A flaccid day. Soft and wrinkled, it had no clarity. Obviously he was going to work. Beyond, unseen, was too big for grandiose goals. The staggering simplicity of fog.
He arrived.
The building at the address seemed to him small. A one-room shanty, he thought. A hut. Better to doublecheck. It was correct. Getting out of the car he smiled. He had no idea what the job was, so size was, at this point, irrelevant. A job at a shack was a job.
It seemed the inside was hard to distinguish. As was the fact that he did not really knock on a door and enter. One instant he was outside, smiling about his peculiar knack for finding jobs at locations of dubious origins, and the next, he was inside what from the outside seemed a small shack but now was hard to adjust to. There were no edges. Just he and three men, who all looked at him in shy ways. This shyness of theirs made him aware of a childhood smell which immediately put him at ease. He was suddenly curious, as a small boy, which made the room larger and more familiar. It was his grandmothers' smell. A smell of history, of people who'd just arrived from the Old World, a war torn old world of turbulance, not smelled in homes where toothpaste was as common as English. No. This was a smell of experiances too wild to imagine but somehow survived and gently, with great tragedy, remembered. There's something sweet in the smell of tragedy, something that clings to your mind but evades words. Quickly, slyly, he glanced at the three men to confirm his suspicion that they were Jews. Jews knew this smell. Had this smell woven into their fabric also.
They were still looking at him shyly. In long, black bathrobes, arms behind their backs, they peered at him through wire-rimmed spectacles.
"Hmm," he said.
Six eyes sparkled back at him.
"What would I do?", he asked.
They shrugged their shoulders and shook their heads. Their eyes glittered wildly. They were feeling an enjoyment at his expense, which he struggled to share.
"What is the job?" he asked to make it clearer.
They looked at each other, and one said; "you can do what you like.".
He didn't understand. So he said; "and I'll be paid?".
"Oh yes", the same man replied.
Now he shrugged his shoulders.
The smell still hung in the air. It clarified what was indistinguishable before. He noticed how huge the room was. It surprised him, but not because he remembered that it seemed, from outside, a hut. Rather, it struck him as peculiar, how at first it seemed so unclear, without edges, just he and the three shy men, in the middle of nothing. They could've been outside in the fog. Now, for the first time, he noticed a long wooden table between him and the three, above which from a very high ceiling hung a large, ornate chandelier. He suspected it depended on something within, when for a moment appeared an opening as a cavernous window or door, beyond which was either darkness or brilliant blinding light. Temporarily his attention was drawn to an antique cabinet on long carved legs, in the middle of which was a half circular dial with numbers, and two or three knobs. The small boy recognized his aunts first radio. He ran toward it filled with glee but as he got closer an apprehension slowed him to an abrupt stop. Distinct distant memories appeared as if from the smells and consternation again engulfed him. How did his mother and the rest of the choir get inside this big-small radio to sing from there for everybody? Fear shook him when he thought they'd never be able to get out, that his mom would forever be tiny and would get lost in the city of regular people, dogs and cats. He wanted to cry. A murmur disrupted this urge, and seeing the three quietly talking reminded him that he was there to work.
He arrived.
The building at the address seemed to him small. A one-room shanty, he thought. A hut. Better to doublecheck. It was correct. Getting out of the car he smiled. He had no idea what the job was, so size was, at this point, irrelevant. A job at a shack was a job.
It seemed the inside was hard to distinguish. As was the fact that he did not really knock on a door and enter. One instant he was outside, smiling about his peculiar knack for finding jobs at locations of dubious origins, and the next, he was inside what from the outside seemed a small shack but now was hard to adjust to. There were no edges. Just he and three men, who all looked at him in shy ways. This shyness of theirs made him aware of a childhood smell which immediately put him at ease. He was suddenly curious, as a small boy, which made the room larger and more familiar. It was his grandmothers' smell. A smell of history, of people who'd just arrived from the Old World, a war torn old world of turbulance, not smelled in homes where toothpaste was as common as English. No. This was a smell of experiances too wild to imagine but somehow survived and gently, with great tragedy, remembered. There's something sweet in the smell of tragedy, something that clings to your mind but evades words. Quickly, slyly, he glanced at the three men to confirm his suspicion that they were Jews. Jews knew this smell. Had this smell woven into their fabric also.
