Archive for the ‘Authors’ Category
I am Joe’s Will to Live
Monday, February 9th, 2009
Joe lives the most ordinary life in the world. Look in the census for the average guy, and that’s Joe. Oh, sometimes he might have diabetes, or an aneurysm, testicular cancer, maybe heart disease and even Psoriasis Symptoms. But he gets well each time; they’re just for show.
They took out his pancreas, put it back. His heart. His spleen. His brain. And he lived through it all. But take me away…
Most of the time he enjoys his middle-of-the-road existence, with his two-point-whatever children, his wife, and his utterly mundane life. But then along come the butchers — oh, excuse me — medical researchers, the ones who take him apart and put him most of the way back together. If anybody else were doing the cutting, it would be illegal. But not them. They’re special; it’s their job. Saves experimenting on animals, I guess.
That brings me to, well, me. See, Joe’s special, too. He lives through every operation. That’s because he has me.
Oh, I didn’t say there wasn’t pain. The research wouldn’t be worth the pulp its printed on if he weren’t in agony for every slice. Those nerves around the heart — brr. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear there was a special readout on the EEG just for pain.
Now they plan a me-ectomy. I am Joe’s Will to Live, and I don’t have long for this world.
But I’ve got me a little secret, see? I’m a numinous quality, like the collective unconscious, or apophenia, or those creation myths that seems so similar from culture to culture. I’m shared.
That means they can’t take it away from Joe without taking it away from everybody.
See you on the other side.
Interference
Friday, February 6th, 2009
There is only one pushcart. I’m sure you’ve noticed that around meal times the service slows down. I don’t mean the line gets long, although it does. I mean that when you are at the front of the line and you ask Jimmy or whatever the name is for a chili foot-long or cheese fries he takes a while to respond. There is hesitation, there may be blank stares, there may be lapses of memory. All of these are indications of lack of bandwidth. This never happens if you want a double cheeseburger with all the trimmings at 8:26 p.m. That’s a slack time.
I see you don’t believe me. Take this paper. Don’t look at it! Give it to any pushcart operator: he won’t be able to look away. See, this is important. The pushcart… Okay, _pushcarts_. I believe the “pushcarts” represent the vanguard of an invasion force. I don’t know whether their role is surveillance, sleeper cell, or what. But why would they hide if they didn’t mean us harm?
What?
Maybe so, but if we are experimental subjects and the pushcart represents some intergalactic psychology department, yes, I do object. I want them out of my brain and off my planet.
So here’s the plan. Tomorrow, hand this to any pushcart operator. Then see what happens. You’ll know if it works.
*
Go ahead, give it to her. You want me to do it? Alright, alright, give it here. Howdy Ma’am, I want to buy a hot dog. But first, would you take a look at this please? Thank you.
[Whispers] yes, I know she’s reading it. She’s still reading. No, maybe you’re right. She is just standing there, immobile. That’s what I told you would happen.
So the pushcart has flickered out. Probably all of them have disappeared, except for the single real one. No, I don’t see anything else that’s changed. Well, except that all the buildings have disappeared. And the trees, the pavement, and the sky.
Don’t be such a baby. You still have me, and this regular hexagonal grid on the floor. And the face. Look up. Big eyes, enlarged cranium, it’s the standard tabloid alien. Who knew they were real? It doesn’t do any good to panic. I was wrong: the pushcarts weren’t the only fakes. So sue me. Hey, at least we still have each other.
End