This Happened Last Month.

 

We were seated near my living room one day last month. I'd been having trouble keeping up with a dangerous collection of conflict agents who were at that very moment conducting an inventory of our extended membership's crafted response objects. This was far from the first time that I spied their presence before they began intoning the names of home-bound transients to see how we would react. I walked into the kitchen, opened a cupboard, sighted a finious notecard, took my younger sister's temperature and then left all of them to figure out where I'd go once my papers were released. The truth is, I had no idea either. All I knew was that there could have been a series of inscriptions just to the East of a tree where someone had once done their business. I'm not in the habit of calling out to people from across the way, but now that I've gotten used to it, I'm very comfortable sneaking into certified locations and trying to pick up the thread.

The very distinguished Fallencourt Dome is what you need to look for when you find yourself at odds with some of the characters who've gone on to invent some very terrific gadgets. That's where, if you're lucky (and not a little daring), you might pick up some weekend roles. Right now they're looking for folks from 5'7" to 6'1", between 31 and 46, who have thinning darkish hair and an obsession with projecting balanced opinions into modern influencer cohorts. You should be not very well dressed and have a clean record. When I pick you up later near the stables, I'll ask you to look straight ahead, not say anything and pretend that we once knew each other casually since we dated the same cashier. Her name was Janet Stewart. She liked to sew and was allergic to short-hair cats. Once when she fell down in a parking lot at the mall, a younger person made a face in a nearby store. From where she'd fallen, she couldn't see the face, but it reminded her anyway about how things sometimes happen in life, and how there's really no good explanation, except to believe in God or Satan or Zeus. If you get that far, you might be able to sleep easier than anyone who takes things at face value. Or who smokes. Yes, we talked about that as well. Why shouldn't we? We've had our shots. 

Everyone I know seems to think that this is such a tragisty. But, quite frankly, no one is amused when we start to get all huffy. And then, when two or three (usually the most 'well grounded') begin to sing together very softly each time they round a corner, those who are left behind might try to report them. This is not considered fair play where I come from. Not one person knows what you do in secret. Even high-scorers are troubled these days, according to a self-proclaimed expert. I had dinner with this expert the other night. His wife was there too. She was sitting at another table, though. Alone. Reading a book. Drinking mineral water. Stroking her left eyebrow with her right index finger. When I asked what the big deal was, she pulled a piece of paper out of her purse and placed it gently on her head. I'd never seen anything like it. Now I'm having trouble sleeping. You be the judge. Go ahead.

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