A Signature

Anna was the youngest in her family.  She was now on the verge of cutting the paternal noose from the thing on the hospital bed that silenced most of her childhood into the fray of background noise.  In the room filled with mechanical instruments that gave the illusion of sustaining life, her brother stood as a meaningless pet like a stuffed furry thing forever stuck in a pose of hungry anticipation, a shadow to Anna’s right that froze in child-like fear.  She should have relished the power she now had, extinguishing the existing nepotism that brandished her elder sibling, bringing to light in the sterile air her calm voice that would comfort and command.  Such a voice was always there, but always underneath the sparkling praise her father reserved wayward toward her brother; it was her voice that always rang true even in disregard.  During her teenage years, there had been no other to have helped amplify the voice above her shyness (her mother had died two years before Anna first saw the crimson drops of her own womanhood begin).

“Miss Showalter,” the doctor said. “It’s a difficult situation, I know.”  He, too, had been a statue all this time, offering explanations that filled the air with sound.  His babbling lifted upward in the room, creating waves of sleep-inducing sentences that floated away and reverberated back to her in wet echoes.

“In a case like this, there’s still time to reach out to other members of your immediate family to-”

“It’s not a case,” Anna said.

The board-stiff doctor stiffened further.

“I didn’t mean your father is just a case Miss Showalter.”

“It’s okay.  You can stop.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.  Is that an answer?”

“I mean it’s okay.  You don’t have to say anything else to me about it.”

The doctor gave a stammering smile, but Anna saw his eyes were tired and distant, a face trained to separate from the toxic fatigue within.  How many times has he made this speech? Anna wondered.

“Miss Showalter, I do have to make it clear you understand this form before I give this to you and your brother to review.  In fact, I’ll need to bring in other personnel to witness your signatures should you both wish to sign.”

“You mean this guy?”  Anna pointed at her brother.  She watched Frank Showalter flinch as she did this. He put his head down, standing there and staring at the ground.  Anna thought of that shaky war footage of a Vietcong prisoner getting executed.  It was one of those clips that her father ran often in supposed seclusion inside his private room, oblivious to the child that hid in the same room searching for entry into his mysterious world. She remembered the cowering, adolescent face of that VC prisoner pulled downward with eyes that never fully closed, waiting for the bullet to come.

Her brother surprised her, however, by fully closing his eyes, shutting himself from the rest of them in the room.

“Frank,” Anna said.

“Frank!”

His eyes clamped tighter, creating a spider web of angry wrinkles that would probably take permanent residence on his face a decade later when he would turn forty.

“No,” he whimpered.

“No what Frank?” Anna said.

“I can’t.”

The doctor took a step closer to Anna’s brother.  She thought the doctor was going to reach out and place a hand on Frank’s shoulder.  Instead, he simply faced him and said, “Mr. Showalter. As I’ve said to your sister over there, there is plenty of time to make a decision.”

“I got to go,” Frank said. He broke wind; it was a loud, sonorous, moaning sound.  Frank opened his eyes wide and bolted out of the room, holding the seat of his jeans with both hands as he ran pell-mell and bowled into a group of nurses nearby.

The doctor goggled at the splaying scrub-blue bodies that scattered on the white tile.  He then turned to look at Anna.

“Is your brother…” The doctor grimaced and looked up, pretending to search for the proper word.

“He’s an idiot,” Anna replied.

“But is he… incapacitated in anyway. Does he have any condition that would affect his judgment concerning your father’s–”

“No,” Anna said.  “He masturbated a lot in the bathroom we had to share when we were kids.  He farts all the time like that, especially when he’s nervous.  He’s probably out there right now with the beginning of a load in his pants.  He eats like a dog lapping food out of garbage cans and is probably still a virgin from the looks of his GapKids sense of style.  He’s a freaking idiot.”

Anna turned to look at the heap of old flesh that was her father, a flaked-skin man bone-thin with a mind empty of the need to survive.

“My brother’s an idiot and still earned the love of that man.”

Anna grabbed the clipboard cradled within the crook of the doctor’s left arm.  She yanked it so fast from him that it made a slapping sound from the doctor’s sleeve.

“One moment, Miss Showalter.  There is a group of people I’ll be bringing back with me to help you through this process.  You should look over the form but please do not sign anything until I return.”

Anna smiled.

“Do you have a pen?” she asked.

“There’s one attached to the clipboard.  Miss Showalter, you do understand the importance of the decision you are about to make, don’t you?”

“Go get your people,” Anna said, still smiling.

The doctor retreated with a sigh.

“I’ll be back shortly, then.”

Anna watched him leave the room.  The scramble of nurses outside were now gone and Frank was nowhere to be seen. She looked at the clipboard, studying the verbiage allowing for non-voluntary euthanasia. She imagined the countless others who had to read such a form, perhaps scanning the lines on the pages with an uncomprehending gait, stunned by tumultuous sadness as they tried to scrawl a semblance of their signature on the large open area boxed at bottom of the page.

Her father was brain-dead; he could not survive without a breathing tube. Those statements were enough for the daughter of Edward Showalter to put his last day to an end.

Anna removed the Ember Medical pen snapped within clipboard holder and twirled it in her hand.

She knew it would be easy to sign.  No last minute jitters.  No unnecessary legal consultations to further clarify the pros and cons.  No media-clad circus to cheer or jeer at her.

She went closer to her father’s bedside and looked over his face.

He looked sad, the outside of his gray brows drooping down.

She reached for his right hand, which was a mottled claw that nestled near the edge of the bed.

She was surprised at how warm his hands were.  Blood was still swirling defiantly inside of him.

His soul is gone, Anna thought, and then held his hand tighter.

She fought off the urge to look around to see if anyone could see her alone with her father.  Such a picture is completely normal in a hospital room, so there was nothing to be embarrassed about.

Anna put his frail hand on her face and unlocked her emotions.

Her heart fluttered with sadness and fresh tears came.

She leaned closer to him and hugged him.

It was their first hug.

“So this is how it goes, Dad?”  Anna said.  “This is how you finally show me you love me?”

The hand.  Her father’s hand moved.  Anna felt his grip tighten.

She shook in a combination of sobbing and giggling.

“Do you really love me, Dad?” she asked.

She felt another twitch in her hand.  She squeezed back.  He hears me, Anna marveled.

“Do you love me?”  There was no squeeze this time. Anna leaned in and embraced the husk of her father’s emaciated chest.

She gave him a soft kiss on his cheek and squeezed his hand once again.

When the doctor arrived back with both a nurse and a bereavement counselor, Anna sat up and gave them all a smile.  Her face was blotched wet with tears.

This is how it goes, Dad, Anna thought.

“I’m ready to sign.”

