Waiting for Joseph Varnhein

This is a short piece of fiction I just wrote entitled Waiting for Joseph Varnhein. I hope you enjoy it!

I read all his books, and he wasn’t even there. All seven of his amazing books in the Gatsby Starship Series, all of his short stories(even the one with the tentacles he said he only did for the money), his biography, his autobiography, and I even signed up on that thing know as Twitter just to get his inspirational quotes every week or so. I drove three hours out of my way, in the car kept together by Duct Tape, in my dirty white Stop N’ Save shirt just to wait on line, just to see his face, just to get a squiggle that barely resembles the beautiful words, “Joseph Varnhein” on a book to battered to remember its creator.

And he wasn’t even there.

A few fans were standing around, arguing over whether Tabatha really died in the fifth book and whether the second was better than the fourth. The Borders patrons were walking around as if nothing had happened, as if Gods walked around them daily. There was one guy dressed in tin foil and wire that really made a good Drasnick from the third book. I tried to figure out what had happened to the man I joined the Twitter for. He was here. He wasn’t here. He was here, but then he left, but he’ll be coming back in a Cadillac, so don’t worry. The point was that he was not here now and I was standing with an unsquiggled-on book. It was probably about time I took care of the bladder problem I had been holding for the last forty-five minutes anyway.

I was standing at the urinal with my back to the door, watching my urine create a city of bubbles when I heard the creaking of another visitor. He shuffled straight past me and headed to the middle stall. I only caught a glimpse of him through the corner of my eye, but I saw the brown blazer and the gray mustache, and that was all I needed. That was Joseph Varnhein.

The stream instantly cut off. I was petrified. Dare I peak in the crease between the stall door and wall and risk bursting into flames at witnessing the holy of holies?

Crazy idea the first: Jump over the stall, snap a quick picture with the phone I never use, and blackmail him into coming to my house and signing every book in his series.

Crazy idea the second: crawl under the stall and hand him both a pen and a book without looking.

I could do neither of these. I stood and listened. Just to listen to Joseph Varnhein would be enough. There was a rustling of toilet paper being pulled and carefully placed down. Of course he’s a careful man. I’m surprised they don’t have a fur seat cover waiting for him with the letters of his name outlined in gold.

There’s a shuffling of shoes, and a fiddling of the belt buckle. I don’t know why, of course Joseph Varnhein wears pants, I just never imagined him with a belt. Not that it isn’t obviously a practical way to keep one’s pants up, it’s just the clickity clack of the buckle unhinging from the notch is such a normal familiar sound. I suppose I would have pictured fairies holding up and lightly dropping his pants for him, but I suppose that’s just a little much.

And then there is nothing but his breathing. I could never envision Joseph Varnhein breathing like that. One could scarcely envision Joseph Varnhein breathing at all. Do gods breathe? Do heroes breathe? I guess they have to. It’s a deep nasally intake, just a bit raspy. It’s long and slow and a paints a picture of his lungs filling with oxygen. He doesn’t remind me of my grandfather. He reminds me of all the old people sitting around my grandfather, with walkers and breathing mechanisms, watching Alex Trabeck on a TV with rabbit ears.

The breathing doesn’t sound human in the emotional sense of the word, not as though you’d envision a brother or a sister or a friend. It’s mechanical. This is a Joseph Varnhein breathing machine.

There is a heaving and a panting and a silent release of gas. I can’t in all conscience picture what this Joseph Varnhein machine is doing. And then there is a plop in the water, a light splash. Two plops. Three. This is the creator of the seven greatest works of literature of all time and something is coming out of him. If this were really a Joseph Varnhein machine, I’d like to think that what was going on here was the creative process. Three little ideas just dropped into the water and are floating there, waiting to be used. Four. But I realize I’ve been standing at a urinal for the past two minutes, holding my genitals, and this can not possibly be anything related to writing an epic.

I zipped up and walked over to the sink to fill my hands with soap. It is only after I’m standing with my hands under the sorry excuse for a wind machine that I realized I’d forgotten to flush. One does not forget to flush in the presence of Joseph Varnhein, no matter what process he’s in the middle of completing. I had to walk over and shamefully pull the plunger. And then of course I had to wash my hands again because one must be clean in the presence of Joseph Varnhein.

And I waited. I’ve read all his books and all his short stories and I drove three hours out of my way to listen to this machine release gas, and I wasn’t about to leave without knowing whether this is really Joseph Varnhein or not. Because there’s always the chance the creator of the battered and now slightly wet tome I’m holding does not share the same identity as the man that is in that stall. A very good chance.

There was a flush, and the familiar sound of the belt buckle again. He unlocked the stall, and walked out. There was a moment of awkward silence as we both stared at each other. I gave him the weakest smile I had while hiding the book behind my back. He shot a quick smile back, and then he left. I didn’t ask him to squiggle on my book. I didn’t run after him and ask him about the riddle of the squid in the fifth book, which had been bothering me for four years; I just stood there and continued to wait. Because that was not Joseph Varnhein.

