[note: this is a different style, I'll try a version of this more like what I usually write as well]
The light woke him up. It didn't seem sunny outside, but it wasn't too cloudy either. He pulled himself upright and got out of bed, then showered, got dressed, and went into the kitchen. He felt numb as he cut up some fruit and poured out some orange juice.
While eating breakfast, he turned on the news. He opened up his pill case and started watching. Taking small sips, he swallowed a red pill (terrorists had bombed a foreign embassy), a yellow pill (drug-resistant tuberculosis cases had risen in Africa by thirty percent over the last six months), and three orange ones (an elderly man who competed in a break-dancing competition and won, a three-year old boy who knew the names of every pope, and a cat who could speak on command). He then refilled each part of the case from the tap to make sure he wouldn't be caught in public without the appropriate pills.
On the subway, like most riders, he kept the case in his backpack. By the time he arrived at work he felt numb again, and looking around, so did everyone else coming in. He wondered what it'd be like if the subways ran smooth enough for him and the other commuters to take their pills without accidents, but decided he'd rather stay clean until he had to work anyway. He sat down at his desk, saw the red border on his monitor indicating a violent event, swallowed a red pill dry, and began translating from shorthand when the assignment (guerilla fighters had robbed a bank in Guatemala, killing six people) opened up.
He felt sad, not angry, as he translated, but it was all right. So long as he could identify his emotional state as a negative one, he could be confident the medication was working, even if his own neurochemistry was, for some reason, playing tricks on him that morning. He reconsidered the idea of risking spilling his pills on the subway in the future to keep as regular a state of medication as possible and kept working on the stories. After five minutes, he was done, and the next story (coded green; atmospheric levels of greenhouse gases had decreased by 8% over the last year) came up.
He had a hard-on at that story. Somehow greenhouse gases were leading to arousal. He'd heard about this sort of thing happening before, but he didn't think it'd happen to him, even though he knew that peoples' reactions to the drugs were sometimes unpredictable. Most of the time, particularly when the drugs worked, he accepted that; small price to pay for a quiet life with the right amount of passion, he thought.
But after the erection subsided and his transcription was done, a yellow story about a bank robbery came up. He was anxious, and whether it was the story or the drug, he couldn't tell-- and it didn't matter. It was enough for him that he wasn't sure what he would feel at every single moment to make him even more unsettled. He was, perhaps for more than one reason, on very uncertain ground.
When a pink story about a husband and wife reunited after both thought the other dead in a fire brought him to choked, anguished sobs, however, he started connecting his emotions to his thoughts. It wasn't sad that they were reunited; the tragedy lay in their reactions. He knew they, like he was before, must have not felt anything until instructed to feel. Marriage was meant to be for a lifetime-- meant to change two peoples' lives-- and now, it no longer even touched their hearts.
He stopped working. He thought about what a poet laureate of the city had said to him once. He realized how boring the poet had been, how he'd confused foreign languages for profound ideas, and it made him sadder. He stood up.
"DO YOU REALIZE WHAT WE'RE ALL DOING?" he asked. Everyone kept working, and the receptionist, with a worried look on her face, picked up the phone.
"WE'RE TAKING MEDS TO TELL PEOPLE WHAT MEDS TO TAKE!"
Everyone's screen flashed red. Everyone swallowed a red pill. Everyone rolled their eyes and got back to work.
"DON'T YOU SEE HOW FUCKED THIS IS?" He left the desk. He couldn't believe how easily everyone else accepted this. There was so much to be sad about; how could his co-workers agree to be what others told them to be? He kicked over a wastebasket and punched a glass-framed picture, doing nothing more than bruising his hand, crying all the time.
A policeman entered and shot him. He fell back into his seat. The policeman walked up to the chair and quickly removed the dart.
"It's all right. How do you feel, sir? Breathe deeply for a few moments."
He breathed deeply for a few moments.
"I'm fine now. What, um, happened?"
"You were taking the wrong medication."
"Oh. Oh my God. I had--"
"I know. Your dispenser wasn't working properly today. It happens once in a while, sir. We got an alert only after your shift began. We were coming here to warn you."
"So you're not bagging me?"
"Did you do something else, sir?" The policeman stiffened up a bit.
"No. I didn't even take the pills in the subway, so I didn't even know there was anything wrong-- then."
"Well. Just sign off on this report, and we'll be on our way."
The policeman held out a pad with a stylus. He signed.
"Thanks, officer."