They were still looking at him shyly. In long, black bathrobes, arms behind their backs, they peered at him through wire-rimmed spectacles.
"Hmm," he said.
Six eyes sparkled back at him.
"What would I do?", he asked.
They shrugged their shoulders and shook their heads. Their eyes glittered wildly. They were feeling an enjoyment at his expense, which he struggled to share.
"What is the job?" he asked to make it clearer.
They looked at each other, and one said; "you can do what you like.".
He didn't understand. So he said; "and I'll be paid?".
"Oh yes", the same man replied.
Now he shrugged his shoulders.
The smell still hung in the air. It clarified what was indistinguishable before. He noticed how huge the room was. It surprised him, but not because he remembered that it seemed, from outside, a hut. Rather, it struck him as peculiar, how at first it seemed so unclear, without edges, just he and the three shy men, in the middle of nothing. They could've been outside in the fog. Now, for the first time, he noticed a long wooden table between him and the three, above which from a very high ceiling hung a large, ornate chandelier. He suspected it depended on something within, when for a moment appeared an opening as a cavernous window or door, beyond which was either darkness or brilliant blinding light. Temporarily his attention was drawn to an antique cabinet on long carved legs, in the middle of which was a half circular dial with numbers, and two or three knobs. The small boy recognized his aunts first radio. He ran toward it filled with glee but as he got closer an apprehension slowed him to an abrupt stop. Distinct distant memories appeared as if from the smells and consternation again engulfed him. How did his mother and the rest of the choir get inside this big-small radio to sing from there for everybody? Fear shook him when he thought they'd never be able to get out, that his mom would forever be tiny and would get lost in the city of regular people, dogs and cats. He wanted to cry. A murmur disrupted this urge, and seeing the three quietly talking reminded him that he was there to work.
II
His days began to flow by unnoticed. Filled with serene laziness he luxuriated in his new-found sense of freedom. His job was to do what he liked, and as he had no idea what that could possibly mean, he did nothing. He discovered that from the outside the hut was still, indeed, apparently a one room shack, but inside, he slowly discovered more rooms. always at first vague. Even after tree years, as with more familiarity they crystalized, he still had no idea what was what. Somehow he knew that everything was important, with reasons and functions, but it didn't seem to affect him. He moseyed from room to room, sitting here, or there, and mostly just looked. It didn't bother him that he didn't know why nor what he was looking at. It seemed enough. The realization that he didn't need to justify his existence by doing important things, to be able to talk about them with his few remaining friends, filled him with an absurd pride which later disappeared. It puzzled him how his friends found similar circumstances boring and insecure. Once he wondered if he'd slipped into a madness. Or, when for months he spent his time in the bathroom looking out the window at trees, eating, drinking coffee, reading. Everything he did, sitting on the throne. He moved a telephone in there, and immense pleasure filled him, knowing that whomever he was talking to had no idea he was eating, evacuating, look-ing out the window and talking. All, at the same time. Sometimes, suddenly his hair stood on end and fear would grip him. Reality having narrowed down to life in a small bathroom made him wonder if he was forever lost, but on reflection he was able to reassure his self that all life of was indeed a part of a vast pulsating rhythm where it was difficul to say this was more important than that. Was his brain more important than his anus? He would toy with the idea that he was fooling his self, that his intimate relationship with his self-deception was getting the best of him, but such games quickly bored him, and he'd resume drifting. For some unknown strange reason, he was getting paid.
III
So it was. He'd "work" his eight, more or less, hours, and go home. On and on. Until one night as he was getting ready to go home he asked the three what time he should come back. The threesome was wierd. By this time, this was a fact for him. It was as though they were one person but somehow with three indistinct personalities, each manifesting as a separate being. Always they were together. Always they looked at each other before saying anything. Always, only one spoke. Never they spoke to him except to answer one of his questions. And always they seemed to be present. Even if he couldn't see them. So, on a particular night, he asked: "What time should I come back?".
After the usual deliberations, the speaker said: "Three A.M. would be good.".
Abashed and somewhat taken aback he again asked: "What time is it now?".
After consulting their watches the speaker replied: "2:45 A.M.".
Then, after his mouth fell open, and some serious gesticulating with much peering into each others eyes, the speaker, very apologetically suggested that he may as well spend the night there. He could sleep on the couch and would already be there at the specified time.