Joseph Varnhein would not have made those noises and sounds. Joseph Varnhein would not have made those breathing noises. Joseph Varnhein would have had a much more serene creative process. Joseph Varnhein would have washed his hands. Joseph Varnhein would have been great, and that was not Jospeph Varnhein. So I kept waiting. But he didn’t come.

I read all his books and he wasn’t even there.

Why I would never make a Spider-Man Game

“LIES!” you say. “How could you even think such a slanderous thing?!” Well ok, I might consider it. But here’s why I’d rather have my own character in an original videogame.

You can’t make him dance

You’re using someone else’s pre-made character instead of your own. That character comes with baggage: his own ways of doing things, his own quips, his own reasons, his own backstory. It would be like playing D&D with someone else’s character. “I want Broahan the Wise to slit that Goblin’s throat.” “What? You can’t do that! Broahan the Wise would never do such a thing!!” This already used, already established character has a certain way of doing things, and there’s no way you can change that, because that’s what defines the character.

This is also the reason why people say Batman is the least interesting character in the story. Batman will never go over the edge and murder someone, he’ll always have his parents killed and have a need to avenge them, he’ll always have the need to dress up like a bat, and he’ll never say, “Nah, I’ll take a break from crime fighting tonight. The crooks can arrest themselves.” And to meander from these traits would not be Batman. How could Batman not be Batman? His villains, on the other hand, have a little bit more leeway, and the game/cartoon/movie/comic creators always have the opportunity of creating a new one.

Everyone will hate you

Why did we all hate Spider-Man in Spider-Man 3(Let’s not get into the fact that they had too many villains with too little screen time)? He was acting the way Spider-Man would never act. Peter Parker would never strut down the sidewalk provocatively. Peter Parker would never break into a jazz number. Peter Parker would never do a sassy hair flip at J. Jonah Jameson (No seriously, WTF Pete?!). Peter Parker would never kiss another random girl when he’s already dating a super model. Wasn’t that what you were thinking when you watched that? They messed with an established character.

Now, if they had made a film about Super Duper Arachno Man©, all those things could have been believable because it was a new character. In fact, if they had gone that route, all those things could have looked like they were mocking the established character of Spiderman, as Kick-Ass did so wonderfully.

It’s all been done before

Characters like Spider-Man and Batman have been around a long time, so any “new” idea you may have for that character(that would fit with that character and in that universe) has probably already been done before. He’s had a girlfriend, he’s been married, he’s had his unborn child murdered, he’s been in an alternate reality where he does have a kid, he’s had clones, he’s has secret robot parents, what more do you want to do to the poor guy?

Make your own character

You don’t want to write fan-fiction all your life, do you? By making your own character instead of using an already existing one, you can make him richer and fuller than any pre-established character. Don’t make an exact carbon copy, just enough to pay some homage. Give him enough unique touches to make him an interesting and rich character. Maybe Super Duper Arachno Man© is a huge tool and gives everyone a sassy hair flick because the Super Duper Archno Radiation© that gave him his powers also gave him incurable cancer and he has to get in all the sassy hair flicks he can! Interesting yes, but could you ever see that as storyline for Spider-Man? No. Which makes it even better in a game or animation, you’ve just made something unique that no one else could have seen coming.

Super Duper Arachno Man©2010

A Strategic Use of Swearing or What the F@#$?!

Profanity is an important tool in any artist’s tool belt. Whether it’s movies, games, novels, or plays, dirty language needs to be carefully considered. Some authors abstain from swearing because they feel it’s juvenile. Others swear every other word to feel natural. I am neither arguing for the use of swearing or arguing against it, but merely suggesting a smart way of considering whether or not you should.

And before we go any further: Ass, Fuck, Bitch, Bastard, Cunt, Damn, Hell, Balls, Meekrab.

To curse or to hold your tongue

In some instances, it makes dialogue feel more natural and situations feel more realistic. Why? Because in real life, we curse all the time. When we stub our pinky toe on the corner of the coffee table, when we just realize our significant other has his or tongue down another’s throat, when we get hit by a blue shell while playing Mario Cart, we swear. A lot. But as discussed below, it doesn’t mean every other word should use a swear.

But then, there are a lot of instances where swearing isn’t needed at all, and the writing still looks realistic and full of life. If you’re writing something from the past(1800’s, 1920’s, middle ages), it’s more realistic if you don’t swear(also consider the curses of the time. There was a time when Zounds! was synonymous with damn). I would go so far as to recommend not swearing if you’re just starting out, or at least trying a pg script first; finding new ways to express, “Fuck!” will make you a better writer.

Why is it so bad?

Why is swearing such a big deal? Why did we feel so dirty exclaiming, “Crud!” when we were kids? Swearing is a forbidden language.

Why do we do it?

But why do we swear in the first place? Because, first, we want to insult someone or curse the situation but we’re too flustered or frustrated to express what we’re feeling with the right words or come up with something more hyperbolic. It’s much easier to say “Fuck you Asshole!” than to say, “Sir, that was completely unprofessional. Your use of language concerning my weight and dietary habits was completely out of line, and I think you a buffoon for doing so. You are a horrible human being, and I wish you the worst torment imaginable for such actions.”

