It's been well remarked upon in the international press that my dander has been fully engaged. While I can't maintain that this is untrue in its fundamental aspects, still we must try to adhere to an imaginary standard. We've called for the formation of some kind of committee or something, only to be rebuffed at the very last minute, when I've already picked out my costume. This just won't fly, or the kids will flip. And by 'flip' I mean experimenting with drubs, among other things. Things that I can't talk about. Things that I don't like to think about, unless I have an erection,...and then of course, the sky's the limit. But let's not get bogged down, shall we? Good! Let's keep it that way.
Tell me if this isn't isn't what you mean. Okay, so we stand there for about five minutes. Don't try this or you'll be sorry. I'm becoming more and more comfortable in a way that I can't (or won't) describe, but I'm getting ahead of myself. Don't let me do that or I'll kill you. Just kidding. It's this little thingie they refer to as a 'personality tic'. Personally I don't buy it. No sir, I'm just not having any. You can understand that, right? I mean, if someone was to put on your head what was put on mine, I seriously doubt that you wouldn't buckle under the pressure like the cheap camera I know you to be. It only goes to show you. That's what I always say. Unless I don't feel like saying it. In that case I say something else. Or maybe nothing at all. It just depends how I feel .....
This time I came in through the side door. It wasn't much, but it was something. Up until now, my brother-in-law had insisted that I wait in the trunk of my car till after dark, and then begin gently knocking on the inside of the right fender. But, as I say, that wasn't necessary this time. The side door would do just fine. So, once I'm in, I go straight to the kitchen. Two red lights on the wall unit are blinking. I've seen this before. Something smelled funny, but I wasn't laughing, I just struggled to suppress a dry cough. So over to the kitchen table I go, reach under where the portable TV is sitting and find a small scrap of paper taped there, remove it and take a deep breath. Look at the paper. It's a phone number. Figures! Okay, so use the cell. After two rings a woman answers. Before I have a chance to say anything, she's giving me instructions: Sit at the picnic table in the backyard and pretend to read a book for eight minutes. Then I'm to go inside and wait for the men to arrive. I don't know anything about any men, and tell her so, quite forcefully I might add. I'm really starting to not like this sequence. It would never have happened this way before things started to go downhill. Up until now, self-examination was the essence of the whole thing. Who knew if I could make it in the 'new regime'?
Anyway, so once I'm out of there I hightail it back downtown to get my bearings. Have a cup of coffee at the corner. I'm sitting there ruminating and this guy 'accidentally' steps on my foot. Things get out of hand and before you know it, I'm sitting on this stupid fuck's chest while he bleeds from the nose and mouth. I'm feeling 'pretty', until I realize this guy's an off-duty cop, now I'm REALLY in the shit. Before I pass out, I cut myself with my pen knife to create a distraction, apparently to no avail whatsoever. Several hours later I wake up in a room I've never been in before. I recognize my wife in the corner, her back to me, fiddling with some small device while I come to in a red leather Lay-Z-Boy. I'm smoking a cigarette, not my usual brand. I hear whispering coming from behind the chair, but I'm still too woozy to get up, so I don't. I just sit there.
It so happens that I was escorted by phalanx of individuals (not one of whom had failed to misidentify him or herself to me over the preceding seven and a half weeks), to a location equidistant between here and a medium sized city in the southeastern part of northern Middle West (that's all I can say for now,...until I get clearance) .
Much to my dismay, this was to be the third time in three years that my natural endowment of intuition profoundly failed me in a way that I expect will leave an indelible mark of metaphorical 'egg on my face' for the remainder, or until I get my shot. You know how it goes; one up, three over.
This goes back now. Because now I was in the back of the car. It was night. Bladder full to bursting. Sore throat. Rancid pustules. The feeling of some unknown thing not yet done. Or at least not done as one would prefer, if one had the choice, which, obviously I didn't. But even if I had, I never would have let on. No, not this time.
In view of the fact that I was blushing while they bandied about names of close family members, time of death still unrecorded, an 'arrangement' seemed all but certain (Bastards in shiny boots, they were keepers of a fumey thing.) We were given details on the way in. My headache persisted. I was given a small piece of flint to hold between my teeth.
Now I'm finally permitted to urinate. It's in a large dim room. There's crackling PA announcements in the distance. Now I wade into the center, or at least what I take to be the center, since it's kind of darksy by now.
They start fighting behind me, but I don't care. All I wanted to do was help, the slips were on the table, take my old coat, throw it in the fire, compete in various drills, focus on telling no one, creep about, donate old vinyl flange, bake one down and flay, not too fast though,...since, as we say in this thing, 'what's cuz?'
Even though my name was dust on some lips, the day was coming to cut my phrim. Tell someone to 'hold it' and you've had too much. Ensconce yourself in the periphery, but don't nod. Tape is through. Teach me Waga-Bahly® and be done with it.
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