Pending Excavation: Report.

 

There's a pending excavation in my segment for which I can only feel a larger-than-life trepidation, even though I've been preparing for the prior three or four minutes. The blond woman, who everyone believes used to date my podiatrist, is passing out sheets from dog-eared hymnals bearing a single non-integral number. They seem to enjoy grabbing the sheets and using them for various fun and games, all the while knowing that someone has worked very hard to make sure that all contingencies have been provided for, taking into account each person's individual dietary needs and restrictions. When I enter one of the shelters, she sees me and immediately scrounges for a bit of dough that may have fallen by the wayside when no one was any the wiser. I think later that I'll give her a 'G' for trying. But first I have to get a hold of one of the guys who made her cry at bedtime the night before I flew in from the Coast.

When my older sister married one of the Helmer boys (the younger one, I think), I approached Barry Schiffman to see if he could arrange for a group of average looking young organ donors to put in an appearance at a guest shot I was making at the Hotel where the wedding would go on to be canceled. Before this could be seen for what it was, I named the tallest of the donors to my Honorary Commission on Judicial Ethics. When I made the move he was confined to a convalescent facility for naturalized immigrants. His wife was expecting their second child and had become impossible to deal with due to her position on gun control, abortion and homosexual agriculture. Now it was my turn to turn heads while I walked my dog in the rain on St Patrick's Day.

When I got back and spoke very softly into one of the improvised ears it had been my choice to embellish at cost, I noticed that a bland shade had been placed across my cubby hole and I no longer had access to a vat of accelerants I'd been saving for my upcoming spree. People had always doubted my dedication to duty even though personal hygiene was never an issue. In fact, the personal 'Best in Office' award had been mine for five years running. Some of us had caused a loop to become caught in a ratchet, much to the consternation of our local person. We didn't think twice since his hair was never anything to write home about, if you can catch my drift. Once he appeared in my den after midnight early Wednesday morning, I asked if I could help him settle into a better rhythm of give-and-take and come-and-go. He replied with a shrug and a muffled cry for help. I appealed to his person to be there in the morning after I broke my foot in a pick-up basketball game. He even sat near me later that Summer at the Stadium when my wife served me with papers. I dropped a pencil accidentally-on-purpose and now, wouldn't you know it, my chiropractor has suffered a nervous breakdown. It's his own fault if you ask me, not that you would,... but still. 

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Could there be ANYONE to the Left of me?

 

My political affiliations and proclivities have been called into serious question. This does not bode well for our movement.

Could there be anyone left who no longer appreciates the sensation which courses sublimely as most 'things' of value start to give way? 

We will each append our bids with a mixture of desuetude and macaransis. Only a tantalizing brunette is to be permitted access to an underwater hiding place should our previous owner decide to issue a faulty coupon in lieu of a sanitized beefing terp. The gate in the center of the window is scheduled to be adjusted to admit no solemn notes unless the inductee has pre-installed a fanning unit on a floor other than the one which he or she has abandoned before a likely person returns from the Airport with a fresh sensing apparatus, if that. It doesn't take much to creep through a hutch with a diamond blade and instruct a teenage bride in the hard truths of conjugal living. They could give you an insincere hug or possibly present you with a mug of warm, potable liquid. It'll be fun to see what happens.  As for me, I'll be downstairs monitoring your movements with a finely calibrated sense of outrage.

At the edge of combat, the most common complaint is that a colleague's footwear has left initialized nano-scaled prints on the lower part of a particle-board wall at the insistence of one who refuses all entreaties to silently observe patience-free protocols. It could be something as mundane as a lowly houseplant. If you take your good, sweet time at the entrance, we will have every right to band together during the evening hours and see to it that you are impelled to answer for my many deficits. Those on your team have had a hand in each and every instance of my Leader being led into unintentional perfidy until someone got the bright idea to call the State Police in Moline, Illinois. To say that some of us have a fondness for toast of all kinds could lessen racial tensions in the Nuclear Highway Administration [NHA] writ large. If anyone decides to use a 'gravelly' voice as per our instructions, they should also limit their reliance on any sort of mystification. It just makes for a more accurate dump site.