"But I gotta start working in fifteen minutes!", he cried out in anguish.
"At precisely three A.M. you will start getting paid, which should not interfere with your sleeping," the speaker gently replied.
The stupidity of what the speaker'd said made so much sense that he went to sleep on the couch.
IV
In his complacency he failed.
The obvious upcoming events caught him completely by surprise.
V
Shortly after the three A.M. incident, he was sitting in one of his favorite leather rocking chairs in the smallest, but sunniest at this time of the day, rooms. Stubbornly he was trying to figure out what kind of a bug it was. There was a spot of dark blue paint on the dirty white wall, that he'd been trying to decipher for weeks. Obviously, at some point, someone had used the room as a painting studio. There were numerous different colored fingerprints on the door and walls, and, spots. Places where the paint went off the canvas which had been stapled to the wall, onto the wall itself. This particular spot looked to him as some large insect, walking upright into the immense distance. Perhaps strolling to town to see a film, he mused. Or to the sea shore.
That's when he became aware of the three. He thought they were his personal Holy Trinity, always looking after his well being.
Peering at him, they broke their rule of only speaking to answer questions.
The speaker cleared his throat over and over, shifted his weight back and forth from one leg to the other and wrung his hands as though he was keeping him there knowing full well he was about to soil his britches. He looked on with an amused, uncomfortable silence.
Finally the speaker spoke.
"We three thought hard. Our conclusion seems correct. Since everything you need is here and you have nothing to keep you at your home, it would be best for you to simply live here now. Getting rid of your car is important. We no longer can clutter the view in front of our humble hovel with nonessentials.".
He was flabbergasted. Though he saw the wisdom of the speakers' words.
VI
The next such conference also caught him by surprise, although it too was obvious. They waited long enough to be sure that once again he was completely at ease with the new arrangement. They saw how happy he was not having a car. The money he saved was considerable, and there were times when he'd forget himself, and would actually try whistling a happy tune.
"After much deliberations we are forced to admit that the only way out of the situation is to collect rent from you for your room and board, which shall automatically be deducted from your pay," the speaker said.
VII
He no longer wondered. He knew. He was in shock, he was depressed, he was angry and he was speechless. Once again he retreated to the bathroom and demanded more booze and cigarettes. He couldn't believe how he'd gotten hooked, how he'd ended up in a situation which still seemed pretty damn good, all things considered, but where he suddenly felt a prisoner.
His work remained the same. He was to do what he liked. Nobody bothered him. He had food, drink. Smokes. A place to sleep. He had everything. Now he didn't even have to worry about money. But something seemed fishy. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. He began to think something was wrong with him.
It almost seemed that he'd become a prisoner of his freedom.
"How strange," he mused. "I'm a prisoner of not knowing what I like to do.".
Then: "I never grew up. I'd let the Holy Trinity become my parents who give me all I need.".
Then: "What's wrong with that?".
He said: "I wonder if I can get out of here? What would I do?". Saying it outloud to himself was a mistake.
VIII
Once the three realized that he was no longer completely happy, and more than that, that he was on the verge of realizing what was one of the things he liked to do, they decided a distraction was in order. The horizons needed to be broadened, and new opportunities presented. More of the unknown within the rooms was called for. The time was ripe for the sprouting of seeds long forgotten. They realized he'd lost his favorite fascination.
IX
One rare morning caught him sitting on the front door-step.Warm and gloriously sunny, autumn had arrived with few indications that a year had almost past again.The blue sky spoke to him of dreams seldom attained, so he directed his gaze to the trash bags on the sidewalk. It was trash day. He found himself thinking about cash flow. Wryly he remembered that long ago his nick-name was Trash-and-Cash. Catching up to him now as Trash-Flow. It appeared to him that all the waste in the black plastic bags was remnants of money, was itself still, in a sense, money. All the plastic, cellophane, paper, tin cans, aluminum, glass, and cardboard, was all material that took immense amounts of energy to produce, it was all paid for a number of times, not least of which was all the money spent to make all this shit attractive enough for all to know that they must buy this thing that so cleverly caught the eye so many different calculated times. The remnants of intense brainwashing was called trash. Squeaky-clean brains are needed for this kind of mass consumption. And amazingly enough another huge industry grew with more tons of money made and spent to pick up the trash, these left-overs, these witnesses of instant gratification, "nothing lasts too long today," he thought, "it's natural: eat - shit, drink - piss, buy - discard.".