"I'd recommend taking a sample before leaving for work. Just to be sure. And you can stop at a pharmacy and explain to them what's going on."
"Right. Thanks again, officer."
They replaced his pills, called their dispatcher, and left. Those who'd taken their yellow pills breathed sighs of relief. Things could have gone much worse.
He, meanwhile, while numb, had nonetheless thought quickly and realized two things. First, within the office, people were going to always consider him suspect if he showed any emotions they didn't expect. Second, with the sort of experience he'd gone through, especially as publicly as he had, even the emotions they did expect would be viewed negatively by his co-workers. That led him to one conclusion.
He took the pills and threw them in the trash. They were purely optional, after all, so long as he was stable. He could be certain of his stability while numb. It was better, he'd realized, to be desensitized, reliable, and secure. Emotions, controlled or not, were too messy.
He'd rather do without.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
what do you get for the man who has everything
[note: older story, working on a couple new ideas as well]
Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, so he always had a good one.
It was always different and always delicious.
He ate it and tried to make some sense out of the voices that moved to the kitchen from the bedroom.
They didn't make any sense.
He thought he heard sentences, but they weren't really.
He got showered and dressed for work. His skin felt perfect.
He tried to think about that when he went to work, but the voices playing in his car distracted him.
He tried to change the radio to something else.
There wasn't something else.
There was nothing else to think about, just his skin and the voices.
At his job he sat by himself in his office pretending to work.
The computer didn't even work, it just played the voices constantly.
He'd always hated the people who worked for him, but wondered if the alternative was any better.
From 12:00 to 1:00 p.m. he ate lunch out of a vending machine. The random voices were played over the PA.
It was good, even out of the microwave, and very good for him, whatever he ate.
He went back to work and tried to pretend the voices were his co-workers talking.
It didn't work.
At 5:00 p.m. he left and drove home.
There was no traffic, but the voices on the radio stopped his thinking about the people who worked for him.
He thought they were talking about him, but that was impossible.
He got home and ate a perfect dinner while listening to the voices and trying to pretend they were talking to him.
But they were just random voices, programmed to give him something to listen to.
Because he had to listen to something.
He went to his room.
Under his bed he found a box.
He opened the box and found a gun with one bullet and a typed note.
"I put this here if you want to escape. It's the only way out."
He put the gun in his mouth but didn't pull the trigger.
He wasn't sure if it'd work, he was afraid of what would happen if it did, and he didn't want to think about what he'd do if it didn't.
He went to sleep and told himself what had happened was a dream.
He woke up in his bed. Something had happened, but he'd forgotten.
The voices started playing out of the speakers in the walls.
He got dressed and got breakfast off the kitchen table.
Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, so he always had a good one.
It was always different and always delicious.
He ate it and tried to make some sense out of the voices that moved to the kitchen from the bedroom.
They didn't make any sense.
He thought he heard sentences, but they weren't really.
He got showered and dressed for work. His skin felt perfect.
He tried to think about that when he went to work, but the voices playing in his car distracted him.
He tried to change the radio to something else.
There wasn't something else.
There was nothing else to think about, just his skin and the voices.
At his job he sat by himself in his office pretending to work.
The computer didn't even work, it just played the voices constantly.
He'd always hated the people who worked for him, but wondered if the alternative was any better.
From 12:00 to 1:00 p.m. he ate lunch out of a vending machine. The random voices were played over the PA.
It was good, even out of the microwave, and very good for him, whatever he ate.
He went back to work and tried to pretend the voices were his co-workers talking.
It didn't work.
At 5:00 p.m. he left and drove home.
There was no traffic, but the voices on the radio stopped his thinking about the people who worked for him.
He thought they were talking about him, but that was impossible.
He got home and ate a perfect dinner while listening to the voices and trying to pretend they were talking to him.
But they were just random voices, programmed to give him something to listen to.
Because he had to listen to something.
He went to his room.
Under his bed he found a box.
He opened the box and found a gun with one bullet and a typed note.
"I put this here if you want to escape. It's the only way out."
He put the gun in his mouth but didn't pull the trigger.
He wasn't sure if it'd work, he was afraid of what would happen if it did, and he didn't want to think about what he'd do if it didn't.
He went to sleep and told himself what had happened was a dream.
He woke up in his bed. Something had happened, but he'd forgotten.
The voices started playing out of the speakers in the walls.
He got dressed and got breakfast off the kitchen table.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
repeat track
When he woke up, she had left already.