The goal of our entire table-setting scheme is to see to it that one or more of the tesseracts are found within a fortnight of a genuine birthing opportunity. A dream which prevails at the expense of a non-obvious tension-release formula is always preferable to the discovery of a pell-mell inscription on the leader-board of costly compliance procedures. You will know them by the way they slip into position with only the barest of movements. A bit of schmutz on a floorboard is never what gets one through a difficult apostomy. Their seats are in alignment. The coats are 'to die for'. And all their ringed patterns bring gypsum icons to a prestigious, if finicky, boil.  When we count down by threes from ten thousand eight hundred and twenty-six, this should give you enough time to enjoin a solipsistic nomad to fake an intuitive awareness of seasonal cropland referrals. Does this make me want to eat you? Yes, but . . ....

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This is what happens when aggrievement is righteously earned.

 

Jaran Pesmo felt genuinely aggrieved. All morning he'd been taking down small pieces of chalk and placing them in appropriately spaced Dixie cups which he'd bought just for this. And now the wife, whose name he'd only recently purchased in an online auction, took actions that perturbed him. Once his English had failed him, he sought a helping hand at a market near a River underneath a bridge. A bridge, I might add, in desperate need of emergency repairs. Yet everyone felt perfectly okay plowing on through as if someone else could be expected to bear the superlative brunt if worse came to worse. Jaran watched closely to avoid common mistakes. Also to blend in. Even the clothes he wore testified to this in spades. You get the picture. Not everyone does. Try me.

I managed to enroll the wife in a ring-toss intramural dispute while their kids were kept busy in the basement of one of our foremost Major Leabers. Each was designed to incorporate a spoonful of Special Liquid. They knew that if they could go the distance, then I would make sure the parents were awarded custody of a titanium interval desk. It would allow their competitive traits to bloom quite produndantly. We've all known people like that. They ask if you'd like one. You start to move your hand. They back up and try again. Rinse and repeat. All goes well if it starts with persons deciding to pretend to make a bold commitment to appearing effortful. We're glad when recalcitrant busybodies start to see it our way. It will go easier if you join them for a drink in our cellar.

Once Jaran had searched through all of his unbreakable line items, I felt it was time to look directly between his eyes and ask him if he really wanted to go through with this. Or even something vaguely similar. He replied that since the wife had taken to ducts like a floor to water, he'd had to rethink his plans and try to not come up wanting for air in all the wrong places. I knew that he had a chronic knee problem and his place in the Program was at serious risk. We decided to approve his removal to Hawthorne State where there were trained spatialists. Before he was transposed, his remaining underlings expressed the wish to see him in his own wagon. Unfortunately his number had been lost in the War, so we had to make do with an Ivan Cart with the wrong code on each side. It served everyone right. Each of the kids was given a jumper. The wife was gifted a Committee all her own. I took my sweet time before refilling the Delta. The house was sold to a Junior Minister. Despite what anyone might think they've forgotten, no one ever got caught. It was that kind of year. 

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Credit Where Credit Is Due.

 

Now, when the Tembulants are fingered for a Livable Cities Proclamation, their first order of business will be to snare a recording of a pond in the wee hours and perform visual demonstrations, as if any were ever needed. As one of their Captains has assured us, if any harm is encouraged beyond the bordering area, we should call a trembling person in from the street level and go easy. Because not all situations end up in the papers. A lot of them, in fact, don't even make onto a major floor. With the rapid pace being what it is, any of us who looks to find solace in the arc of a misplaced order of numbers cannot be expected to remove recalcitrant call-banners. And that's even before a tower erupts in fissures of bonded mental telergy. Give them credit for scrying. Please.