©Jack Lee Taylor 2016

The Centurion

Thanks to folks at The Drabble for posting this!

sword-790815_1920

By Jack Lee Taylor

You lie under the hot sun: A baby drying to dust.
(Because of your eyes. The shape of your mouth.)
The monster is big. He picks you up by your leg, holding you upside down. His armor rattles. A sword slaps against his thigh.
He picks up another child, much bigger than you.
You look about the desert: A sea of deformities abandoned.
Far across the horizon, life abounds.
He falls to his knees, dropping you and your kindred.
“It’s never enough,” he says wearily.
He unsheathes his sword and raises it over you.
“It shall be quick,” he says.

View original post

Finish the Words

 

 

(Warning: violence, profanity, and sexual content)

1

I gave my laptop the finger this morning. Usually when I do that it’s because the damned thing crashes on me, but not this time. I just couldn’t find that damned story I read last night.

I was on call the night before as the usual loser guy who covers Sundays, wasting time in my small apartment and browsing the internet. I came across what I thought was another hopeful writer’s piss into the world of horror. It wasn’t even a website, just a long, curious link full of random characters that led to a single white page. Then my job called me in for another stupid maintenance run, which really bit because I thought I was scot-free for the rest of Sunday night. I cursed, spat, put on my work clothes and threaded my pony-tail through my work hat.

Driving fifteen miles out north to DeSoto in the hot dusk was bad enough, but then seeing the two ugly things that dwelled in the hoarding mess they called their home made me want to vomit. I suppose even the sick things that live in the world need their central air as well as anybody, but it just drives me nuts at how ugly some people are inside and out.

“I’m not paying for this,” said the ugly male.

“That’s right,” said the ugly female. “It’s still under warranty.”

It was the usual for me. People hold on to their free-forever HVAC maintenance contracts like gold. I personally don’t care if you pay the idiots I work for or not. I just needed the damn signature so I could leave and prove I was there and fixed the damned unit.

I got home late after that run and called in for the night. I then drank probably seven beers in an hour’s time and was ready for the sack. Only my friend stirred below and demanded porn. So began my ritual in my bedroom that my ex-girlfriend used to share with me before her departure last year. Not even a leftover pet to remind me of her, not that I could ever forget her. It’s just me, my laptop and hand lotion.

I do some writing from time to time. I’m one of those that say there’s a novel in there somewhere. I never went to college, but so what. Clemens, Dickens… all those guys didn’t have degrees and wrote masterpieces. That’s inspiring, but even that only goes so far. So, before working on my friend below, I decided to browse through the horror markets, hop-scotching from search link to search link, looking at the stuff published writers busted their asses for.

I’m envious for the most part.

A lot of those unknown writers are pretty good, but I get the feeling maybe I can get that good. Seriously. There’s some awful messes out there, too, much like my own stuff.

I was happy to find that particular webpage still onscreen, that strange story I glanced at before trekking out to Mr. and Mrs. Ugly’s place. I read the first few paragraphs and the magic of holding my attention began.

Okay, so it didn’t catch my full attention right away. You scan every other line and mostly pay attention to the dialogue. Right? The thing was, I found myself going back over the first few lines again and again.  It wasn’t exactly dialogue. It was all written in the second person and felt accusatory. One of those ‘I-know-what-you-did’ type of styles.

You walk toward their house at night. You masturbate in the dark, spilling yourself onto their front porch.

I mean that was just sick. And it made me think about Mr. and Mrs. Ugly again. They weren’t so much as old as much as they were just feeble and ugly. I certainly didn’t want to jerk off on their dirty-ass porch.

I got to admit, though, I was aroused after reading that part. Just the thought of doing that — picking a random house, going at it full-handed in the middle of the night and getting away with it. Has that ever been done before?  I stopped this line of thinking and made the decision to take care of my friend down there, sleep, and then venture back into this weird little gem later on.

 

2

This morning I woke up feeling terrible. I don’t usually get hangovers, but I felt miserable — sore all over. Calling in to work to say I was going to be late would be difficult because it was a Monday, start of a new week, but I figured I’d get points for having been on call the previous Sunday. If anything, I planned on checking in later in the day.

I took a shower and decided the morning would be spent on the couch. No breakfast. No coffee. Just couch time. Then I remembered that story again and it was like the hangover-switch turned off and I perked up.

I ran back into the bedroom and frowned. The laptop was dead, fully depleted. I scrambled for the power cord and juiced it back up again. Instead of turning back on to the previous state I left it at last night, my laptop rebooted. I blew out a frustrated breath because that meant having to restore my lost browser sessions again. No matter — thank the maker for browsing history.

That didn’t work, either. I mean, I was able to restore my sessions after I was back online and could see all the web pages listed from yesterday, but I swear I could not find that one page where that crazy story came from. So I started jogging my memory about the author’s name. Hell, I couldn’t even remember that. I don’t usually take the time to remember names or story titles when I read this stuff. Do you know how many piles of stories are out there?  It’s crazy.

I started putting in obscure references from what I could remember last night into the search engine, but nothing remotely came up close to that story.

My cell phone rang in the kitchen and I ignored it, letting it hit my voicemail. It was too early for my employers to wonder where the hell I was.

I was pretty bummed at this point. Then, like a blooming flower, a passage came to mind from what I remembered reading.

You place your palms on the skin of her back for a long time. You want to tell someone how amazing this feels, the way the body cools itself in death.

 

3

That’s not quite the way it went, but close enough. I mean some weird stuff that transcended the regular form is where I’m getting at. It was pretty strange all around, and, as a fellow writer myself, I should have finished reading the damn thing to find out how brave this particular writer was trying to be.

My phone rang again and, of course, I ignored it again. I live alone, don’t have any friends and sure as hell wasn’t expecting anybody outside of work to check up on me.

Nature called and I made my way to go sit on my favorite chair. I heard rain tick outside, which meant a cooler July day in Mississippi.

Christ.

Ringing again.

I detoured from the bathroom down the hall and went into the kitchen where my cell phone was charging. At least I remembered to charge my phone last night. Big win for me.

The cell phone was a company-issued Nokia. Very old by today’s standard (only dialing keys and a puke-green LCD screen). Twenty-four missed calls and the voice-mail icon appeared in crappy graphics. Definitely the most missed calls I’ve ever had.

I grabbed the cell phone, unplugged it and walked out of the kitchen. Fighting the urge to take a dump in my boxers as I made my way back to the bathroom down the hallway, I listened to one of the Stepford wives on my cell phone tell me I had new messages.   Then I remembered another passage from that story. Something almost like this:

You dial your dead mother’s phone number. You let it ring and ring until someone picks up. She sounds nothing like your mother but you talk anyway.