It was late and he was hung over.
She'd taken most of her stuff and didn't tell him what was going on with her. He was nervous.
There were dishes in the sink and a note explaining that she'd be busy that morning, but she'd be back later to cook, and as recommended, she'd apologize by way of some romantic music.
He let himself be scanned.
The analyst recommended that he explain his decision to Brian.
It explained that Josh had let other people control his decisions too much, and needed to assert himself more often; this was, according to the analyst, a good first step.
The analyst continued, reminding Josh that Emily's behavior was due to, according to its scan, her frustration with her own life, not his behavior.
He called Brian to invite him to the local Starbucks for some coffee.
Josh was confident.
They went to Starbucks, got some coffee, and sat down.
"You're my friend. So I have to say this. You're being a fucking idiot, man."
"I don't know what else to do. I've never known someone who made me feel that happy."
"Tell her no. She cheated on you."
"I can't care about that."
"Yeah, you do care about it. You're gonna think about it every time you're with her."
"I don't think so. I think I can grow from this and be a better person."
"Everybody says that."
"I know I can."
"Everybody. And they're wrong."
"I'm a smart man with good friends and people who'll be honest to me."
"We all just love you and have the best intentions towards you, just remember that."
"I really appreciate your advice, Brian."
"Just think about what I'm saying at least."
He left and went back to the apartment.
She was boiling pasta in the kitchen and had a Mountain Goats CD playing in the living room.
He turned on the TV and watched the weather for a few minutes, then flipped through HBO and the Sundance Channel, not stopping for more than a few seconds on anything.
He picked up the guitar and tried to play a song, but it was too loud.
"Could you turn that down?" he asked quietly. No one answered.
He picked up the phone and started looking through the Caller ID.
He then went over to the computer and checked through the browser's log of visited sites.
He didn't look through her belongings this time.
It was late and he was hung over.
She'd taken most of her stuff and didn't tell him what was going on with her. He was nervous.
There were dishes in the sink and a note explaining that she'd be busy that morning, but she'd be back later to cook, and as recommended, she'd apologize by way of some romantic music.
He let himself be scanned.
The analyst recommended that he explain his decision to Brian.
It explained that Josh had let other people control his decisions too much, and needed to assert himself more often; this was, according to the analyst, a good first step.
The analyst continued, reminding Josh that Emily's behavior was due to, according to its scan, her frustration with her own life, not his behavior.
He called Brian to invite him to the local Starbucks for some coffee.
Josh was confident.
They went to Starbucks, got some coffee, and sat down.
"You're my friend. So I have to say this. You're being a fucking idiot, man."
"I don't know what else to do. I've never known someone who made me feel that happy."
"Tell her no. She cheated on you."
"I can't care about that."
"Yeah, you do care about it. You're gonna think about it every time you're with her."
"I don't think so. I think I can grow from this and be a better person."
"Everybody says that."
"I know I can."
"Everybody. And they're wrong."
"I'm a smart man with good friends and people who'll be honest to me."
"We all just love you and have the best intentions towards you, just remember that."
"I really appreciate your advice, Brian."
"Just think about what I'm saying at least."
He left and went back to the apartment.
She was boiling pasta in the kitchen and had a Mountain Goats CD playing in the living room.
He turned on the TV and watched the weather for a few minutes, then flipped through HBO and the Sundance Channel, not stopping for more than a few seconds on anything.
He picked up the guitar and tried to play a song, but it was too loud.
"Could you turn that down?" he asked quietly. No one answered.
He picked up the phone and started looking through the Caller ID.
He then went over to the computer and checked through the browser's log of visited sites.
He didn't look through her belongings this time.
Thursday, February 8, 2007
endgame
It was a beautiful warm cloudless day and everyone looked anxious.
A boy played chess outside with his teacher on a broken chess set with an old lipstick tube substituted for the white king.
The boy, playing white, was getting frustrated losing to his teacher.
A horn blared over a loudspeaker. The game was over.
Everyone in the town walked single-file into the gutted town square, scrubbed their faces, brushed their hair, and smiled as broadly as they could.
Soldiers marched in, looking closely at their teeth, hair, and into their eyes.
The teacher was pulled from the line.
The soldiers gestured to all the grown men of the town and pointed at the teacher, then a box full of clubs they brought with them.
Single-file the townsmen picked clubs from the box and inspected the handles.
One townsman finally found the red-painted handle. The soldiers on either side of him gestured at the teacher.