Second, we’re so angry we want to use a word, or string of words, that we feel would do harm to the person or thing causing us pain. “You stupid fuck-monkey!” Yeah, that’s right, you called him a fuck-monkey. He’ll think twice about getting your coffee order wrong now.

How to use it for comedic value

This can be hard. There is no straight “swear” or “don’t swear” rule in comedy. The basic rule is to do what the audience is least expecting. Sometimes it’s incredibly funny to hear children swear at certain occasions because it’s the opposite of what you’d expect a child to say.

Other times, a grown man who swears like a drunken Sailor on Crack might have his next words be, “Oh my dear lord!” because that would be the least likely thing to come out of his mouth. It has that effect of the character experiencing something so incredible, it’s beyond regular swearing capacity.

It’s best to use it where it will have the most impact. If you have a character that swears like a sailor, juxtapose him with characters that never utter a dirty word, or cringe at his foul mouth. Your curse might burst from the mouth of a character that has been holding it in the entire adventure waiting for the wrong moment to explode. Or perhaps it’s used wrong on purpose by characters that aren’t worldly enough to have smarter language.

How to not use swearing

Swearing is not a meaningful character trait. Yes, I’m looking at you Gears of War. Your characters do not look full and rich if all they have going for them is putting “fuck” and “shit” five times in every sentence. It doesn’t look smart or realistic, just lazy. Especially if ALL of the character swear the exact amount and in the same way.

Best use of swearing

The best use of swearing is when you get the idea of swearing, the feel of swearing, without actually using a swear at all. Fantastic Mr. Fox did a wonderful job of this by implanting the word “cuss” in place of every swear word that would have been there.” “Are you cussing at me?” “Don’t cuss at me!” What the cuss is going on?!” This is a great way of expressing the feel of a forbidden word. Another good example is from Mystery Team where the main characters are juvenile, so to them, shouting, “Gumballs!” and “Chinese Checkers!” are the worst curses they can muster.

I hope this fucking helps in your god forsaken piece of shit script!

The Hilton and the Pea

 

A narrator walks to the middle of the stage.

 

NARRATOR

Once upon a time there lived a prince who wanted to marry a real princess.  He traveled the world and found many a fair damsel, but knew not which ones were real and which ones were not.  One stormy night, there came a knock on the door of the castle.  The king answered himself and found to his surprise a fair damsel in a terrible way.  She claimed to be a real princess, but how were they to know?  The Queen mother had a grand idea. She went into the bedroom in where the princess was to stay, took off the bed sheets, placed a pea upon the mattress, then layered the bed with twenty mattresses and twenty quilts.  “We shall see in the morning,” said the Queen mother, “whether or not this princess is true.”

 

The NARATOR exits the stage.  The curtains rise to reveal a royal dining room where the KING and QUEEN are eating breakfast.

 

KING

(in a jovial mood)

Well my queen, wasn’t that a horrible storm last night?  I could barely hear myself snore!

 

QUEEN

(looking up at the ceiling every so often as if trying to see to the second floor)

Well, I could hear you snoring just fine, so I dare say you couldn’t have lost that much sleep over it.  I do wonder how that girl is doing, though.  She seemed rather odd to me.

 

KING

Oh come now!  You’re suspicious of every girl that passes through.  I thought she was a rather charming girl.

 

PARIS HILTON walks into the dining room with a disheveled look about her.

 

PARIS

(yawning heavily)

OMG!  I am like…so starving right now…you wouldn’t even believe it.

 

KING

(jovially, motioning to the servants to bring her food)

Come!  Come!  Sit down!  Eat! Tell us, my good lady, how did you sleep last night?  Was the bed comfy enough to suit a princess’s needs?

 

PARIS HILTON

(sitting at table as servant brings food, explaining rather emotionally)

It wasn’t even!  O…M…G, it was so totally not comfortable and junk!  I was like…tossing and turning all night…and then this big rat comes up and like…starts talking to me and stuff!  And I’m all like…WTF?

 

The KING gives the QUEEN a decisive nod. QUEEN stares at PARIS with perplexed look.

 

PARIS HILTON

I totally wasn’t sleeping a wink.   So I was like, whateves…and I just like, went to stay in John’s room and junk.

 

QUEEN drops her fork mid-bite; the KING coughs on his drink.

 

QUEEN

(aghast)

You…you slept in the prince’s room?!

 

PARIS HILTON

Yeah, no, it was totally cool and junk.  He is such a sweaty!  And…OMG…those abs?

 

QUEEN

You slept…IN THE PRINCE’S ROOM?!

 

PRINCE walks into the dining room table with no shirt on and a glazed over contented look about him. 

 

PARIS HILTON

(looking at PRINCE seductively)

Hey hot stuff.

 

PRINCE bends down, kisses PARIS’s cheek, then takes a seat at the table between the QUEEN and PARIS.  QUEEN is still aghast, KING is trying to regain composure.

 

KING

(awkwardly jovial)

So…my son…how did you sleep last night?

 

PRINCE

(looking from KING to PARIS with a pleased look)

Sleep?

 

QUEEN

OH MY GOD!  JOHN, DO NOT TELL ME YOU HAVE HAD RELATIONS OUTSIDE OF WEDLOCK!