I had to smile while I listened to the messages, because I don’t even remember my mom’s last phone number. She is dead, though. She’s been dead for two years now. Pancreatic cancer. Still, kind of a creepy thought of calling recycled numbers that used to belong to people now departed and seeing if someone picks up. I wonder how many of us are unwise to the fact that we share a phone number with someone rotting below.

There were four voicemail messages in all. All of them consisting of a few seconds of silence and then a disconnecting click. The call log listed the caller ID on all twenty-four missed calls as “Unavailable.”  As I finished my business in the bathroom, I cleaned up and made my way back out into the hallway.

I was conflicted. I wanted to get back to finding that neat story but the responsibilities of my day-job loomed over me. I checked the time on the cell. About 9 AM. Prudence won me over so I decided to give my boss a call to tell him I was going to be late.

“Mister Ready Services. This is Amy. How can I help you?”

“Hey Amy,” I said, “It’s Beasley.”

“Yeah.”

“Listen, is Jake around there?”

There was a pause and then Amy said, “No, he never came in this morning.”

The prick. I smiled and said, “Must be something going around because I’m feeling bad myself.”

“Okay.”

“So I’m calling out sick today.”  Last minute decision, but I just went with it.

“Okay,” Amy said again. She was so damn useless.

“So that’s what I was calling about.”

The cell phone buzzed hard against my ear and I jumped right there in the middle of the living room, nearly dropping the damn thing on the floor. I hate cell phones that do that while you’re right in the middle of a call.

I yanked the phone away from my ear and looked down and saw that stupid “Unavailable” caller ID come up onscreen again. I hit the red button to ignore the incoming call and went back to talking to Amy, the useless front desk person. Only I had somehow disconnected from her as well. I hit redial and waited.

I stared into the cramped space of my living room while waiting for Amy to pick up. I gazed at the small coffee table perched off-center next to my dusty couch. At one time the small table was an inviting piece of furniture, an effort of décor my ex-fiancé had done to round out the openness of the small area. Staring at it now bugged the hell out of me. The useless crap there and something else on it that reminded me of that story again, only I couldn’t understand why.

The phone had probably reached thirty rings while I pondered about that crappy little table. I then heard a click and felt the line go alive in my ear.

Before giving Amy another chance to greet me with her flinty voice I said, “Sorry about that Amy. I had another call come in and I guess I hung up on you by mistake.”

“Finish the words,” said the man. His voice was low. Guttural. There was background noise that sounded like little children screaming and gagging.

“Who’s this?”  I said.

Silence and then, “Finish the words.”

I should have spent a long time trying to figure out what the hell that demonic voice at the other end was talking about, but I knew exactly what he was talking about. That story.

“I can’t,” I said. “I can’t find it.”

“Then more death.”

I shifted my weight from one leg to the other, just a doughy guy standing there in a ‘Rush’ t-shirt and gray boxers. You have to take your time when you respond to stuff like this. Death threats are so few and far between.

“Did you try to call me earlier?”  I said.

The phone chirped; the hiss of the open line went dead. I pulled the Nokia away and stared at it. I navigated to the call-back and heard the touch-tones beep away. I didn’t put the phone back to my ear but listened to the ringing from far off. I began to steel myself, waiting for the demon caller to pick up.

“Mister Ready Services. This is Amy. How can I help you?”

 

4

I turned the cell phone off and tossed it on the couch. I started thinking about the demon caller and then about that story and how they fit perfectly together. A scary, unseen voice calling me from the pits of Hell or some netherworld demanding I finish reading that story — perhaps to damn me or claim my soul after reading it. That sick story about jerking off, killing, eating body parts and all that fun stuff. And I didn’t even get past the first hundred words. It could’ve been excerpts from a brick of a novel for all I knew, like many of those horror mags like to put up as teasers to show their best and brightest with their own versions of regurgitated Lovecraft.

Then I got a different idea about what the demon caller meant.

He told me to ‘finish the words.’  How he even knew I was reading the ‘words’ in the first place should have frightened me, letting paranoia come visit for a while. Someone was watching me and knew what I was doing. But I was too pleased by this new idea.

The demon caller could have meant ‘finish writing the words.’  Some dark force had somehow come into contact with me last night, breaking the boundaries of reality to reveal itself on my laptop and then contact me today to proffer a task of completing something so vile within the human condition that only I could conceive. It was really quite flattering. And to submit that story to a publisher?  Oh hell, screw that. I’d self-publish the crap out of that damn thing. Jerry Beasley: Speaker for the Demons.

I ran into the kitchen, inspired, and grabbed two beers for breakfast and headed to the bedroom where my insane future awaited. Oh the things I can imagine that will blow Demon-Caller away. There I was with a direct phone line to Hell. I was delighted, waiting to fill the white page. I swear we writers are strange people.

When I got to the bedroom, I jump on the unmade bed where my laptop waited. We bounced on the mattress together for a few seconds and then I hunkered down to do some real work. It’s not as comfortable as you think, writing in bed. Actually, my back started hurting after a few minutes as I hunched down leering at the empty page. I opted for another position, getting off the bed and kneeling, using the mattress like a padded table for my laptop. Only then my knees started hurting against the hard carpet.

You lick the dead animal’s carcass on the road. It stinks in your mouth.

I mean that was the best I could come up with after fifteen minutes of fidgeting. I really hated it. So I tried again. Something so profound and hideous, but still have the shape of a story.

You walk to the grocery store and see the dead ghosts everywhere. They follow you, because they can only see you.

Okay first of all, the phrase dead ghosts is redundant. The rest of it was so trite I backspaced the damn thing into oblivion. I slammed the laptop shut and sat back on the floor. It was dark in the bedroom.

Outside the rain increased, thunder echoed from far away. From where I sat, I looked across the bed to the window. The blinds were pulled down but I could see the gray light of day. No sun this morning.

I turned back to stare at the empty bed with old sheets in dire need of washing. I brought back images of my ex-girlfriend. Sally Jane. So Southern and delicate. I imagined her lying there on the bed. Naked.

 

5

I transplanted from Jersey to Louisiana after my mom died and used what little insurance money she left me to bury her next to my dad in New Orleans. He was from NOLA, my mom a Jersey girl. After taking care of that business, I drove north aimlessly in my mom’s beater, a Caprice station wagon that handled like a small boat on shallow water. I wound up giving in to fatigue and stopped somewhere in northern Mississippi and booked a cheap motel room to mourn privately in.

