the pages. He only read a few words before dropping them, and rushing back to his friend on the corner. There he found a shopping cart that he had liberated from the confines of the grocery store parking lot. He dumped the clothes from it, and wheeled the cart back to the stacks. Each box was heavy. He lifted them into the cart and wheeled it through the gravel to the sidewalk.
His friend playing the accordion didn't notice any of this. He just
kept playing.
"I've got some plans for these." Evans sat down and felt the warm sun
on his face.
21
the third beginning
title: found
Stan read through the story about George and Iman and Mrs. Stone and
Bill and Mr. Cosby. Then he got to the part about Evans and the
accordian playing friend. That was when Stan started to wonder if he
was actually a mere character in an experimental novel.
An ex-spear, he felt mental. The experiential mental emotion carved
into his essence. He was words.
But he was found.
"I'm a number in a fabricated sequence."
Stan was all wrong.
He sat in the dressing room, reading hte magazine article that his
friend had given him. He was only wearing socks and a top hat. There
are photos of Stan included here to show that this actually happened.
Stan is real.
This part is not part of the book, it is just about a friend who read
the book up to this part. Everything before and after this chapter is
part of the book.
Mr. Cosby could not tell if he liked it. The night crew was waiting,
and they wanted his opinions.
"Seems too experimental. Not much happening. What do yo think Bill?"
"I like it."
"Evans, you?"
"Could be better, but it's a start."
"I agree," Cos said, "it's a good beginning. I like this crew.
They'll do. Call them in."
33
there was a sprawl of bodies this time.
george smiled as iman passed out the waivers.
"welcome."
they raised the pay for the experiments, and it brought fifteen people
this time. after they signed their forms, each participant filed into
his or her room.
Again, George and Iman strapped them in and then rushed back tot he
control center. George spoke to each participant on the screen, like
last time.
"Iman is going to come around and give each of you a shot. Each of
you is being videotaped, and I want you to tak freely about what you
experience, and after about five minutes, there will be a series of
questions that you must answer. After that, you will fall asleep."
Iman hurried to inject each patient. She knew that her own shot was
coming after this. Her spine felt a tickle.
When she was done, it was back to the control room. George was giddy
as each participant started talking moments after their shot.
"It's working."
Iman was happy for George, but she found her own spot on the couch and
reclined into what would be three hours of bliss. This time, she was
not alone.
34
life and death and crime and punishment and war and peace and love and hate
the gravity of the money pulled him away a long time ago. he was
tired of big titles and philosophy and grandiose ideas and drugs and
sex. he was tired of music, and of sound. he was tired of voices and
all the language. of food and water. of sleep. and of art. he was
tired of being tired. and sick. and divorced and alone. that was
all.
he was hanging by his neck from a rope in a tree in the desert.
alive. he was tired of it.
but they saved bill. no brain damage. it was a miracle. his own
brother found him and cut him down.
bill thought about this as he sat at his desk. he'd never attempted
suicide. he never would. he had no desire. he enjoyed life. and he
didn't have a brother either.
"bill?"
"Yes Mr. Cosby?"
"Get in here."
35
xperimetnal bird nesting (intentional misspelling – please keep – please leave untouched)
wet cardboard
wet cardboard
wet cardboard
evans emptied the boxes and put out the
cardboard
and over the course of the days
it rained
moreso in the evenings
which is strange
in los angeles
not that it rained in the evening
but that it rained at all
in the summer time
but in any case
the cardboard got
wet
like
really wet
for all the birds
36
getting behind
iman woke and could not tell if she was awake or dreaming. however, she did remember that she forget to notice a woman on the side of the road earlier. she drove right on by, and the stark image of the female hitch hiker should have struck a cord in her peripheral vision as an odd site, but it simply did not. for some reason, the memory now resonated with her as she laid on the couch in george's office. she remembered the woman's expression. she would characterize it as cheerful, honest, and simple. iman could tell, as she examined her memory, that the female hitch hiker was probably not in need of a ride
somewhere. She seemed to simply be hitch hiking for fun.
"Rise and shine, you've been out for two hours."
"Hi George," I thought I might still be sleeping.
"No no, come on, we've got work to do."
"Did any die this time?"
"Out of twenty, this time four died."
"Not bad."
"No, not too bad."
"And the others?"
37
the edited pages
evans looked through the scribbles on pages one and two. he liked the
way the red ink looked on the paper. it looked like art to him. he
wanted to take the pages to a frame shop and ask about the cost to
frame the pages. then he turned through all the pages. he'd found
the box of edits. all covered in red. bloody.
but evans didn't read the original words on the pages, only the edits.
"too brief."
"too experimental, you'll lose everyone here."
evans had ideas. new ideas.
too brief. not the word you want here.
too brief.
38
Pamphlets littered the lobby and the flood waters rose to the stoop.
Diane made the reservations. Party for fifteen. The night crew was celebrating one week. Already, an increase in production by twenty-three percent. Impossible, but happening. All thanks to Diane.
Iman placed a call on her cell.
Diane answered.
"You have to come pick me up, I think I've completely lost it this time."
"Okay."
Diane finalized the dinner plans, and turned her car around in the middle of the street.
"Where are we going?" Mr. Cosby rode in the back seat. I don't know why he was back there and not in the front.
"I have to help a friend."
Cos put his hand under his chin, and looked out the window at the ocean. He didn't mind. Production was up, and he had nowhere to be.
"That's nice of you," he said sincerely, and rolled down his window.
39
this chapter starts with:
there are words, sentences, paragraphs and chapters in this book that don't belong. renegades. rebels. thieves leaving their tools, and taking away what was meant to be there.
nonetheless, this spirit has not been mined completely, and there are still several cavities with hidden diamonds here and there.
headlamps on.
the words in this chapter, however, do belong.
(there are other words that are in fact meant to be here, but were burned or lost, long since forgotten. there is simply no way to retrieve them.)
footnotes:
∞ Only moments later, he found the bowling files. At first, it looked like an ordinary file folder on the shoulder of the road. But after a brief investigation which involved opening the folder and examining the files, George knew what he held in his hands. He held in his hands, the bowling files. That was his conclusion, and his conclusion was correct.
note to you, dear reader: if you made it this far, please email me and tell you that read it.
symplvision@gmail.com
new chapters to be posted soon, as of January 2007. thanks.