 

PARIS

OMG!  Don’t have a shoe or whatever!  We totally didn’t do that.  It was totally fine and junk.

(pauses mid-bite to think a moment)

Wait…John, what’s wedlock?

 

QUEEN

(screaming now)

OH MY GOD!  OHMYGOD!  STEPHEN!  HOW CAN YOU BE SO CALM ABOUT THIS?!

 

KING

(awkwardly)

Well, I’m just glad that…our son has finally found someone he can be happy with.

 

JOHN

(chucking, smiling dumbly)

Yeah.

 

PARIS

See John?  Your dad is like, a total sweaty.

 

PARIS gives a longing look at the KING, who pretends not to notice.  The QUEEN looks perplexedly from PARIS to the KING and back again several times.  Her look turns to horror.

 

QUEEN

(staring at king in rage)

Oh…my God!  OHMYGOD!  STEPHEN!!!  YOU…YOU…YOU SAID YOU WERE GETTING A DRINK OF WATER!!!

 

PARIS

(chuckling)

Some drink of water.  It’s good to be the king.  And junk.

 

PRINCE

(questioningly)

What?

 

KING

(defensively)

No!  I was!  I…I was thirsty!  I…I…

 

PARIS

(eating calmly)

LOL.  Yeah, no, it’s totally cool.  I do that sorta thing like…all the time and junk.

 

QUEEN

(still screaming)

YEAH!  NO!  IT IS NOT TOTALLY COOL!! AND JUNK!!

 

PARIS

(rolling her eyes)

God.  Like…don’t have a shoe or whatever.

 

QUEEN

WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?!  WHO TALKS THAT WAY?!  WHERE DO YOU COME FROM THAT PEOPLE TALK THAT WAY?!

 

JOHN

(now also aghast)

Wait…did you…you bedded my father?!

 

PARIS

(brushing it off)

No, sillikens.  I just sucked his cock a little…and stuff.  No biggie.

 

QUEEN

(throwing plate in KING’s direction)

Get out of my house!  GETOUTOFMYHOUSE!

 

KING

(finally losing temper)

WOMAN!  YOU FORGET WHOSE KINGDOM YOU RESIDE IN!  I AM THE KING AND I WILL LET ANY GIRL I CHOOSE SUCK THE ROYAL COCK!!

 

QUEEN

Stephen!  You are a…a…

 

PARIS

(laughing as if suddenly hit by something funny)

Oh my God.  Stephen King.  I just got that. Sooooo funny.

 

QUEEN

YOUNG LADY! YOU AND I ARE GOING TO HAVE WORDS!

 

QUEEN gets up quickly and drags PARIS away off stage.  PRINCE with a disgruntled look, looks from door to KING and back again.

 

PRINCE

Did she…did she do that thing where…

(makes gesture with hand)

 

KING

(pleased)

Yes.  Yes she did.

 

PRINCE

(also pleased)

Yeah.  That was good.

 

They both turn their heads toward the door as they can hear the QUEEN moaning.

 

QUEEN

(off stage)

Oooooooh…OOOOOOOOOOH!  AH!  EEEEEEE!  OH.  Ah ah ah.  OOOOOOOOOHHH.  OH MY GOD!  OHMYGOD!  OOOH, OOOOOOOOH MY GOOOOOOOOOOD!  AH AH AH AH! AAAAAAAH!

 

The QUEEN screams.  There is a long pause, then the QUEEN walks back in, disheveled, with a drained look about her.  She sits back down and starts breathing heavily.  PARIS walks in after her, wipes something from her mouth, sits down, and starts eating again.

 

QUEEN

(out of breath)

Alright.  She can stay.

 

KING, QUEEN, and PRINCE sigh and slump down in their seats.  Lights dim until there is only a light on PARIS.  A Phone rings.  It is PARIS’s cell phone, which she picks up and answers.

 

PARIS

Hello?  Oh hi sweaty.  No…yeah no.  OMG!  There was like a witch and she tied me up, and she was totally going to eat me and junk, and, yeah!  And I was all like WTF?  I know, totally!  Yeah no the woodsman was a total hottie.  No I’m at this castle place and it’s totally cool.  No you should.  No you should!  Nicole don’t be a bitch.  Ok I love you too sweaty, buh bye!

 

PARIS clicks phone closed.  Light goes off.

 

 

 

 

excerpts from rantings of a dead chameleon

Here are a few excerpts from my new play: Rantings of a Dead Chameleon. It's about a depressed player. If you're interested in reading the full play, feel free to email me.

JACK
(smiling and jumpy, a bit drunkenly)
Okay, okay…stop moving! Okay…for this exercise this man over here is going to represent your thought processes and the woman over there is going to represent this fine young lady’s thought processes…just for posterity’s sake. We’ll call the man representing Mike’s mind Steve, and the woman representing the brunette’s mind Susan. Annnnnnd…go!

MIKE
Uhhhh…hi.

STEVE
Don’t look at her breasts, don’t look at her breasts, don’t look at her breast…crap! I looked at her breasts!

SUSAN
Did he just look at my breasts?

STEVE
Well what do you want from me?! They’re just hanging out there for the whole world to see!

