Adam sighed. He was in a mental struggle, one quite frustrating and painful. He had been at war with conflicting emotions for some time now and just when he thought he had the answer, it slipped away like it had always done. Adam also would question why he was in this strained state, as he was granted practically everything to him upon birth. He came from dust, named the animals, and lived in absolute paradise. Yet still, with all these privileges, he was empty. His problem was one that could not be fixed with a nighttime prayer, no matter how close to Him he was. This was his problem, one that he knew not the solution, and because of this, he lay in grass, frustrated and in pain.
It had become a daily pilgrimage for Adam. Wake up, eat, do some calisthenics, and travel to the hill that over looked the grasslands. The hill was not mountainous, but it provided Adam with a view that he could admire. He oversaw miles of lush grass, peach trees, and small oasis's. It gave him some calm, but only briefly before the thoughts flooded in again. When they returned, he would lay back and watch the billowing but non-threatening clouds roll by. Eventually, the clouds passive movements lulled him into a midday nap.
From there he dreamt.
In his dreams he saw darkness that never existed in the lands that he lived in. There were black skies everywhere, and far off screams of terror that penetrated deep into him. The shrillness from these yells gave him a head-to-toe shiver that frightened him. They were high-pitched and cackling and they hit him like ice water. And they never stopped. He ran hard in his dreams, always trying to get away from the skies that seemed to get lower and lower to the ground. The ground was barren, his feet hitting hard dirt with every stride. It was a visual representation of the conflict brewing in his mind day in and day out. It scared him to death. In this nightmare he knew why he was really running. He was trying to be a savior, trying to help when there was no help to be needed. He was acting selfless, altruistic even, as he ran, knowing that somewhere out there in the darkness, she needed him.
But he always woke up before he could save her.
Now awake and shaken by his dreams, he waited for his friend to come along. His name was Zach, an archangel who had known Adam since The Creation. Adam always sensed Zach before he saw him, and that day he felt a warm sensation coming from the east. He turned right and saw a beautiful figure soaring toward him. With eyes so blue they put the sky to shame, and wings so large they could swallow the sun, Zach was a sight to behold. He was covered in armor that was so tight-fitting it could have been a part of his body. His sword was shimmering in the daylight as he brandished it from its sheath. Though it be paradise, Zach was still wary of his surroundings, and refused to pocket the weapon while on earth with Adam. Zach's wings sped up as he came to a controlled landing, and his sandals made a soft imprint into the ground. His presence had been made.
"How are you today, Adam?"
"Worse," Adam replied sullenly.
"I'm sorry to hear that."
They sat for a while and talked about their recent doings, meaning Zach was talking for most of the time. He spoke concisely and with a soft tone as he went about how he was fearing an uprising from longtime foes where he dwelt. When Adam asked for more details, Zach would suddenly declare the subject "nothing to be worried about." Adam knew this was an important matter, but knew Zach was trying not to burden him with anymore grief. Silent appreciation for this gesture was made by Adam. The two began to walk through the grasslands, picking fruit to eat as they went. Halfway through his fruit, Zach asked Adam about it.
"What did you decide to call this?"
"A plum."
"Plum. Well, it is very good."
There was a silence now as they walked. Adam knew what was coming next, Zach was simply gathering his words together.
"Would you like to talk about her?"
"I would. I don't know how though."
"Have you seen her lately?"
"Just three days ago."
"And?"
"And it reminded me of how much I love her. Since then I've only felt worse."
"I'm sorry."
"I know."
Adam's pain derived from his love of Eve. There existed no woman like her, both literally and figuratively. She was positively brilliant, a master of language and remarkable conversationalist. On top of that she brought Adam the only smiles that he got outside of viewing the beauty of nature around him. It did not matter that she walked about without a cloth upon her body, for her true beauty could not be observed with just the eyes. Adam knew that in this lonely world, God had meant for them to be together.
Alas, Eve did not reciprocate the feelings.
Adam was left in shambles. A broken man in paradise. The situation could not be more apparent, the answer more obvious. And yet, he was left to stay at the hilltop looking over the beautiful landscape and finding distractions for himself. He found an outlet for his sadness in the naming of things around him. From the fauna, to the flowers, to the fruit, to the fish. He named them all and cared for them. It was a creative way to keep his mind off of Eve, but it didn't help for long. When he began talking with Zach about his troubles, however, he found him to act as a conscious. He spoke the words that Adam did not want to hear, even though he knew them to already be true in his own mind. While Zach was quick to dish out the reality of Adam's dilemma, he still rooted for him, and so did many other angels above, according to Zach.