"Trash is short lived memories," he murmered to the sky. "My dearest memories are in cemetaries. My future, too.".
He heard the door open behind him, the speaker saying; "Come. Quickly. We think you want to see this.".
X
He managed to think; "It won't be long now before these boys figure out a way to convince us all that I owe them lots of money.". Also he thought; "Shit. Did I just see the birth of paranoia?". Shaken by the strange progression of his thinking, he got up and followed them in.
XI
As he entered he realized he wanted to go to the zoo. Vaguely it seemed he needed to see a tiger, but he suspected all such things vanished, with his car. This persistant reappearance of unnecessary things from the past irked and puzzled.
They skimmed over floors of rooms avoided by spiders even. Three black robes flapped ahead like crows. Among crows, he was a cow. He mooed half-heartedly. The sound of a foghorn on the shores of Lake Superior reached his ears.
Everything stopped and they were there.
XII
He must remember that he wanted to cut off his nuts. Or was it his eggs? Or was this the past again? Where he sat for days, watching the oak tree shed its' leaves. One day his gaze was riveted to a single leaf spinning in mid-air. All the other leaves were falling to the ground, but this one somehow decided that, bullshit, I don't feel like falling down, I wanna spin and dance here in the sunlight for a while. Mesmerized, he watched for hours. Until he knew that just like him it was caught. Him in a spiderweb. It on a single invisible spider-thread.
"Do you see?", the speaker urgently, with hints of alarm, asked.
He nodded his head. There seemed to be a slight difference in the spinning now. The spinning was white. He pulled his attention from the past and tried to focus. A white spinning blur was in front of him. He looked around, to see they were in a large room he'd not seen before, in front of a big window. The Holy Trinity was perplexed but patient. He looked back outside. The white spinning was slowing down. It seemed to be suspended from a black, leafless tree that grew at the edge of a cliff not far from the window. He blinked. Twice. There, in front of him, on a trapeeze swing, was a mummy. A person from head to toe in white. Now, he was able to see it was a woman. Her eyes looked at him through a slit in the elaborate head wrapping with a lace crown of wings that cascaded down to her waist. White gloved hands held the ropes as she leaned back. A short many layered skirt stood straight from her waist, making him gasp. "She's a ballerina", he thought. White, baggy, also lace, pantaloons reached down to white wrapped feet. Why her wide-spread legs were so straight puzzled him. Disbelief drew his eyes up. There, where her secret place was, was a spot the size of her hand. A tea colored spot. He shuddered. Who would think of snatching her pantaloons at night while she slept, to dip just that particular piece of the garment into a cup of strong tea? To what purpose?
Meanwhile she had stopped spinning, hesitated for a few seconds all the time unwaveringly looking directly into his eyes, and then began turning in the opposite direction, slowly gaining speed until again she was but a blur that kept winking at him tea spot winks.
He tumbled backwards to a time when centuries ago his name was Tea-Bee-We-Be. Her name was then Kittle Wittle.
Now, this dastardly tea spot.
Teasing.
Beckoning.
Mystifying...
XIII
The Trinity was happy.
He spent his waking moments between gazing into her eyes or at the tea spot. She too seemed enthralled.
XIV
As their familiarity grew she began to slowly change. Simply spinning was no longer meaningful.Strangely, now that she knew she had his full attention, she felt a deep inner urge to blossom. It was as if the leafless black tree itself was trying to express through her its' hidden desires, or perhaps, through her, relive its' memories.
A constant whisper, like the softest of breezes was saying that the end of blossoming is death, not fruit, but if was so faint it was unheard. He wouldn't have understood, which saddened her smile.
IV
In his complacency he failed.
The obvious upcoming events caught him completely by surprise.
V
Shortly after the three A.M. incident, he was sitting in one of his favorite leather rocking chairs in the smallest, but sunniest at this time of the day, rooms. Stubbornly he was trying to figure out what kind of a bug it was. There was a spot of dark blue paint on the dirty white wall, that he'd been trying to decipher for weeks. Obviously, at some point, someone had used the room as a painting studio. There were numerous different colored fingerprints on the door and walls, and, spots. Places where the paint went off the canvas which had been stapled to the wall, onto the wall itself. This particular spot looked to him as some large insect, walking upright into the immense distance. Perhaps strolling to town to see a film, he mused. Or to the sea shore.