SUSAN
Pig!

JACK
Hey! No interacting with each other! You’re not psychics damn it!

STEVE AND SUSAN TOGETHER
Sorry.

MIKE
So…ah…how are you doing?

BRUNETTE
I’m okay.

SUSAN
God I hope my tampon didn’t fall out! (STEVE winces) And I am so tired right now, why did I even bother coming out? (exasperated sigh) I just need a couple shots and someone to dance with!

BRUNETTE
(smiling)
How are you?

MIKE
Oh, I’m pretty good.

STEVE
Motherfucking cunt balls I’m nervous. God, she’s soo gorgeous. What am I even going to say to her? Think of something funny to say…uhhhh fuck!

MIKE
So you ah…come here often?

STEVE
Oh God, real original. Why can’t I ever come up with something original and funny to say?

JACK
(tiredly again)
Stop worrying about it. It really doesn’t matter what you say to her. It’s how you say it.

SUSAN
Wow, this guy is sooo awkward. I wonder if he has a nice ass…

BRUNETTE
Ummm…no, I don’t come here that often. I’m usually too busy working.

STEVE
Crap! What do I say now?! Okay she has to work so…

MIKE
Where do you work?

STEVE
Okay, awesome. Ball’s in her court.

JACK
I cannot believe you just though that.

SUSAN
He wants to know where I work? God! Why does everyone define me by my job?! My job is so boring! I hate it so much!

BRUNETTE
I’m an accountant.

MIKE
Oh that’s cool.

STEVE
Crap crap crap! What am I gonna say about that?! Stop looking at her boobs!

SUSAN
Why would he think that’s cool? What could possibly be cool about being an accountant? And why does he keep staring at my breasts? Is that the only reason he’s talking to me?

STEVE
Should I make a joke or something? Maybe I should make a joke. Girls like jokes right? Okay think of something funny…think of something funny…

MIKE
Wow, an accountant. You must crunch alotta numbers, huh?

STEVE
Wait, what did I just say?! I didn’t mean that! Take it back! There are take backs right?!

SUSAN
Crunch alotta numbers?! What the hell does that even mean?! Tell me what the hell that means!!

STEVE
I don’t know what it means! It just came out!

SUSAN
STOP STARING AT MY BOOBS!

STEVE
I CAN’T HELP IT! THEY’RE LIKE TWO RIPE MELONS GLISTENING IN THE NIGHT SKY!

SUSAN
WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU EVEN TALKING ABOUT?!!

STEVE
I DON’T EVEN KNOW ANYMORE!!!

SUSAN
I HAVE TO GET OUTTA HERE!

BRUNETTE
(politely)
Oh, I think I see my friends over there. It was nice talking to you.

MIKE
Oh, um, yeah, you too.

STEVE
WHY DOESN’T ANYONE LOVE ME?!!

SUSAN
BECAUSE YOU’RE A FUCKING FREAK!

BRUNETTE walks away. Both STAGEHANDS are out of breath from screaming. JACK is staring at scene blankly, then finally takes a drink.

JACK
(nodding)
That went well.

SUSAN
God, I’m so tired.

STEVE
Yeah, me too. You wanna go get a drink?

SUSAN
(nodding, smiling, still out of breath)
Yeah, sure. That’d be cool.

Both STAGEHANDS walk to bar. MIKE stares at JACK expectantly. JACK looks from STAGEHANDS to MIKE.

JACK
(motioning to stagehands)
See! It really is that easy! (starts chuckling, turns into a desperate chuckle)

***

WILL
What happened with that cute girl you were dating?

JACK
I was…it wasn’t working.

MIKE
Aw man…you had someone? And you dumped her?

JACK
(a little more drunkenly)
No…no I did not…not dump her…because that would mean we were actually…in a relationship…which we weren’t.

WILL
And why the hell didn’t it work out? You prick.

JACK
(staring into space for a moment)
You want the nice answer or the asshole answer?

MIKE
Ohhh no…I don’t think I wanna hear this. Tell me the nice answer.

JACK
(beat, noticing he’s getting drunk)
Well…I rushed into it…and I thought I liked her more than I did.

MIKE
Oh…well that’s not so bad.

WILL
Yeah? And what’s the asshole answer?

JACK
(shaking his head, takes a drink)
I thought I could be happy with an A cup. I was wrong.

MIKE
What?! Oh my God!

WILL
Goddamn it Jack. You really just piss me off sometimes.

MIKE
So wait, what did you tell her?

JACK takes a drink, gets up, motions hand over, cute STAGEHAND sprints over excitedly. JACK looks deep into her eyes with a sad expression, holding her hand.

JACK
(taking deep breath for anticipation)
Listen. You’re a great girl and I don’t wanna lie to you. You can call me an asshole if you want but I…I can’t do this anymore. I thought I was ready, but I’m always comparing you to her and when we’re making love, I’m a thousand miles away. And that’s not fair to you. I know you think I’m this great guy, but…I’m not. I just…I feel like I’m just using you. I’m sorry. I hope we can still be friends.

STAGEHAND nods understandingly and smiles.

WILL
You are so full of shit.