He swung his club and hit the teacher in the back of the neck. The teacher fell to the ground and cracked his teeth.
The rest of the townsmen began swinging at him with their clubs.
All the women and children kept smiling as hard as possible. One woman coughed.
The soldiers dragged her from the line and threw her at the teacher still on the ground.
The townsmen started beating her until motioned away.
The soldiers then dragged the bodies into their cart and left the village.
A baby almost cried, but his mother slapped her hand over the mouth and tucked him under her jacket. She quickly ran away with one hand over her own mouth.
The student went back to the chess game. He hoped someone else would play with him.
A boy played chess outside with his teacher on a broken chess set with an old lipstick tube substituted for the white king.
The boy, playing white, was getting frustrated losing to his teacher.
A horn blared over a loudspeaker. The game was over.
Everyone in the town walked single-file into the gutted town square, scrubbed their faces, brushed their hair, and smiled as broadly as they could.
Soldiers marched in, looking closely at their teeth, hair, and into their eyes.
The teacher was pulled from the line.
The soldiers gestured to all the grown men of the town and pointed at the teacher, then a box full of clubs they brought with them.
Single-file the townsmen picked clubs from the box and inspected the handles.
One townsman finally found the red-painted handle. The soldiers on either side of him gestured at the teacher.
He swung his club and hit the teacher in the back of the neck. The teacher fell to the ground and cracked his teeth.
The rest of the townsmen began swinging at him with their clubs.
All the women and children kept smiling as hard as possible. One woman coughed.
The soldiers dragged her from the line and threw her at the teacher still on the ground.
The townsmen started beating her until motioned away.
The soldiers then dragged the bodies into their cart and left the village.
A baby almost cried, but his mother slapped her hand over the mouth and tucked him under her jacket. She quickly ran away with one hand over her own mouth.
The student went back to the chess game. He hoped someone else would play with him.
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
putting on your face
She wanted to make him jealous, so she stepped into the changing room that morning.
She turned on the computer, chose full, ripe breasts, light brown hair, and skinny boys' hips, and lay down on the table.
After about thirty minutes of torture, she was ready.
She dragged herself out of the changing room and towards her bathroom.
She swallowed pills off the sink in the bathroom and could walk again five minutes later.
When she was done showering off the blood and tissue, she staggered out of the bathroom and onto her bed.
With a few moments of relaxation breathing, she could ignore the aches and tears (quickly healing), and so grabbed the remote.
She flipped on the TV and went into the kitchen.
Bravo! was showing clips of a fashion show. Every model looked alike.
She cut up a banana into a bowl of cereal and drank grapefruit juice (all from an organic foods co-op a few blocks from her).
She went to the closet and, glancing at the screen, picked out some clothes-- underwear, a blue dress her body (less sore now) almost fell out of, matching pumps, and earrings and a watch.
A look in the mirror and she left.
When she reached the street, she gasped.
Every woman on the street looked exactly like her.
This was the third time so far this year. She was pissed.
Every man she saw looked like him, too; blond hair, blue eyes, square chin, wiry yet muscular, and around six feet tall.
Some of the people had trouble balancing, but most of them-- men and women-- were used to their centers of gravity.
It felt like the world was teasing her.
She went back up to her apartment and started watching TV. Not everyone looked the same, but the people that looked like him and her looked the happiest.
That's where they got the idea, she realized.
I don't know what to do, she thought. If I change again, what will I change to? Will he be jealous if he sees me, or will he think I don't care about my appearance?
Isn't that a sign of low self-esteem?
She stayed there all day, unable to come to a useful conclusion. She decided to go back to the original look the next day, and she felt better about it.
When the skin grafts and bone lengthening healed, and she could walk without crying, she went out to the bar.
It was evening by then, and Deva was there.
"Hey June, what's up?"
"I'm all right, life sucks right now but I'm okay."
"Yeah, my job's really pissing me off and I think I'm going to quit."
"You can't quit, Deva, you make that place more than a store," June said.
"I know, it's such a nice place but it needs help, I need to make it better."
"I don't want to talk about my life, how's school?"
"School's great, I'm on drugs or drunk here when I'm not in class or at work, and I get all the lectures from a guy I'm paying to copy his recordings."
"That's great, you should write a book about it, I think someone would make a movie out of it."
"Yeah, it's great."
"Tristan dumped me," June said.
"Oh, sweetie, I'm so sorry."
"No, he was an asshole, and I'm glad he left me. I didn't need his shit."