That's when he became aware of the three. He thought they were his personal Holy Trinity, always looking after his well being.
Peering at him, they broke their rule of only speaking to answer questions.
The speaker cleared his throat over and over, shifted his weight back and forth from one leg to the other and wrung his hands as though he was keeping him there knowing full well he was about to soil his britches. He looked on with an amused, uncomfortable silence.
Finally the speaker spoke.
"We three thought hard. Our conclusion seems correct. Since everything you need is here and you have nothing to keep you at your home, it would be best for you to simply live here now. Getting rid of your car is important. We no longer can clutter the view in front of our humble hovel with nonessentials.".
He was flabbergasted. Though he saw the wisdom of the speakers' words.
VI
The next such conference also caught him by surprise, although it too was obvious. They waited long enough to be sure that once again he was completely at ease with the new arrangement. They saw how happy he was not having a car. The money he saved was considerable, and there were times when he'd forget himself, and would actually try whistling a happy tune.
"After much deliberations we are forced to admit that the only way out of the situation is to collect rent from you for your room and board, which shall automatically be deducted from your pay," the speaker said.
VII
He no longer wondered. He knew. He was in shock, he was depressed, he was angry and he was speechless. Once again he retreated to the bathroom and demanded more booze and cigarettes. He couldn't believe how he'd gotten hooked, how he'd ended up in a situation which still seemed pretty damn good, all things considered, but where he suddenly felt a prisoner.
His work remained the same. He was to do what he liked. Nobody bothered him. He had food, drink. Smokes. A place to sleep. He had everything. Now he didn't even have to worry about money. But something seemed fishy. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. He began to think something was wrong with him.
It almost seemed that he'd become a prisoner of his freedom.
"How strange," he mused. "I'm a prisoner of not knowing what I like to do.".
Then: "I never grew up. I'd let the Holy Trinity become my parents who give me all I need.".
Then: "What's wrong with that?".
He said: "I wonder if I can get out of here? What would I do?". Saying it outloud to himself was a mistake.
VIII
Once the three realized that he was no longer completely happy, and more than that, that he was on the verge of realizing what was one of the things he liked to do, they decided a distraction was in order. The horizons needed to be broadened, and new opportunities presented. More of the unknown within the rooms was called for. The time was ripe for the sprouting of seeds long forgotten. They realized he'd lost his favorite fascination.
IX
One rare morning caught him sitting on the front door-step.Warm and gloriously sunny, autumn had arrived with few indications that a year had almost past again.The blue sky spoke to him of dreams seldom attained, so he directed his gaze to the trash bags on the sidewalk. It was trash day. He found himself thinking about cash flow. Wryly he remembered that long ago his nick-name was Trash-and-Cash. Catching up to him now as Trash-Flow. It appeared to him that all the waste in the black plastic bags was remnants of money, was itself still, in a sense, money. All the plastic, cellophane, paper, tin cans, aluminum, glass, and cardboard, was all material that took immense amounts of energy to produce, it was all paid for a number of times, not least of which was all the money spent to make all this shit attractive enough for all to know that they must buy this thing that so cleverly caught the eye so many different calculated times. The remnants of intense brainwashing was called trash. Squeaky-clean brains are needed for this kind of mass consumption. And amazingly enough another huge industry grew with more tons of money made and spent to pick up the trash, these left-overs, these witnesses of instant gratification, "nothing lasts too long today," he thought, "it's natural: eat - shit, drink - piss, buy - discard.".
"Trash is short lived memories," he murmered to the sky. "My dearest memories are in cemetaries. My future, too.".
He heard the door open behind him, the speaker saying; "Come. Quickly. We think you want to see this.".
X
He managed to think; "It won't be long now before these boys figure out a way to convince us all that I owe them lots of money.". Also he thought; "Shit. Did I just see the birth of paranoia?". Shaken by the strange progression of his thinking, he got up and followed them in.
XI
As he entered he realized he wanted to go to the zoo. Vaguely it seemed he needed to see a tiger, but he suspected all such things vanished, with his car. This persistant reappearance of unnecessary things from the past irked and puzzled.
They skimmed over floors of rooms avoided by spiders even. Three black robes flapped ahead like crows. Among crows, he was a cow. He mooed half-heartedly. The sound of a foghorn on the shores of Lake Superior reached his ears.