I met Sally Jane in some hick bar three days after I buried my mom. Okay, her first name was just Sally, but I added the ‘Jane’ part and it just stuck. She was a real beauty. Full-figured, but she wore her clothes loose, a baggy Ole-Miss shirt and rippled jeans. Something tighter than that and she would have any sane guy salivating over how busty and sexy she really was. She also had a smile so addictive to look at, her teeth so straight and white that you looked for where each tooth separated from each other. She had long, wavy brown hair that flowed out and shined, making sure you knew you were looking at a beautiful woman even if you couldn’t see her face.

“You’ve got sad eyes,” she had said to me. Her voice was feminine melody through and through with only a hint of southern drawl. No honk to it like I’m used to hearing from the southerners I’ve encountered. Just a sweet lilt.

She, of course, called me a Yankee after hearing me talk, which was a little surprising because I really don’t feel like I’m true to the ‘not-for-nothing’ and ‘alls-you-gotta-do’ Joisey talk. While I was mulling that useless crap over, she sat her sweet self right next to me. Other than the old lady tending bar, there was just some crusty regular sitting at the other end of the place. It really was a dive.

I found out Sally Jane worked at that hick bar to earn money for veterinary school, which also played a dual role of helping out the old thing tending the bar who I later found out was her Aunt Florine. I told Sally Jane that night about my mom’s last days and listened to her talk about her dreams of wanting to be a horse vet. Being a horse doctor sounded weird, but it’s actually pretty impressive from what she told me about it. She was really smart.

I bought (and drank) most of the  drinks all night until closing time and we wound up later at her apartment – the apartment I’m in now — making the kind of love I only saw in movies, our long hair entwining, burning up the heat of our faces together. It was with so much intensity, like we were trying to consume each other, and in a way I suppose we were.

Even now, as I pretend she’s lying there naked on our bed, I knew her time with me was all too good to be true. So when she told me the week after I proposed to her that she couldn’t see herself with a guy like Jerry Beasley (teller of dark stories and fixer of air conditioners) for the rest of her life, having children, retiring together and longing for each other at the final stretch of life, I wasn’t surprised. After all, I mostly held her hostage in that apartment, making her listen to my endless rant about all the stories I was working on, all of them incomplete and dispelled of any magic. It was an incessant work of torture that I just couldn’t stop putting her through. I’m sure it drove her crazy, especially during our pillow talks. I kept mentally pounding her with my “what-if” scenarios and flowery verbiage until her love for me slowly died.

She let me stay in the apartment after she moved out. She even paid out the rest of the lease; I guess this was her payment for dumping me. I think our failed relationship put a burning fire back into her to finish vet school because instead of getting another place of her own, she moved in with her Uncle Jake – my current boss — and doubled her class-load.

I still owe her a lot. Even the money I earn from my Mister Ready job was because of her. I got hired there only because she put in a good word about her then-unemployed-boyfriend to her uncle. I didn’t know a damn thing about being an HVAC technician, but her Uncle Jake took me in and showed me the shortcuts to get the job done.

Sally Jane.

The image of her naked body on my bed finally faded away. I looked past the bed and saw my work clothes and the red Mister Ready cap bundled in the corner of the room. Something sparked inside me and I felt the urge to write again. It was like a tickle in the back of my mind when I studied the work clothes all balled up like they were. Isn’t it strange what triggers inspiration?

You keep the eye.

I wrote it down mentally. It made no sense, and certainly wasn’t in the land of the macabre, but it felt right. I looked back at my work clothes and then at other random things in the bedroom for more muses. Nothing hit me directly, but I felt I was getting somewhere. Something else. I felt like I needed to leave fast. I don’t know why, but there was a feeling I had somewhere urgent to be.

I knew what the problem was. What do some writers do when they get writer’s block?  They get out. Take walks or long drives. Scribble down things while they’re out there trying to break through the mental block.

I grabbed some jeans and sneakers and then killed the second can of beer that made me go off with a flurry of spitting belches. I strode back into the living room and grabbed my cell phone from the couch along with my keys and headed out.

 

6

The downpour made it impossible for any type of walking, but I planned on driving anyway. I just felt like I needed to drive somewhere.

I still had my mom’s beater, but it really was on its way out. I didn’t trust the transmission to last through bouts of writer’s block — that was for sure. I opted for the work van with the happy man’s face on the side next to the Mister Ready logo. The face was a black-and-white outline of something from the days of Norman Rockwell; it was a large drawing of a jovial, fatherly face with crow’s feet etched into those happy eyes perched under a large baseball cap with the MR logo centered on the front. It was a little unsettling if you stared too long at that face. His smile seemed too wide, his eyes too big. He could be that part-time clown that fondles kids on the weekends in a low-rate carnival and no one would be the wiser.

The rain kept on coming as I left the apartment complex and headed toward US 51. People think Mississippi is just sliced by two or three interstates and you’re pretty much stranded otherwise, but there are endless back roads that trickle out eventually to main roads. Not seeing the Atlantic coast was probably the biggest change for me. Seeing all those southern trees and miles of farmland during my daily commute took some getting used to. Only now, I could barely make out anything through the sloshing rain while my windshield wipers put up the good fight.

I was thinking maybe this wasn’t a good idea as I turned up US 51 heading north, but the rain started to soften, making it easier to travel faster than twenty-five miles per hour. I thought about that part about the eye again.

You kept the eye.

Something like that. I was pretty wound up still with that sense of urgency. I needed to settle back now that the rain was dying away. I blew out a long, relaxing breath, keeping my eyes open so I wouldn’t hydroplane into the wall of trees surrounding the highway.

My cell phone rang and vibrated in my jean pocket and I fished it out, darting my eyes between the cell and the road. I recognized my boss’s cell number right away.

“Hello,” I said. The voice on the other end was distorted, but nothing like the Demon-Caller. This was just that usual warble caused by a weak signal. That happens a lot when you’re out in the sticks during a job run. The wet road made for a noisy drive, so I slowed down to hear better. No other cars were around to share the road with me, anyway.

“Jerry,” Sally Jane’s uncle said.

“Yeah, Jake.”

“Where are you?  And know I aim to find out sooner or later.”

I looked up and saw the approaching green street sign. PARKER BRANCH ROAD. I instinctively turned off there. It was a small country road, both cozy and quiet.

“I’m out driving about. Look Jake, I’m sorry about calling out today. Actually, I’m feeling a bit better so maybe you can put me down for on-call tonight and — ”

“Turn around, Jerry,” he said.

I usually give in to orders. Blame my mom for being such a bossy Jersey girl. Plus I’m just subservient by nature, so I almost did turn around.

“Why?” I asked. “You need me on a run now?”

“Go back to Sally’s old place. I’ll meet you there.”

I knew he meant to meet at my place, but I hated that he kept referring my apartment as Sally Jane’s old place.