"Yeah, you're right, what happened?"
"Tris was angry about something that happened, I don't know what."
"He didn't want to talk about it."
"No, he just got home from school a couple days ago, got on the Internet, stayed on until about ten, and went to sleep on the couch. The next morning I woke up and he was gone and he'd taken his change of clothes and toothbrush, and I didn't see him until work on Monday and he wouldn't talk to me."
"What the hell."
"Yeah, I know. My last boyfriend used to hit me, he'd get so mad about shit," June said.
"That must have sucked."
"It's not as bad as getting ignored."
"June, that's fucked up."
"I know it sounds fucked up, it is, but I'd rather get hit than ignored."
"I can't relate, I'm sorry but that's how I am. I'm meeting Jim in a couple minutes. Take care, sweetie."
Deva left then. June opened up the catalog on the bar. It was new. She looked through for new features, body types, and hair colors, selected them, and downloaded them to her changing room.
She still wanted to make him notice her.
She turned on the computer, chose full, ripe breasts, light brown hair, and skinny boys' hips, and lay down on the table.
After about thirty minutes of torture, she was ready.
She dragged herself out of the changing room and towards her bathroom.
She swallowed pills off the sink in the bathroom and could walk again five minutes later.
When she was done showering off the blood and tissue, she staggered out of the bathroom and onto her bed.
With a few moments of relaxation breathing, she could ignore the aches and tears (quickly healing), and so grabbed the remote.
She flipped on the TV and went into the kitchen.
Bravo! was showing clips of a fashion show. Every model looked alike.
She cut up a banana into a bowl of cereal and drank grapefruit juice (all from an organic foods co-op a few blocks from her).
She went to the closet and, glancing at the screen, picked out some clothes-- underwear, a blue dress her body (less sore now) almost fell out of, matching pumps, and earrings and a watch.
A look in the mirror and she left.
When she reached the street, she gasped.
Every woman on the street looked exactly like her.
This was the third time so far this year. She was pissed.
Every man she saw looked like him, too; blond hair, blue eyes, square chin, wiry yet muscular, and around six feet tall.
Some of the people had trouble balancing, but most of them-- men and women-- were used to their centers of gravity.
It felt like the world was teasing her.
She went back up to her apartment and started watching TV. Not everyone looked the same, but the people that looked like him and her looked the happiest.
That's where they got the idea, she realized.
I don't know what to do, she thought. If I change again, what will I change to? Will he be jealous if he sees me, or will he think I don't care about my appearance?
Isn't that a sign of low self-esteem?
She stayed there all day, unable to come to a useful conclusion. She decided to go back to the original look the next day, and she felt better about it.
When the skin grafts and bone lengthening healed, and she could walk without crying, she went out to the bar.
It was evening by then, and Deva was there.
"Hey June, what's up?"
"I'm all right, life sucks right now but I'm okay."
"Yeah, my job's really pissing me off and I think I'm going to quit."
"You can't quit, Deva, you make that place more than a store," June said.
"I know, it's such a nice place but it needs help, I need to make it better."
"I don't want to talk about my life, how's school?"
"School's great, I'm on drugs or drunk here when I'm not in class or at work, and I get all the lectures from a guy I'm paying to copy his recordings."
"That's great, you should write a book about it, I think someone would make a movie out of it."
"Yeah, it's great."
"Tristan dumped me," June said.
"Oh, sweetie, I'm so sorry."
"No, he was an asshole, and I'm glad he left me. I didn't need his shit."
"Yeah, you're right, what happened?"
"Tris was angry about something that happened, I don't know what."
"He didn't want to talk about it."
"No, he just got home from school a couple days ago, got on the Internet, stayed on until about ten, and went to sleep on the couch. The next morning I woke up and he was gone and he'd taken his change of clothes and toothbrush, and I didn't see him until work on Monday and he wouldn't talk to me."
"What the hell."
"Yeah, I know. My last boyfriend used to hit me, he'd get so mad about shit," June said.
"That must have sucked."
"It's not as bad as getting ignored."
"June, that's fucked up."
"I know it sounds fucked up, it is, but I'd rather get hit than ignored."
"I can't relate, I'm sorry but that's how I am. I'm meeting Jim in a couple minutes. Take care, sweetie."
Deva left then. June opened up the catalog on the bar. It was new. She looked through for new features, body types, and hair colors, selected them, and downloaded them to her changing room.
She still wanted to make him notice her.
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