Everything stopped and they were there.
XII
He must remember that he wanted to cut off his nuts. Or was it his eggs? Or was this the past again? Where he sat for days, watching the oak tree shed its' leaves. One day his gaze was riveted to a single leaf spinning in mid-air. All the other leaves were falling to the ground, but this one somehow decided that, bullshit, I don't feel like falling down, I wanna spin and dance here in the sunlight for a while. Mesmerized, he watched for hours. Until he knew that just like him it was caught. Him in a spiderweb. It on a single invisible spider-thread.
"Do you see?", the speaker urgently, with hints of alarm, asked.
He nodded his head. There seemed to be a slight difference in the spinning now. The spinning was white. He pulled his attention from the past and tried to focus. A white spinning blur was in front of him. He looked around, to see they were in a large room he'd not seen before, in front of a big window. The Holy Trinity was perplexed but patient. He looked back outside. The white spinning was slowing down. It seemed to be suspended from a black, leafless tree that grew at the edge of a cliff not far from the window. He blinked. Twice. There, in front of him, on a trapeeze swing, was a mummy. A person from head to toe in white. Now, he was able to see it was a woman. Her eyes looked at him through a slit in the elaborate head wrapping with a lace crown of wings that cascaded down to her waist. White gloved hands held the ropes as she leaned back. A short many layered skirt stood straight from her waist, making him gasp. "She's a ballerina", he thought. White, baggy, also lace, pantaloons reached down to white wrapped feet. Why her wide-spread legs were so straight puzzled him. Disbelief drew his eyes up. There, where her secret place was, was a spot the size of her hand. A tea colored spot. He shuddered. Who would think of snatching her pantaloons at night while she slept, to dip just that particular piece of the garment into a cup of strong tea? To what purpose?
Meanwhile she had stopped spinning, hesitated for a few seconds all the time unwaveringly looking directly into his eyes, and then began turning in the opposite direction, slowly gaining speed until again she was but a blur that kept winking at him tea spot winks.
He tumbled backwards to a time when centuries ago his name was Tea-Bee-We-Be. Her name was then Kittle Wittle.
Now, this dastardly tea spot.
Teasing.
Beckoning.
Mystifying...
XIII
The Trinity was happy.
He spent his waking moments between gazing into her eyes or at the tea spot. She too seemed enthralled.
XIV
As their familiarity grew she began to slowly change. Simply spinning was no longer meaningful.Strangely, now that she knew she had his full attention, she felt a deep inner urge to blossom. It was as if the leafless black tree itself was trying to express through her its' hidden desires, or perhaps, through her, relive its' memories.
A constant whisper, like the softest of breezes was saying that the end of blossoming is death, not fruit, but if was so faint it was unheard. He wouldn't have understood, which saddened her smile.
He developed a liking for the long thread inside the tights he wore around the house. He loved to feel it pull out of the crack of his butt when he pulled the tights down. It took a while to figure out what was going on. What it was that he was feeling. But he definately loved it. "You're playing with your homo tendencies!" his mind barked at him. "No", he'd reply. "You're playing with your memories of your tendencies. I'm playing with a thread.". And he'd pull 'em off again, caught in the moment.
Short little episodes like that. All else was tied to past and future.
XVI
Mindful of breathing. Which showed anxiety in gut. Shoot. How di I get out and onto? The anxiety, because of thinking of doing. All the time. Instead of patiently, bravely doing.
The tension of holding on to old habits that didn't want to be changed. Making him eat when he wasn't hungry. Drink when he wasn't thirsty. Jerk off when he wasn't horny. Making him sick-er.
XVII
Again he thought that it really does seem that if you really do care so much that you do the undoable, the unthinkable, fearlessly, almost blindly: to everybody else it seems as though you don't care. People begin to shun you as too careless. Reckless. Dangerous.
It does put you closer to the realm where accidents happen, he mused. But by then they cease to be accidents. If you're that concentrated. You simply get to where the tolerances are so close, the spaces between one and the other so small that you simply become one with the three.
XVIII
"How are toothpicks made?" he asked the trapeeze girl. "You know. The wooden ones?".