“I’m kind of out of the way right now. What’s going on with — ”

“I’m heading there now,” Uncle Jake yelled. “Get your ass back there.”

He had a strong, deep voice and his speech was always slippery like a cattle auctioneer. I probably would be more scared of the guy if I understood half of his gibberish, but unlike the normal hostility in his voice that I’m used to, there was something less militant there. He almost sounded frightened.

“Jerry?  You hear me?”

“Yeah Jake,” I said. “Sure.”

“We got some talking to do, you and me. Sally’s right upset with you. She’s been up my house since the crack of dawn crying and fussing and messing with my sleep, Jerry. On top of all that, she wants to see you. Back at her old place. I want her stay put, but she’s already aiming to talk to you face to face.”

My heart nearly pushed through my sternum and I had to steady my hands from steering into a web of oak trees. I haven’t seen nor heard from Sally Jane in almost a year now.

“Sally Jane?” I said. “What’s wrong with her?”

Jake said. “You know damn well what, you drunk-calling dumbass.”

“What’s wrong with Sally Jane?” I asked again.

There was squabble and then nothing. I looked at the phone and saw the three-minute call had ended.

The fatigued rain started to wane. By now, I was approaching the 24-hour diner Sally Jane and I had frequented a few times. Jay’s Supper Club was the name. Why someone put an all-night diner in the middle of nowhere is a question I’m sure a lot of us ask whenever we see these places that stand almost hidden on back roads. They are out there, usually deserted, and often a few steps toward condemnation. The surprise is when you go in, you’re usually treated friendly and the food is okay. Forget that some of these places are havens for the occasional meth-addicts and drug dealers and you pretty much have found a place of honest Southern hospitality.

I wanted to stop there at the Supper Club, get off the road and give Jake a call back.

Then in a flood the following came to mind:

You dig in deep at the hole where the eye used to be, Your fingernail scrapes the brain, breaking its outer layer like a virgin’s hymen. You get excited. You put two fingers in now, stretching the eye socket, reaching into the hole and going back and forth.

 

7

The sun began to dry the remnant of rain on the ground. I stopped the van at the outer rim of Jay’s four-spot parking lot. I grabbed my work clipboard and began writing frenetically. My handwriting is terrible, but I got most of the passage I could remember down onto a blank voucher.

Then I saw Mr. Ugly’s signature. No, not his actual signature, but an imprint on the wood of the clipboard. And that’s when I realized I was actually headed that way, toward the Ugly’s home. But why? To do what?  I certainly wasn’t going there to kill them, although the thought did cross my mind to punch Mr. Ugly in the face last night when he scrawled his signature so hard on my work voucher that it tore through into the wood of the clipboard.

I put the van back into drive and started out again, not rereading the passage I wrote down on the voucher. I thought about what killers do, whether premeditative or spontaneous. Then I laughed. I thought of myself trying to end another person’s life. Definitely not a physical type of killer. I’ve never won a fight in high school; my arms are skinny things and my gut looks like I’m approaching my second trimester after being impregnated by so much beer. I’m no killer. Still I had to replay last night over again in my mind and the more I did that, the more I found it harder to simplify. I had come straight home after fixing the AC compressor, drank beer, pleasured myself and went to bed. There was nothing else.

“Ah, this is bullshit,” I said and drove faster. I was going to see Mr. or Mrs. Ugly. Then after seeing them and proving I could stand there and ignore the desire to kill them, I planned on heading directly to the apartment. The thought of seeing Sally Jane again got my heart pumping faster. So, faster I drove.

 

8

Back roads like these can be dangerous if you don’t know the curves, but I’ve been on this road a lot. Done several bullshit runs for a lot of these houses. Many of the homes here were built far away from the road, with long gravel driveways, leading away into large yards. The houses themselves were small in proportion to the land, many of them several years old and rotting. The Ugly family was no exception. Their house was small and their long driveway was nearly hidden within the woods.

Last night I had to rely on the reflection of the bright numbers on the mailbox, but today, in the storm’s wake, I could see both the painted last name and the large reflective numbers.

Baker

1201 Parker Branch Rd

I nosed the van with the jolly face into their driveway, slowing down and hearing the crunching gravel falter underneath. The Bakers’ house was your typical half-siding, half-wood structure, tiny in the midst of all that land. I rolled down the window, smelling wet dog (how strange this countryside reeks like a wet, flea-infested mutt after a spell of rain). I inhaled it all anyway. I had no idea what I was doing here, or what I needed to do here to prove to myself that I was not crazy.

I pushed my way out of the van, my motions quick. I had the clipboard tucked under my left arm while I held my cell phone in my right. I walked toward the home, trailing up the gravel path to their front porch. I recalled last night’s job as I walked. It was simple. A clogged point in their line leading to the compressor. Mister Ready did it all the time. A simple fix, but one that leads to greater damage, and ultimately the need for a replacement unit. It’s highway robbery in the purest sense.

When I got to the two-step incline, I took a moment to study the open area. I thought back to that story about spewing baby-gravy on the front porch. I had to laugh at that. If someone had done that like in the story, the rain made sure to wash that away, and judging from the unkempt welcome area of their porch, the Bakers made it quite difficult to find human specimen of any kind on top of all that mess: pots filled with dead plants, two dirt-ridden rockers and lawn debris.

The cell phone buzzed in my hand. Before I put it to my ear, I studied the front door. It was ajar. I clicked the cell phone alive and listened.

“Hello?” said the voice on the other end.

“Jerry?”

I felt my chest go electric. It was her. My Sally Jane.

Her voice was slow, trembling.  I took a deep breath, waiting for my mind to give in and accept that Sally Jane was really talking to me after all this time.

“Jerry?”

“Hi Sally Jane,” I said.

“Oh my God, Jerry.”

She fell apart, nearly screaming her sobs back at me.

“Sally Jane?”  It’s all I could say back because while I stood there bewildered, I pushed the front door open a few more inches, figuring my voice would do fine for a doorbell.

“We’re here, Jerry,” she said. “We’re at your place.”  Then a few more seconds of sobbing. “The head. Jerry. It’s not real. Right? Tell me please that it’s not real, Jerry.”

I pushed the front door further and saw flies escape from inside.

“Jerry?”

“Sally Jane, what’s wrong?” I said.

“Uncle Jake’s calling the police,” she said. “He says they’re tracking your van.” There was a long pause, and I could tell Sally Jane was pulled away from the phone, Jake’s low voice barking in the distance as she argued to get back to me. She gave a roar from far away and then I hear her yell back at me, “The head Jerry! It’s on the table. And your work clothes in the bedroom. In the corner just like you told me last night.”

