| |
||||||
| |
|
|
|
|
|
|
 |
 |
|
|
THIS IS THE PICTURE on the wall: And there is no denying the way it hangs between two windows above booths 4, 6, and 8 in the Bun Boy Restaurant, my greatest, most persistent tie to my own perception. Outside the window there is the world's tallest thermometer. But I am not bored. I am in fact satisfied with my view, as I am satisfied with the TV that plays in the corner and the semi-attractive wait staff and the complaints of overcooked bacon on BLTs. For if I were to say my sanity did not depend on these well-manifested, consumptive distractions, I'd be lying to myself. I put more fries into the grease. Cintrax: I am the smartest man alive. H. Jordac: How do you know? Cintrax: Because no one can convince me I'm not. A billboard or two lead travelers here, along Interstate 15. We are the Gateway to Death Valley. We have a gift shop, whose souvenirs will soon be available to order over the Internet. C.: My painting is the best. H. J.: Out of all the painting in history? C.: Yes. It would have to be. Enter Channing, my manager and the most successful asshole I know. This has to be genius of some kind. He watches what I'm doing behind the line for a few seconds, tells me to stop putting my thoughts into my notebook and to do some work. He tells me this is the least competent staff he's ever fucking seen. And he walks away, shaking his head, carried quickly on his short legs. So I flip a hamburger on the grill, waiting for it to cook enough to apply the American cheese. I look back at the order. It suddenly reads Swiss. I will get off work in 25 minutes. C: I didn't have to work to get here. H. J.: Where are you? C: On the way back from black and white. I drive home from work at 3 am with my head out the window, the sky one of Baker's few rewards. Some of the shooting stars try to get into my car, and I am touched. The kitchen light is on as I pull up the driveway. Through the front door and looking to the right, I find Mary sitting on the counter, playing the violin, but I do not go into the room. In fact, the glow cast in a parallelogram from the doorway will not even let me walk through it, so I edge along the wall and go to the bedroom on the left. C: More important to me, my music is the best. H. J.: What makes it greater? C.: No one else's has ever said anything. Mary walks in at some point later and finds me standing by the closet. She speaks softly. "It's almost summer you know." "I know Mary, but not this year, I won't go there." "He makes you lonely." "You can't imagine." I walk towards her. "But regardless.it is over." "I know, but just don't forget." "Mary." "Well, goodnight." I press my lips together and furrow my brow slightly before speaking. "Yes. Goodnight." I go to Mary, to embrace her or touch her, but my hand slips right through her body and I fall backwards into sleep. C: It is not helpful to have beliefs. H.J.: Not ever? C: Not as long as this is still your world. The next day I get into my car and pull out onto the main road. As a test, I slow to a stop. But as I expected, the road starts pulling me like I am glued to the end of a great strip of carpet. It becomes bunched up in front of me like a decent sized hill by the time we reach Bun Boy. I sigh, park, get out of the car and out of the corner of my eye, I watch it snicker and straighten out. C: You must realize that what you will have is the best. H.J.: And then what? C: It truly comes closer, for you take over at my eternal best. I avoid a linear prediction, but I know it is close. I drink a cup of dark roast with Channing and we comment on how Nancy and Joe are late for their morning bagels and juice at the corner table by the gift shop. At another point I start prepping onions and tomatoes and peppers but it is hard to be accurate. They sink into the counter, the counter into the ground as my eyes begin to leave me. I do notice Nancy and Joe have taken their seats and I make their food as a child might-I remember nothing of my learned routine. It turns out as a masterpiece and I float into the dining area to serve the two police myself, silently. It is unbelievable silence. I understand quiet without hearing the absence of sound. C: You choose when to stop listening to me. H.J.: You are telling me you are teaching? C: When I am mute, you will decide. Channing is near me, but he is quickly becoming invisible. It is the most beautiful thing, to lose the context that made the shell, to then lose the body. He is clear and I see him. I too am clear; we occupy the same thing which makes us up. And then Mary, oh Mary . No such thing as . the world explodes into infinity black and white makes clear and the last thing I lose is the picture. Now, finally, this is the picture on the wall: And it becomes the gateway. C: Answers are not to be sought. H.J.: How will I know when I'm there? C: You will not be there. You will have freedom. The room I wake up in is small, but quite nice, with perfectly square windows on two of the walls. It's as though I've already been living an everyday life here, as I can see one of my sweaters thrown over a chair, and my wallet and keys on the dresser. I have a throbbing headache, but shortly I realize that the body answers to the degree I choose to channel my new control over pain. And now I just hear a soft Cintrax, for what I know is the last time. C.: I guess I know what it means that you've been relocated. H.J.: Yes. C: And what has your new mobility revealed? As you wrap and give context to your version of it, what truth is now sustaining the inner clear? But as he knows, I do not hear him. And I do not speak. |
copyright © 2002, The College
Hill Independent
last updated 11 22 02
Make some