"Why can't she see it, Zach?"
"Perhaps because you two truly are not compatible."
"Do you believe that?"
"No. I don't."
"Has He been listening to me?"
"Of course. Always."
"And still I suffer."
"Everything happens for a reason."
This line had been told to Adam countless times, but it never did bring him comfort. He thought it might have just been his impatience. He didn't care. The two continued to walk in silence, this one more bearable, and it allowed Adam to relax to a degree. He had prayed every night for relief, for things to be better, and for this he would only be met with another nightmare and another tearful night. While he felt no physical pain from this ordeal, he hurt terribly. It was the sense that there was no hope for him, that no matter his accomplishments, there would always be that piece missing from his existence. What is life without love? This question had stumped Adam for the longest time, and the fact that he had no answer to it only added to his pain.
How could God do this to him?
"You blame God for this," Zach stated calmly.
"I do, but I don't want to."
"I know. I also know you love Him deeply."
"Why couldn't He have just made things perfect?"
"What kind of existence is one without conflict?"
"What is life without love?"
They walked, both without answers to each other's questions. Adam's solemn demeanor was suddenly broken by what he saw ahead of him. He grabbed Zach's shoulder and pulled him down and over to a bush to conceal themselves. Adam's forward gaze was a silent gesture to Zach to see what lie ahead. A gorgeous flock of flamingos were gathered no more than 100 feet from Adam and Zach. They were interacting with one another around a pool of water, cleaning themselves and taking their drinks as they groomed. Their plumage was a vibrant mix of white and pink, without a single speck of dirt on them. They were magnificent, allowing Adam to forget all things for just the briefest moment.
"They're flamingos."
"They're incredible."
After a few more moments of mesmerized observing, the two took about to turn around and head back to the hill. Adam continued to walk as an empty vessel, a man with nothing left in him. Zach sensed his worsening state, but could not think of how to help his friend. He wished nothing more than for Adam to be happy once more, like how he was in days old, but he knew that would be an Adam he may not see again.
"Zach."
"Yes, Adam?"
"Thank you for visiting me so often these days."
"Oh, you're welcome."
"I can't imagine how someone could go through this without someone to talk to. I really appreciate it."
"I wish I could do more."
"I know. But you've done all that you could do. That's enough."
Adam, in truth, wished Zach could do more, but he knew these were hopes that could be tossed away like all of his others. So they continued on through the ankle-high grass, talking of things that a man and an angelic being talk of. Both quietly enjoying each other's company. While Zach could never fully understand the love that Adam felt for Eve, he tried his best to sympathize. Adam's was a love that had never existed before. His was one that sought to protect Eve from any dangers, to provide for her and keep her healthy. He wished to always be by her side, to hold her when she was in pain and hold her still when the pain had passed. He loved her unconditionally to an extent that she may never know, but all this was fruitless. She loved him not, and with all these feelings and nothing to do with them, Adam spent his days in idleness, keeping his suffering silent outside of his discussions with Zach. He knew that Eve would never feel real pain and that danger would never be on her doorstep, but it did not matter to Adam. He wanted to a be her knight in a dragonless world.
Through all this, Adam never felt any hatred toward Eve. He could never imagine how he ever could, he could never bring himself to it. Eve was the only one for him, in all ways possible. And while he could know that fact until the day he died, he would only know it from his spot on the hill where he sat alone day after day.
"Why does she not love me, Zach? I understand you have difficulty grasping what I feel and everything, but if you could try and, I don't know, just, why do you believe Eve and I are not together?"
"You've dedicated yourself to her, correct?"
"Yes. Fully."
"Eve, however, has dedicated her life toward other things. Literature, Art, Nature. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"I'm sorry, Adam, but from what I can see, these are the things she truly loves."
Adam's eyes stung. Tears had begun to swell up and were threatening to let themselves loose. He didn't want to cry in front of Zach. Adam wanted to save him from the grief that Zach had so politely protected him from earlier. They reached the top as the sun was setting over the grasslands. They both watched as the sky became painted in swipes of orange and red. Adam contemplated his situation, wondered where he would be when he woke up tomorrow. If he would be in a happier place or still in a lonely would where Eve was a fruit that could never be touched. Either way he would have to keep on living his life, it would just be a little more difficult by himself. If only things were as he wished, as he prayed for. If only he were with Eve.
"I love her so much, Zach."
"I know. I guess not even paradise can be perfect. However, I think you need to see her again."