She swallowed with a throaty click and said, “They’re soaked in blood, Jerry. And the eyeball. Oh Christ, Jerry. It rolled out on the floor when Jake got your clothes. There’s blood everywhere Jerry.”

I looked instinctively at my hand clutching the clipboard and saw it spotless. Blood-free. Washed clean earlier this morning. I pushed Mr. and Mrs. Ugly’s front door all the way open and saw the woman without a head lying on the dark hardwood floor. The shredded stump of her neck gleamed back at me; the bone of her cut spine protruded out at me like an accusing finger.

“You’re sick, Jerry,” Sally Jane said. “I thought you were just drunk last night when you called. But you really did it. You killed those people you were telling me about. That woman’s head on the table. I thought it was one of your stories. But it’s real!”

She paused for breath and yelled again. “You’re sick, Jerry!”

I wanted to tell her to be quiet, that I would come over and hold her again and make those tears go away. I wanted to tell her someone is clearly setting me up and I needed her on my side to help me find out who is behind this. The ‘how’ and ‘why’ can come later. Then I realized I was here at the crime scene, the dead Mrs. Baker on the floor. No Mr. Baker around. Perhaps it was him, the real perpetrator with a hatred for HVAC techs, and finding an opportunity to kill his wife. One thing was clear: I didn’t want to hear Sally Jane crying anymore. I didn’t kill anybody. She had to believe me.

“Jerry?”

I let out a long breath and said, “Sally Jane, I didn’t kill anyone. Someone else is doing this.”

She ignored this and said, “The story, Jerry. The one on your computer.”

This threw me a bit because how in the hell would Sally Jane know about the story?

“I’m reading it now, Jerry,” she said. She drew a shaky breath and read, “’You put the eyeball in your mouth and suck it like you suckled your mother’s breast.’

 

“You and your damn stories!  You are sick, Jerry! You’re so fucking sick! Don’t you… don’t ever call me again! Just stay away from me you sick bastard!”

The phone vibrated hard in my ear, signaling another incoming call. I slowly pulled the phone away and look to the wooden chair to my left. Mr. Baker sat there, his head slumped forward. He wasn’t there before. I was sure of that. Those chairs were empty.

I walked slowly toward him. He looked like an old man sitting with his head lowered, deep in thought. His peppered hair was matted with blood, and his farmer-plaid shirt showed a long streak of blood stained from his chest to his left sleeve. I didn’t offer a greeting. Instead, I knelt down to see his sun-dried face, hoping to see an old man feigning sleep. I lifted his head up and saw the black hole where his left eye used to be. I started running back to the van. When the cell phone buzzed again I chucked it hard into the trees that surrounded the Bakers’ driveway. I got inside the van, cranked it to life and twirled in lopsided circles, digging into the tendered lawn. I screamed and gunned the van forward, spitting gravel everywhere.

 

9

Jake was right. There are trackers in these vans through GPS. No way to steal these things. So when I got back to Jay’s Supper Club, I was sure Jake had a pretty good bead on where I was. What did that matter now?  I thought back to what Sally Jane had said. You and your damn stories.

I slowed in to Jay’s and pulled the van into the space right by the front door. I grabbed the clipboard and got out. I pushed through the glass door into Jay’s, smelling cigarettes, beer and grease. It was dark, all the windows tinted. I saw Gary, the old guy that helmed Jay’s Supper Club behind the counter during the day. He smiled and made his way from around the counter. Too quick and too friendly.

He knew.

“Hey friend,” he said and waved a meaty forearm at me. He gestured to a table that consisted of plastic lawn chairs and a Wal-Mart specially-priced picnic table. I sat down and smile back. I ordered the porterhouse and a beer. I needed a lot of beer right now. Before he left I asked, “What do you know about hysterical blindness?”

Gary smiled, his stained teeth big and wide.

He said, “Hysterical what?”

“Maybe that isn’t want I’m suffering from,” I said. “Maybe there are two sides to every story. You only know about the one you write about. Or maybe sometimes you get a peek at what the other guy is writing about. Anyway. Nevermind.”

I waved Gary off. He gave me a cautious nod and then went back behind the bar counter into the kitchen to make my usual. What I would order with Sally Jane.

I looked at the clipboard in my arm and placed it down gently on the table. I gave out a long sigh and shook my head. For a moment I could see myself sitting at another table, Sally Jane across from me. Both of us smiling. Me gesticulating through my latest and greatest story idea or plot back at her. Her just shaking her head back at my foolishness.

I put my clipboard on the table and stared at it. The clipboard consisted of a pen tied to the metal clip and a Mister Ready voucher, which was nothing more than flimsy paper with blue lines across yellow paper.

I started writing. Okay, I didn’t just start writing. I started unbottling.

When Gary came back with my porterhouse steak in less than seven minutes, I knew I still had time to enjoy my meal before they would all be here. I watched Gary smile long and pleasant, waiting for me to start in on my meal. I went back to reread the words I wrote on the voucher.

You see the steak knife he leaves out of habit. The steak knife is dull but you cut through the gristle of his neck. You sit down and use the unclean knife. You taste his meat and blood with the steak. You wait for them to come. You wait for her to come. When she does, you hope you can show her how happy you are. Because you are done. You have finally finished the words.

 

END

©Jack Lee Taylor 2014

 

 

 

crazy-writer

Bev

“What are you going to do, old man?”

“With this? Shoot you of course.”

“You don’t have the balls.”

“Oh yes. Yes I do.”

“You don’t.  You just stand there.  You trying to look hard. Tough.”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t have it in you, do you? You never shot no one before.”

“You killed her.”

“I killed lots of people. Your woman ain’t no different.”

“She was -”

“She was a bitch in my way.”

” – going to the Quik Mart.”

“What, old man?”

“She was probably going in for an Icee.  Cherry was her favorite. God, she was –“

“She was ugly and blind to be hanging out with your dumbass.”

“- everything to me.”

“So what about this right here?  You break in my crib with your piece out. You going to pull that trigger or what? Go ahead old man.”

“Everything.”

“Why you talking? Go ahead and pop me now. Or else I pop you later.”

“How can you be this way?”

“What, fool?”

“I said how did you — what made you like this?”

“What made me like what? You know what? I’m sitting down. Tired of looking at your tired-ass.”

“You look like you should still be in high school.”

“You look like shit. Old shit.”

“You’re never going to feel sorry.”

“Sorry? For what? Sorry?  Please.  Not for you. Not for anyone.”

“Not even when you destroyed her face.”

“….”

“Not even when you looked right at her and shot her in the face. You’re not sorry about that are you?”

“I needed her car.”

“Running from the police.”

“Hey, it’s not like I banged the bitch first, pops. She shouldn’t have been there.”

“But she was.  And you got away from the cops.  You and your two friends.”