XIX
Unexpectedly one day the dark-robed trio appeared in his sanctuary. The Bathroom. They had never before been there, so his suspicion flared. Also, they were visibly agitated. Their unease invaded.He felt a need to ask what was wrong but instead began pacing. In the small room with the added bodies, his space to maneuver was limited. Angry, he sat on the throne.
They looked at each other. The speaker wrung his hands nervously and sighed. They seemed eager but the hesitation like a vise held them. Finally the smallest of them shrieked.
"Oy vey" cried the speaker, looking at him through tears in his eyes. "You see how big our problem is?".
He nodded his head, speech having left him just then.
"You must immediately tell us what you see.".
Eyebrows raised in questions. "You know, down there," the speaker continued. "In that empty room with the window and the black tree outside.".
His shoulders went up half an inch and for emphasis he raised his hands, palms up. Like, what the fuck?
The Trinity began waving their arms, their robes, wing-like, flapping the air. They pulled their hair and stomped their feet, swaying precariously ever closer to him. He began nervously looking around for a way out. The speaker suddenly sat on the floor and looking up at him whispered. "You told uo. When we first took you there. That you saw. But you never said what it was you saw. All this time we wait. Maybe you'll tell us. But. You're just happy." . Just as suddenly, the smallest of them thrust his face up to his and screamed "You must tell us what you see in a room where there is nothing!!!". His voice cracked at that, and he becan coughing violently, spraying spittle in all directions.
He wiped his face with the back of his palm.
"You see our huge predicament?" the speaker asked? "You understand how big this is? How can you see something in a roo where no one, ever, has ever seen a thing? And not tell us what it is?!? A very long time ago, a very wise Rabbi told us the room is full of magic. Then he died. Right there. Tells us this thing, and - boom! Dead! Such shit. You begin maybe to comprehend? This humble, looks like a shack from street, ja? You see how unexplainable it really is? How wondrous. Such a huge building inside a tiny shack we've built. No one knows. We have everything, ja? Basements full of diamonds. Attics loaded with money. Tunnels stuffed with gold. The biggest bombs. We can show you. It's all here. In this tiny shack nobody knows! Ja? And then we find you. This, unexplainable again, event. A person who in the land of all wants nothing. Doesn't know what to want. Wants to just sit in a bathroom, smoke cigarettes, drink booze, and look out the window!!! Are you fucking nuts!?!?!? IN A FUCKING BATHROOM???? With riches beyond your wildest dreams all around you???!!!??? The speaker fell backwards, and lay on the floor, exhausted by the size of his disbelief. Then he tried rolling over on his side, but the effort seemed to hurt and he clutched his ears in both hands and hissed from between his teeth. The small one jumped on his chest and straddling him thus, glared at the third member of my benefactors. Thus, silently, moments passed.
Of course, he was completely bewildered. The bathroom was too small for big drama. Bigger because of how small the cause really was. He didn't know he was seeing neverbeforeseen.
"How do I know you didn't drug me?" he abruptly blurted. "If there's nothing in that stupid room to see, and I happen to see something no one's ever seen before...". His voice trailed off and he looked out the window where the night heaved huge gusts of wind in between the walls of the small back yard. A sharp crack brought him back in time to see the speaker slap the floor. Instantly the small one fell off the speakers chest, banging his head on the toilet.
"You don't, after all this time, trust us? To say such a thing! Drug you!!! Ay yay yay. Don't make pretend to be stupid,ja? Oy vey. You see, my singular friend, we're not playing fooling games, or stupid games, or any games at all. In this world we've created, this skyscraper shack, we know everything but that one lousy room. The Rabbi said. And we don't know what.". The speaker looked at me mournfully. "You said you saw. Now, we can not stand it any more. We need to know. What you saw.".
XX
"I saw Her" he said.
An awful silence swallowed them. Its depth threatened to crush all wit the weight of the three words. Slowly their eyes bulged. Only that. Black robes hung limp. Lower lips sagged and drool glistened as eyes grew hideously. He felt they wanted to move their hands at least, to step back from him, from the sickness of his words which now loomed as fear in all their eyes. Furtive glances suspicious and quick. Darting into corners, under the tub up at the cieling, looking who could've heard these dirty damning words.