JACK
(sighs exasperatedly, drops STAGEHAND’S hand)
Okay, look. You’re really cute and all, but to be honest, I need me some breastmeat. Y’know, boobies. Jugs. Melons. Hooters. Funbags. Tig ol’ bitties. I thought I didn’t need them…but I do. I really really do. And no, I don’t know why, but if I did, I would tell you, and then I’d go write an article and make millions. I just love lookin’ at them, and squeezin’ them, and feelin’ them, and carressin’ them and suckin’ them and lickin’ them and pinchin’ them and even slappin’ them if the occasion calls for it. Okay? I need to live in hill country and you’re the flat fields. I’m sorry…but I need boobs. What? You think I didn’t try? Oh, I tried, believe me I tried. But I have a picky penis, I realize that now. I tell my penis, “C’mon lil’ buddy! She’s cute, she’s got great legs, a nice ass, and there’s an open door right fuckin’ there.” But my penis is an asshole. He says, “Sorry Jack, but I don’t get outta bed for anything less than a C.”

STAGEHAND looks shocked, slaps him across the face, and runs off about to cry. JACK goes back to seat.


***

JACK
(shaking head slowly, blank stare, no smile)
I’m not depressed. I’m a white, middle class male living in the United States. I’m fairly good looking, I have a nice job, and I’m probably going to fuck some blonde chick with a nice rack by the end of the week. I am…definitely…not…depressed. (takes a long drink)

WILL stares at JACK for a second, then shakes head as he laughs quietly to himself.

BECKY
(taken aback)
Jack, I can’t believe you talk like that!

WILL
You know what you are? Just a regular WGWP. A white guy with problems. Don’t have to worry about getting’ beat up by any gangs, or getting’ raped, or dyin’ in a war, or starvin’ to death on the streets or just getting’ the basic needs, but still…(smiling) you got problems. Wow man, it must be so hard to be you. (gritting teeth) Got the whole fuckin’ world on your shoulders!

Shattered Memories

My name is Ben Caxton. I am 35 years of age. My birthday is on the 27^th of October. I know this information because it is written on my driver's license. I am a police officer, a detective in fact, my badge says so. There is a gun in my pocket and I know how to use it. I am wearing gray pants, gray vest, blue shirt, gray tie, dark overcoat, and brown hat. Other than this, I am sure of nothing.

I am a tall Caucasian male, with blue eyes and light brown hair, or so my mirror tells me. There is a card with the name of a man, a time, date and address in my pocket. I listen to it carefully.

I have disassociate amnesia, or so the woman at the reception desk tells me. She hands me something. I stare at it. It is a small translucent pill bottle with a white cap and a very complex looking name on it filled with tiny capsules. It tells me to take one a day as needed. I listen. Pop one in my mouth and swallow. It tastes beautifully.

The person who calls himself doctor asks me how I am feeling.

One word. Numb.

He asks me how I've been doing. I say surviving. I don't tell him about the fog, I barely know him. He frowns. He asks me if I remember anything. One memory. One memory I have a good hard grip on.

There is a field of grass; endless gray grass with gray flowers. There is a swing. I'm a small boy, in striped gray shirt and gray shorts. I run to the swing and jump on. I call for my mother to push me. She's taking too long. I start myself. I push myself harder, rocking my legs back and forth wildly, going higher and higher. I see a cloud in the sky. It's so close. I reach out my hand to grab it...and let go of the chain. And I fall.

The earth mockingly scrapes my knee, laughing at my feeble attempts to escape its hold. I cry. My mother arrives. She asks me why I started without her. I say, "but mommy, I wanted to touch the sky." She replies, "oh honey, you can't touch the sky, it's too far away. Look, the clouds are too far gone." Somewhere in the distance a woman laughs.

It's a very important memory; keep it near my heart often.

He seems displeased. Like I care what someone I've never met before thinks of my problems.

"Well, same time next week?" He hands me a card. I take it.

***

I find myself at a diner, sitting in a booth opposite another man. He says his name is Jack Shade. He wears a porkpie hat. I've always liked porkpie hats. He starts talking about the "good ol' days", when we were both rookies on the force. He laughs. I laugh when he laughs. Trick I learned in a class of human interaction.

Nod your head when someone is talking.

Smile and laugh when they do.

When they say something, and their eyes light up, look shocked.

When they look sad, look sad too, say, "Oh, I'm sorry."

Ask how they're doing.

Good class. Funny, the things you remember.

I ask how he's doing. Says same shit different day. Laughs. Laugh with him. Continue talking and laughing about "good ol' days". I don't tell him that I don't remember the "good ol' days".

He takes a picture out of his pocket, says he found it while scrounging around his old ends. It's an old picture of two rookies looking happy, joking around. I stare at it wondering who they are. There's something written on the back. I smile. I say thanks and stick it in my pocket.

The man called Jack Shade is fun to be around. I wonder if I've ever met him before as I pop a delicate capsule from a bottle into my mouth.

***

Files strewn over desk, askew, covering everywhere and everything. Small triangular object is hiding under mess. Its name is "Ben Caxton". I sit down and put my hand through my hair. I start with the top file.