You will find a sky-blue vanity table employed as a safety lake in our version of night-wide blanking. Whenever it festers more minutely than one rather boldly slotted employee, our training powder is to be dispensed in the form of nano-scale threads of a divergent order. If going into a station field during a humidity stronghold helps a witness recall an important detail, then our ten-fold paper loops can be expected to hold further unbounded names in an old fashioned cellular binder. You will be able to find each rivulet while a room is bathed in temperate semi-darkness. If a moderately priced dessert topping is in your future, it can help your stomache achieve a rare equilibrium. A person who is an enthusiast of of gray-scale sexual disasters should be encouraged to partition each liminal bantustan in thrice weekly step-fields. They will only rain if a conical tube is broken from within a shackled sack. You're welcome.

This is when prayer often enters the picture. Only a wide-angle landscape format could do justice to our fervent jostling. With the smallest of straps deployed directly beneath an oblique angle of winning flesh, any and all markings not highlighted with a velour consignment may bring out one of our number for a devout curtain pressure milab. It remains to be determined whether or if one of the parents on the scene is invited to sip a comforting warm beverage near a gigantic magnet. At this time three years ago, all the hair fell out. Directly onto a Native American Burial Mound. No one was laughing then, we can assure you. If anyone decides that they might like to continue, an appointment will be entertained. Thank you.

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This doesn't mean that we're not still friends.

 

One of us likes to think about the time we went away. The other feels the weight of personal history as it takes its inevitable toll. When anyone issues a muffled whimper a hard choice could be in order. But for us to be able to leak salient details, then a series of coded taps on the partition could be our ticket into a structure of carefree support. I tell them all the time that one of our fondest memories is capping a lid in place and hearing the very satisfying click which accompanies the operation. If I recall correctly, I was wearing teal blue shorts, a beige turtleneck sweater and an Oxnard blazer. She stroked my hand in a way which made all the difference to my final adjustment. Anyone who insisted on arguing about the placement of printed cloths directly underneath critical modules would have to find a new activity with which to wile away the empty hours of their lives.

I'd been up since dawn and my  wife had come down with a minor condition. On my way to the courthouse, I rolled up on an incident already in progress. I secured the perimeter while my partner began attending cooking classes at the local Extension. Everyone I knew started to look at him like he was some kind of irresponsible lunatic. This was totally uncalled for. When I got to my feet and made a very careful decision to walk into town under my own power, it was all I could do to not seek revenge on a trusted family member. If there's one thing I know, it's how to get along with people who have trouble understanding their deepest motivations. For example, this guy called my show the other night and said he had a run-in with a very tough broad down by the waterfront. I told him to pipe down and stop acting like a first-class, grade A, jerk.

Do you think it's likely that anyone in your circle of acquaintanceships could ever see their way clear to have an honest discussion about minority-majority outreach after I'd left the room in a huff? I ask because one of my least ornery former classmates has asked to be given the run of the place while I do a few errands downtown. He says he won't be but a minute and meanwhile I have a rather distressing rash on the inside of my left eyelid. Some crybabies might not see the connection, but that would be on them, not me. For those who would (metaphorically) give their right arm to walk in the footsteps of our finest marketing honcho, I have no advice to share.  

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The following account may resolve some of your heretofore unanswered questions.

 

We have gone over and over end-of-conflict high points, and we're still not convinced that our actions played any part in the atrocious smell associated with a reasonable outcome. I liked to play up my involvement with some of the lads from down the way while my wife stuck to her guns and never for one moment admitted that she'd seen anything unusual, or even revolting. I find it odd that when she speaks with that voice of hers, people can be counted upon to crowd into a room with a very low, if artificial, ceiling. This one was constructed with aggregated wax cylinders. I could tell from the way her eyes moved back and forth from inside her compartment that someone close by had committed to a course of error prone activity. I thought I could identify the party by a stain near an end table. It's the kind of thing which had his name all over it. There wasn't any choice.