“Yeah okay. So she was there. Thank you Miss Bitch.  Thank you.”

“It’s time to teach you a lesson.”

“You trying to scare me?”

“Yes. I want you scared.”

“Nothing scares me.  See that’s the difference.  You kind of people scared all the time. Running around doing nothing but your boring shit.  Running away from the truth.  Wishing everything is okay. But us real people, the ones that feel the hurt, see the pain — we out here. We don’t know scared. We make our own truths. So I ain’t scared of nothing. Not scared of you.  Least of all scared of no bullet.”

“Then why don’t you run? Or why don’t you come at me?”

“Put the Glock down.  Find out.”

“Have you ever been shot before?”

“What is with you old man? You want to talk? Is that what you want to do all day?  Or do you want to put down that gun and settle your beef with me like a man.”

“You’re not yet a man.  I wish you were.  It would make this easier.  More meaningful.”

“Fuck you.”

“The others.  Your friends.  They told me where to find you.”

“That’s bullshit right there.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“So? You think that’s supposed to mean something? You talking like you know my boys? You don’t know about me or them. They family, old fuck. You ain’t shit.”

“They’re dead now anyway.”

“Don’t fuck with me old man.”

“Derrick Morgan and Trevor Wayne, the other two that were with you when you robbed the Quik-Mart that day. It’s funny, I expected you to live in a cockroach-infested hole, but your house is actually very nice.  Clean. Nice area too. — NO YOU DON’T!”

“FUCK!”

“See? I’m a pretty good shot. I’ve had lots of time to practice.  I’d put a hand over that left ear to stop the bleeding. You won’t be able to hear out that ear anymore. Now get up.  You can’t run away.”

“My ear motherfucker!”

“Pain?  I know. I know pain. I shot myself in the head after Bev’s funeral, but I didn’t die. Still get headaches. Get up I said.  You try for the door again then I shoot off your balls next.”

“Don’t shoot me man.”

“Heh. I already did.”

“I just needed the car man. That’s all. She wouldn’t get out.  But I just needed the car. I had to.”

“Beverly.”

“Huh?”

“That was her name. Beverly Rose Harper.”

“Shit man, come on. I just needed the car.”

“Grandmother. Kindergarten teacher.  Wife.”

“It was a long time ago man.”

“It was eleven months ago. I spent six of those months recuperating, learning to talk and walk and pee and poop again. Best of all, learning to shoot again.  Here.  Tell me how this one feels.”

“No!”

“Sounds like it didn’t hurt bad enough. Not enough for you?  How’s this one feel then?”

“NO!  Please.  No more. No more…”

“Do your legs hurt now?”

“Please! PLEASE!”

“Your pictures on the wall.  That one over there. The perfect white family.  A Republican’s wet dream shot. Maybe your parents even helped you with that Mercedes out front. I’m sure Mommy, Daddy, and your little sister wouldn’t appreciate knowing you killed a helpless woman.  Stole her car.  A dusty Buick not even worth the tailpipe on that Merc you have outside.”

Please don’t.  No more.”

“Ronald and Mary Austen.  And little Phyllis.  Oh come on, don’t look at me like that.  I had months to brood over you Andrew. Or Double-A as you’re called.  That’s a stupid name, by the way.  You couldn’t come up with something better?”

“Don’t.  Don’t hurt them.”

“So you DO have morals.  I expected you to beg for your own life, but not for your actual family.”

“I wasn’t the one that pulled the trigger.”

“No need for all that. Derrick the Dinky. T-Ballz.  They already did the finger-pointing game. It doesn’t matter. You just happened to be last on my list.”

“I swear it man. I swear it wasn’t me that shot her.”

“So I asked you earlier but you never answered. I’m just curious. Your gang. Your swagger.  How did you get this way?”

“….”

“I didn’t hear?  I just want to understand about the pain. The suffering of real people.”

“….”

“See that’s just it.  You aren’t real. No more real than the image you conjured up for yourself.  You marvel over the dangerous animal of street-life.  Isn’t that it?  You romanticize it.”

“My legs, man.  It hurts.”

“It’s not the same thing Andrew.  This isn’t South Central. This isn’t even LA. Your life is a lie. I’ll show you what real is.”

“Please… man. Please.”

“Don’t move your head or my gun will go off.”

“I can’t breathe.  Can’t breathe.”

“That’s why they call it a choke hold.”

“Stop. Please, please, please, please… please… ple….”

“Aw.  Actually, I have to say.  You look like a little boy taking a nap.  You even snore like one.  I don’t know if I should wait till you wake up or shoot you now. I wonder if sleeping people even feel gunshots.  Let’s see…  Nope. Still asleep.  Your shins are going to hurt really bad though when you wake up. Your legs look a mess.  Must be hell on whatever you’re dreaming right now.  I remember thinking I was stabbed once while I was dreaming.  Woke up with the worst stomach ache I ever had.  I think I’ll just take a seat over there.  Do you mind?  Nice neighborhood like this, someone’s bound to call the police by now. You still in there, Andrew? I think so. Somewhere deep inside your head there’s a part that still listening to me. How about this?  I’ll tell you all about my Bev.  The day we first met.  The good stuff.  Hey maybe if I get done gabbin’ before the cops get here, I’ll give you a chance.  Let you heal.  Grow a few years and come back at me.  I want it to take time. I want it to go as long as it possibly can.  You staying alive.  You know what I’m hoping? I hope you get that monogamous inkling and try to marry some rich whore your daddy would approve of after he helps reform you back into society.  I show up on your wedding day.  Watch you limp about if your legs do heal right.  I show up.  Cause discordance.  I leave.  You then have kids later on. I show up on their birthdays.  Scare the bastards.  I leave.  Eventually, I’ll have to stop the madness the older I get.  Put an end to everything and everyone.  You, your whore, your kids.  But it sounds like a lot of fun coming your way.  Okay, so how do I start?  Oh yeah. Let me tell you about my Bev. Of all places, I met the love of my life in Bowling Green at a post office. I was looking for a pen because I forgot to write down the zip code to my uncle Ned’s place on the package I was sending out.  I was supposed to ship him this ugly candle-thingy my mom went through the trouble of buying at Woolworth’s. This was – what — about thirty years ago.  Anyway there she was… God she was so beautiful and it’s like she didn’t even need me to say anything but had her hand out with this Bic knowing that’s exactly what I needed.  Smiling so warm and sweet.  So I took the pen and said my name was Ned. Only it wasn’t Ned because my name is Robert. It was my uncle, the guy I was shipping that God-awful box to. That was his name.

I was such an idiot back then.

Most young people are.”

 

THE END

 

 

 

JLT

©2008

Sidewalk Magic

He tried to explain the pain of disenchantment to her.