Name: Jeremy "the face" Stenson. Serial killer. Has trouble with conforming to normalcy, changes jobs, apartments, names to keep things new. Changes facial features and clothing style to feel different, must enter into relationship as soon as makes new personality. Cannot stand to let old personality live, or anything connecting to it. Soon gets bored, kills identity and anyone in relationship, and moves on to next identity. Switches too fast and too often to catch. Known victims include Katie Shultz, Samantha Perkins, Elizabeth Gregory, Deborah Caxton, Colleen Stevenson, and Ashley Jade.

There is a small note attached to the report which I don't understand:

"Listen Caxton, I know this one's personal, but don't get worked up about it. You can't let it consume you. Don't let it turn you into a monster like him. -Commissioner Travist."

The words seem tangible, why can't I make sense of them?

There's a pill bottle in my coat pocket. Long and arduous name. Don't know what arduous means. Instructions say take one as needed. Pop two into mouth and disappear into the fog.

***

I'm in a receptionist's office. She hands me a pill bottle. I stare at it. Confusing name. Filled with white capsules. Pop one in mouth. A card tells me to go in and talk to a man. He asks me how I'm feeling. For some reason I want to keep him happy. I say just fine and dandy. He smiles. Tells joke and laughs. Laugh. I don't tell him about the fog. Why should I? I just met him.

***

I'm standing on a street corner. I feel around in my pocket and I find a picture of a man and a woman. Happy, smiling, laughing.

She's pretty. More than pretty, beautiful. Dark wavy hair, beautiful eyes, and that smile, I could stare at that smile for hours. It's a minute before I realize I'm smiling back at her. I feel something in my throat. Close my eyes. Cover them. Something flashes through.

Beautiful laugh

Dead hand holding photograph

Smeared pen.

I open them again and find tears. I turn over the photo and look at the back.

"Never forget."

Too late.

I feel someone's eyes on me. I look around and see a man staring at me. I shout at him, say what are you staring at. Runs away. Put photograph back in pocket. Find pill bottle. Pop in mouth. Doesn't taste as beautiful as I'd expect it too.

***

I'm sitting in a diner across from a man. He says his name is Jack Shade. He laughs about the "good ol' days" about when we were rookies. I laugh with him, something I learned in a class.

I tell him I don't remember the "good ol' days". He looks somewhat hurt. Says, "Well, I wouldn't expect you too." I don't particularly like his bowler derby.

I take a pill bottle out of my coat and pop one into my mouth. I grimace at the taste.

He asks me how the medication is going. I say fine. I don't tell him about the fog. Don't know him that well.

***

The receptionist shakes a pill bottle at me, as if trying to wake me up. Futile attempt really. I snatch it from her hand. It tells me to take one as needed. I turn my back and take three. Don't know why. A card tells me to go in and meet someone.

Smiling idiot. Feel like knocking his teeth out. Not sure why. Laugh. Fine. Fine. Laugh. Exit. Seems cocky for someone I don't know.

***

A large man walks up to me and clasps his hands on my shoulders. He says, "How are you doing son?" I look into his large saddened eyes. I tell him not too good. I wonder if I should tell him about the fog. It's as if he already knows.

Says, "Listen son, I know it's hard, but you have to let this thing go and move on. You're a good man and I hate to see it eat you up like this. If you ever feel like talking, you know where to find me."

He seems so sad, as if losing a friend. I look sad too and nod my head. I learned it in a class. I wish I knew what he was talking about.

***

It's dark. Smoke billowing from my mouth. I'm standing next to a telephone booth. Just standing there, looking around for something. A man in a black coat and scarf walks by and stands next to me. He doesn't look at me but just shifts his eyes around and shivers.

He says, "Ya got the stuff?"

I say, "Refresh my memory."

"The dough ya smart-as dick."

Slang for money. I fish around my pocket. There is a large wad of cash. I hand it to him. He seems to know more about it than I do. He starts talking.

"Ok, detective, the guy you're lookin' for, he's close. Real close. When he uh...well y'know...don't really wanna remind you about it, but anyways when he did it...he couldn't move on 'cause there were still two connections. Ya see, he didn't know about her, that she was married and all, let alone to a dick. So right now he's floatin' between identities until he can cut off the last connections..."

"Spell it out for me."

"You! He's waitin' ta off you ya moron! Listen, I'm only doin' this 'cause yer a good fella and ya helped me out with the guy and the thing that one time, but listen...have ya had any recent talks with any long lost buddies lately?"

His eyes open wide. I raise one eyebrow as if shocked. Something I learned in a class.

"I'm just sayin' detective, watch yer back."

"You said there were two connections, who's the other one?"

He looks surprised and starts to open his mouth, but whatever he is about to say is silenced by the gunshot. I see him fall, then I see a man with a pistol. There's a gun in my pocket and I know how to use it. I pull it out. He runs. I run after him.

I don't know who he is or what he's done, all I know is he shot someone and everything inside me tells me to run him down. He pushes through crowds of people and ducks into a movie theater. I go in after him, carefully, quietly. I know not to rush.