I found his home address in the booklet handed to us by an underemployed hostage negotiator during off-hours at a defunct candy operation on the Mainland. The place wasn't hard to find. Even in the late '80s people seemed to have a 'thing' for isolated numbers. And, when we're talking actual musical notes, then the lion's share of accolades are fully impressed on the Nation's wingates. He greeted me in a bathrobe at 1:13 AM from a bench in City Hall Park. I was still working nights at the Eichenwald Mattress Factory, but the connection was okay. We chatted for a while about this and that, but, for some non-obvious reason he just wasn't buying it. I helped him move his luggage down from the third floor so we could pack in peace. From the way he talked, I could tell that he wondered whether my younger sister had been sterilized, even though he never mentioned her directly. I remember that I once saw him accept an award on behalf of someone else at a local ceremony. Suddenly, the alleged 'facts' I'd been given just didn't add up. Not only was I having difficulty breathing, but I was also somewhat thirsty. You can always tell by the way people walk whether or not they've been betrayed by a total stranger.

Once he'd absconded with my share of the proceeds, there was enough to go on. He vowed that a dash of corn powder would help the mush rise. I kept my eye on him while my wife sashayed through the upstairs corridor, checking each door in turn. After the third go-round, I grabbed her wrist and demanded answers. She poo-pooed my seizures. I made a silent plea for help. By this time the man had already gone native and was sleeping like an innocent baby. I pulled the rug out from under him and threw him under the bus. He reacted in a way I'll never forget. I trusted him to keep us safe. From where I stood on the second floor balcony, it appeared that most of our neighbors had gone to a lot of trouble to make us feel at home. We'd only moved there the year before, but, this was just too much. I felt I had no choice but to arrange for a few 'suspicious' fires. The impact was even felt in experimental pedagogical circles. 

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Why not let's grease the skids with a bit o' false modesty, shall we?

 

It's just not true that I risked my life to save a shy person from the consequences of his inadequate personality. What I did, though, was hover silently in the background, let him get his footing, and then compensate his enablers commensurate with their stake in the final outcome. No one knows better than a kid from the South Side what it takes to live an entire life free of chemical infusions. During the lean years, one of us always felt free to create a very large circle inside of which we would routinely vanquish thrill-seekers everywhere. The problem was, some of them had just returned from the Interior Theater and required immediate attention. A few would claim to feel a mystical pain. I used a device on loan from the Agriculture Department to root out the spots where their parents had hidden their collections. With that in hand, I felt we had enough to go on. I wouldn't put my foot in one, but that doesn't mean I'm any taller than the next guy, despite what you may have heard.

Ivandola Crepatura was the name I was given. This person was reputed to be all but totally bereft of retinues and could only continue if we agreed to begin an imaginary exercise program. In earnest this time, if nothing else. So, I suited up, swept some odd wrappers through an antique frame and, for the first time in my life felt the pressure release itself from my ever expanding bilge-line. Anyone who was known to scamper could now be held for up to forty-eight hours, no questions asked, no answers given. I  could put one in a headlock myself, if needs be. Instead I sold my vintage corduroy sweatpants on Ebay for a sweet fiver and started to fix up my place. I was expecting a load of them to take advantage of my offer. And not a moment too soon! Within a month there was a plaque at the base of a statue. Staffers young and old would repair to a dusty lounge to relive the glory days of just a few weeks prior. Now that I'd lost vertical function, everyone felt free to lie about my age in the gutter press.

When you live in such a way that constant intrusions become a thing of the past, it's time to ask yourself a very pointed question. However, if like me you never had much to do with yourself beyond mandatory mirror-time, then you could ill afford a moment to reflect on where you'd be if the game became transparently artificial in a depleted nonce. Because, after all these years, what would it take to get you involved in our experimental surgery protocols? The benefits are second to none, but if I were you, I wouldn't let that stop me from pretending to lurk within striking distance of a disgraced tenant advocate. And, if you think you might find one in a rock-bottom railyard, think again, my friend. Consider long and hard if this is what you want on your gravestone. Because, like it or not, not one of my customers can be trusted to canvas an entire area without air support on the topside. And that's only the beginning. With truth on your side, no one can sneak a bitter spool of thread into your portfolio, beyond what your random Chairperson might think appropriate. And then some. (It's okay to look now.) 

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