She had her hands cupped over her ears.

Honestly.

The billowing stench of sewage smoke coming from the metal grates protruding unevenly on the sidewalk. The ear-chafing cacophony of traffic honking into her ears. This was not the perfect place to talk.

He was breaking up with her. She knew this. The sex the night before was staged, unlike the other times that left her in a near vertiginous state of euphoria.

“Love is supposed to be magic,” he said. “And we both know there ain’t no such thing as magic.”

Stop that. Biting her lower lip only reminded her how overly plump it was, captured in uneven smiles in pictures.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” she said. Her sandals vibrated. She looked past him to see the scrawny construction worker twenty yards away wrestling with the paint-chipped jackhammer upon crumbled asphalt. Her legs hummed, and she waited curiously for the sensation to rise up to her thighs. Perhaps even higher. What a lovely distraction.

“You don’t understand,” he yelled over the thrum of the jackhammer. Over the prattle of the city. “There’s no such thing as magic. There’s no such thing as us. You. Me. This.” He thumped his chest. “There’s nothing in here but meat, blood and bones. Just like there.” He pointed at the spot below her where her legs joined.

A warm raindrop pelted the raw crown of her scalp. She smiled because it was the only thing that made sense right now.

She said, “I get it.”

He shook his head. “No. You really don’t. You –“

A woman’s hand upraised has many powers. Magical powers. He stood there silent, staring at her smirking face.

She took a deep breath, breathing in the atoms of those long dead, perhaps seeping from the white steam fuming through the metal grates. She looked down at his feet and saw that he stood dead center upon one of the grates. How long of a drop before he’d lay crumpled and broken after a fall? She stomped the metal grate and felt it jar hard against her heels, unyielding. She laughed.

“I know what magic is,” she said. “It’s the only thing making me not want to kill you right now. See that policeman over there?” She pointed through the space to his right.

He turned to see the man garbed in dark blue at the intersection behind him. She stepped in closer and breathed into her ex-lover’s ear.

“I’m going to sleep with him tonight,” she whispered. “I’ve never fired a gun before, but I’m sure I could learn. And I’m sure he could teach me. How’s that for magic?”

She walked past him and headed toward the policeman. The rain pattered between them, the drops warm and sulfuric.

She turned and gave her ex the finger as the magic ritual of breaking up demanded. He licked his lips and then ran toward her. Past her.

Toward the policeman.

 

JLT

Head

A smattering of saliva

wetting salty lips

stale with memories.

Protruding tongue

licking the taste of regret.

Eyes darkening,

denying sunlight.

Lifted by his hair.

Weightless and draining.

Fist opens.

The falling ball.

The rolling melon.

Colony of grit

on the stump of his neck.

Eventual rest.

Face down.

On sand.

Licking.

Licking.

Licking.

 

 

 

JLT

Waste of Space

In the time I have left on Sol III, I defer to people more competent at arguing over the current state of the universe. I imagine the ratio of these folks in comparison to the world population to be small – maybe a portion of the National Institute of Science, some college professors, a few rogue physicists, and a slew of think-tank geniuses at NASA (give or take an astronaut or three).

You probably walked out of your home this morning not giving a damn about why the majority of the universe appears uninhabitable, or why all the observable matter in the universe is so small compared to all that mysterious dark energy and dark matter that has bright minds scratching holes in their skulls down to their fully-utilized brains.

Leave it to those that really care about mulling over the unfathomable universe. We got things to do. Places to go. People to see. Money to make. Mortgages. Rents. Dates. Kids. Cars. Parties. Politics.

Besides, we can be satisfied or nullified enough to quiet down any fervent curiosity of the makings of the vast seas of space. An episode of Nova or the Science Channel on the subject of the universe might be enough to have us ruminating a few hours before our interest turns to other things. A particular sermon on Sunday would be enough for some churchgoers to nod with approbation and move on with other aspects of their faith. Even a child daydreaming about another galaxy far, far away will eventually tire of her pondering and go crank up Minecraft on her iPad.

But then something happens on rare occasions. This could be during beer-fueled barbecues, or joyriding with your pals, or even during pillow talks with a significant other at night. We do our own amateur version of squabbling over the design of the universe. Like the way we bicker over politics, many of us grow our belief systems like a whole pizza pie sliced in two — the two sides settling as intelligent design vs. non-intelligent design.

These conversations can get pretty heated if the right (well, wrong) buttons are pushed – becoming a personal attack on one’s convictions. Like the armchair quarterbacks, we become experts without any true qualification. Because, basically, it comes down to a simple opinion. We’re either ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ (and, hell, we’re always ‘right’).

One thing many of the great minds seem to agree upon is that the universe is a pretty messy place with a lot out there unexplained.  Some may go even far as to say the universe is a fairly inefficient place for human beings. That’s pretty much a jab at God’s interior decorating skills.

Humans have been around for a short while – as least as long as we can measure or speculate here on Sol III. We’ve come far in terms of building and designing things. From tree houses to skyscrapers, we’ve done some good work.

We’ll set up a meeting (with free lunch, of course). We’ll create new plans. We’ll use our best technology out there. And we’ll find a way to recreate the universe.

Let’s do it better this time, remaking the universe from scratch. The way we’d want it to be. The way it should be for all of humanity. We’ll execute our plan and get it right the first time — none of that Arthur C. Clarke false-start correcting phenomenon where it takes a few times before a planet becomes inhabitable for humans.

First of all, make certain there are no extraterrestrials. We’ve got enough of each other to deal with. We’ll have every planet inhabitable from every galaxy created. Or even better, make a universe with a single nexus galaxy comprising of all planets encapsulating humans and their food sources. Much simpler.

Not only will we have next-door neighbors, we’ll have next-door planets. We’ll have the ability to visit these neighboring planets with ease, spending reluctant time with the in-laws on Earth #2,657 (based on the in-laws’ planet calendar, naturally).

Imagine the efficiency of such a galaxy. The trade and commerce. And the biggest part: No questions. None about our existence. Nothing about who/what made the universe and why we are all here because, dammit, we did it ourselves.

The problem with this notion is that even if we have universe-creating abilities now, and we decide to rebuild the universe, would this discount the existence of a God? Of a former intelligent design?

Hmm…

Sometimes, it’s okay to say we truly don’t know. That at times our mind cannot comprehend. The logics we base on the physical and theoretical invariances we’ve built them upon may not always explain things to the meat inside our heads.

So I’ll just sit back, let the experts continue their great work of trying to explain the universe.

 

And, mostly, I’ll just continue to admire God’s work.

 

Love to you all.

 

JLT

universe-art-the-universe
Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known. – Carl Sagan