It's dark. Too dark. Can't see a thing. I look around but all I see is endless blank faces, faces I don't know. Could be any one of them. I squint my brain to remember even the basic outline of the gut, but it all blends together and fades away.

Useless, futile. Put the gun away. Then I hear a child's voice, screaming for his mother...and it's not in my head. I stare at the gray screen. It falls apart.

A child in a striped shirt and shorts jumps on a swing. Pushes himself harder and harder.

Try harder and harder to remember anything different, anything at all...

He puts his hand to the sky, trying to grab the clouds.

I put my hand through my hair, grab a great clump of it, breathing heavily...

And he falls. And he cries.

I sit in the aisle and cradle my head in my hands...

Mother comes running. Asks why he didn't wait for her.

Can't stand it...can't look away...

"But mommy, I wanted to touch the sky..."

No...mine...it was mine...I swear it was...

"Oh honey, you can't touch the sky, it's too far away."

I welcome the tears...and lament my memories...

"Look the clouds..."

...they're too far gone.

***

The receptionist sticks her hand out with a pill bottle. I don't feel like taking it. Agitatedly, she slams it on the desk. I take it anyway. It tells me to go in.

Some guy asks me how I'm doing. I say fine. Just fine. Says something strange.

"Well that's good. The placebos must be working out well."

I take out the pill bottle. Long name. I don't know what it means, but I know what placebo means.

"See? You're doing fine! You don't need medication! It's all in your head!"

I feel like knocking his teeth out. Exactly what I do. I rant. I rave. I tell him about the fog.

"The...fog?"

"I...can't...feel...anything! Don't you understand?! This is all a dream to me! Life is just an endless stream of consciousness surrounded by thick fog with meaningless people and events shifting around! I don't know what's going on anymore! I don't know who I am anymore! The one memory I have is from a movie! Everywhere I go everything mocks me with it's false sense of reminiscence! Even this room mocks me with its impression of a stable box! I don't even know why I'm so angry! And who the hell are you to tell me I'm fine?! Who the hell are you?!"

"But Ben...I...I'm your psychiatrist...I've been your psychiatrist ever since you lost Deborah-"

"And who the fuck is Deborah?!"

Saying the name brings tears to my eyes. I don't know why. I don't know anything anymore. I cover them, wipe them away. Throw the pill bottle on the floor. Storm out. Storm into the fog.

***

I stand in front of an apartment building. Wonder how I got there. Search in my coat pocket and find a slip of paper with address of building and note:

"Have info on her murder. Meet me here at eight. -Jack"

Don't stop to ask myself who this Jack might be, just walk in.

As I walk up the stairs I hear a girl scream. There's a gun in my pocket and I know how to use it. As I get close to the apartment, I hear shouting, see silhouettes of two men struggling. I don't knock, I fire a bullet. They both stop and stare at me as I stare at them. Two men in trench coats I've never seen before. One in a porkpie. The other in a derby.

One starts.

"Ben! It's me Jack! We're old buddies remember?"

The other follows.

"The hell are you talking about Stenson? I'm Jack Shade! Ben! This guy killed your wife!"

"Don't listen to him Ben! He's the face! He's the murderer!"

"Ben, what the hell? You know me! We were on the force together! Both rookies! Partners! Remember?"

"Don't listen to him Ben! He's trying to trick you! You have to listen to me! I'm Jack Shade! He killed your wife! Shoot him!"

Endless stream of consciousness, endless stream of needless useless information, endless stream of bullshit. Two faces covered in endless fog.

I look around the room for anything, anything at all to remind me, to tell me what to do. A girl. Unconscious. I shout to her to see if she's ok. She slowly comes to. She looks from me to the men and back again. Points to one, tears in eyes...

"You! You killed my sister! You bastard!"

I don't know what that means.

He slaps her, tells her to shut up stupid bitch.

Information is useless to me. I don't trust fruitless memories anymore. I go with instinct. A man hits a girl. There's a gun in my hand. I know how to use it.

***

I'm sitting on the sidewalk, head cradled in hands. There are tears in my eyes. I don't know why. I girl walks over. She's beautiful, flowing brown hair, dark eyes, beautiful smile. She says I saved her life. Looks at me tearfully. She says I dropped a picture and hands it to me. She walks away. Wonder if I knew her.

It's a picture of a man and a woman. They are happy, smiling, laughing. I don't know them. On the back is written, "never forget". I hold the picture up and let the wind rip it from my fingers.

I check the contents of my coat. There's a police badge. It doesn't look like it belongs to me. I throw it away. There's a driver's license. Name says Ben Caxton. Doesn't ring a bell. I throw that away too. There's a gun. I know how to use it. I keep that. There's a picture of two rookie cops laughing. On the back is a message that says, "When you can't trust no one or nothin' else, trust your instincts-Ben." Good advice. I keep that too.

A man in a trenchcoat and porkpie comes over and puts a hand on my shoulder. He says his name is Jack Shade. He says I did good. Just like the "good ol' days".

I stand up and say, "I don't know you. I don't wanna know you. I don't know me. I don't wanna know me either."

He looks sad, as if someone died. Wonder who. Don't know. Don't care. Look sad as I turn away. Something I learned in a class.

I walk into the fog and never look back.