XXI
A seeming eternity of ghastly silent ugly struggle with fear so palpable it stank. With no way out of this cesspool, he flung open the window. Fresh cold air rushed in with a blast of wind and tore at black robes and white walls, slamming them back into reality. But it appeared to be too much. The speakers jaw moved soundlessly as he tried to voice his bewilderment, looking at him with eyes now almost pleading, but something still bound his will. Weakly he stomped his foot against the floor. Bent over, grasping his head, slowly turning in a tight little circle, he danced his sad little dance. Over and over. Stopped, and raised his face to him. "Say it isn't so" he said.
XXII
Pandemonium erupted with a paroxysm of vehemence. All three were jumping kicking punching and screaming at the tops of their voices. The strange mantra roared around, bouncing off walls ceiling and floor to finally assault him with uncomprehending brutal stupidity. "NoShe NoShe NoShe NoShe!!!" they screamed, fuming and foaming at the mouths, blood flying off knuckles. He tried to remember. Was noshe some jewish word he'd forgotten? Not shmata. Noshe. Noshe noshe...
XXIII
Just as abruptly they stopped. In the sudden silence the speaker farted. "Sorry" he said quietly. "It's not shmata. And it's not noshe. It's No She!". His eyes pierced him. "Do you understand? No She! There is No She here! There can't be! We," with a sweep of his arm he included the three, "we would've smelled her a million years ago from the most distant universe. There is no she here!" Emphatically, this last.
XXIV
Slackjawed he looked at them vacantly. Mind in turmoil. "What's up with these guys?" he thought. "What's their trip with women?". And then "so what did I see? Is it really a room of hallucinations for me? Why just me?" he wondered. He said "excuse me" and walked out the door.
XXV
He knew they followed him. Down to the magic room. They had no other choice.
XXVI
She wasn't spinning. "You're right" she said to him. "I've been waiting for this. These guys are really stubborn; I thought this should've happened much sooner.".
He looked at the Holy Trinity who were watching him intently. Nodded, quietly, more to himself than to anybody else saying "yeah, they're stubborn.". The speaker jumped. "What? Who you talking to? This ain't no time for mumbling!".
She smiled at him. "Don't worry. They don't see me. Don't hear me. Can't touch me. How could they? They don't believe I am. A long time ago, after the Rabbi died, they began to seriously suspect. They're all very bright. Extremely bright. So they knew the odds were against them. There is no such thing as a mans' world. It's just in the minds of some men. But their belief moved mountains. Convinced many. Nevertheless the suspicions lingered. So out of this magic room they made a firing range." Her laughter at this bizzare memory filled the room with bright dancing stars. Her eyes sparkled wildly and she swung with pure joy. "You can imagine their logic. If she's in there, even though we can't detect her, we'll shoot the fuck out of her! And for years they played this silly game. The little one came up with the brilliant but hare-brained idea of having machine guns mounted on all the walls, ceiling and floor, all tightly next to each other, all pointing into the room. Hooked them up to a sophisticated computer system and to an elaborate ammunition supply. When all was ready, they programmed the controls for five years of non-stop shooting, locked up the doors, and clapping each other on the back went to Moscow for the duration. It was sheer madness. The bullets were so thick a mosquito wouldn't have been safe. But of course the machine guns all destroyed each other in a matter of seconds. Then for five years it was peaceful. When they returned, they were furious. Wanted to blow up a nuclear device in here. But then settled on gas. That was all so long ago. But it is. Completely beyond any doubt, completely inconceivable to them that I could still be here. Their mantra NoShe to them is bulletproof.".
He smiled hugely at this. "So are you, ja?". Suddenly remembering, he looked at the black robes then back to her. She nodded her head. "That's right. This, you can't ever tell them. Never!. It will be a serious set-back for all. But they truly could've smelled me a million years ago from the furthest universe. These men are true fanatics. Well trained in their arts. One of many tricks against such elaborate noses is simply this", and she moved her white-bound legs a little to reveal the tea spot. "Uh uh uh, don't say a thing, don't even smile. I tell you, these boys are really clever."
XXVII
"You know," he said, "how come I don't know what I want? You know? Shouldn't a person know such things?".
She said "but you do. It's just that what you want is not of this world, so you can't really put it into words to see it in your thoughts. Listen without your ears.".
From her eyes flowed the soundless song of daring, and slowly beginning to spin she cooed and coaxed and he felt thunder rumbling and the ripping of huge canvas. And the last thing he saw was the three in an empty room. One was saying "where is he?".