"And say what to her?"
"Say the things you tell me. Say what is always on your mind."
"I've told it all to her before."
"Perhaps you need to be more forceful. Explain that you love her for exactly who she is. Make her understand everything you wish to offer to her."
"That sounds like I'm pressing this upon her."
"You're forcing her to realize the truth. She simply does not realize that despite the love she has for her other pursuits, her true love has gone unrequited for too long, and he's suffering horribly."
"I'm not sure, Zach."
"You're afraid, Adam. Why?"
Adam felt the first of many tears stream down his cheeks. This flash flood of vulnerability embarrassed Adam, and Zach knew it, but he asked him again.
"Why are you afraid to tell her this?"
"Because, because I'm afraid if she says "No." I can't bear to hear that again. That would be worse than the nightmares I have, then the loneliness I feel now, and that's what scares me."
"I think you two were made for each other in more than one way, Adam. Until you make her realize that, you will continue to find yourself on this hill everyday."
"You believe that?"
"Yes."
"I thought you archangels couldn't sympathize with this kind of love."
"I'm surprised myself."
Adam did not know what to do. He was inspired by his friend's surprising words, but the fear of rejection and uncertainty still petrified him. His thoughts were battling again, two conflicting feelings engaging in an epic fight. He looked at the sunset once more as its warm colors fell upon paradise. It was a sunset that he determined would be the last spent alone on that hilltop. He would be alone no longer, he refused to be. He loved Eve to the ends of the earth and knew her to be the most amazing woman that would set foot upon it. He would never give up on her.
"Adam?"
"Yes, Zach?"
"What if she says "Yes"?"
Adam smiled, "That would be more than paradise could ever offer."
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Advice for Michael and Amy
I'm going to be honest and straight with you all. Someday, I plan on having children. Whether they're going to be with someone I care about or with a Guatemalan prostitute who kinda looks like Jennifer Lopez when you squint will be up to God to determine. What's for certain is that I'm going to have to be role model for these children, instill them with values, and most importantly, give them advice.
This is why I post today, so when the time comes, I can simply come back to this and print it off. Or better yet, print it now and just fold it up and keep it in the wallet. That too, will be up to God to determine. So here I shall list what I deem as the most important things my son should know as he grows up. Although, I think I will have a girl's list as well as a boy's one, just in case my wife turns out to have really powerful eggs.
____________________________
Michael
1. Always respect women. They are the most beautiful and intelligent things on this planet. And until we explore other worlds and find planets that hold even more beautiful and intelligent creatures, we shall be polite, courteous, and chivalric to the female sex.
2. Cops do not take bribes. It doesn't matter whether you have your credit card, debit card, checkbook, traveler's check, rain check, I.O.U., or cold hard cash. When they say they want your license and registration. That really is all they want.
3. It's lefty loosy, righty tighty. You have no idea how many armoire sets have failed to stay together for me because I was not bestowed with this helpful mnemonic tip until I was 17. Turn the screw left to unscrew and screw it right to screw it right. If you really are my son, by the way, you just laughed at the second part of that sentence. Good job, kiddo.
4. A little confidence, charm, and wit go a long way. Walk into a room with an upright posture, a gleaming smile, and an arched eyebrow and you will be creating something called an "Aura." It's an invisible field of energy that a man exudes that can turn him into a leader, comedian, and sex symbol. Sometimes all three.
5. Always wear a condom. You don't want to have to worry about writing an advice list when you're seventeen like I am. Rubber up, pal. Remember, "keep it snug, then shag the rug." That was kind of weird, I know, but it'll help you remember.
6. When at a sporting event, bring a Sharpie, White-out, and the nicest clothes you own. Let me explain, when you go to a baseball game or a tennis match or whatever, you find the best seats available and take them. From that point, White-out the seat and aisle numbers on your ticket, check the seat and aisle number you're now in and then fill them in with your Sharpie on your ticket where the old numbers use to be. When the "rightful owners" appear and politely tell you that you're in their seats, you can say, "No, look at my tickets." You'll embarrass them by showing them the seats are yours at which point you can go a step further and say, "You people don't even look properly dressed for a game of tennis," while brandishing your tuxedo, top hat, and cane. They will leave, sullen, sad, and without front row seats.
7. Love really does exist. It is also the most complicated thing you will ever encounter. You may have to go through a few women until you find the one. During this uncharted course, you will come across seedy clubs, loose ladies, and if you happen to have a bad break-up, you will come across all your belongings outside you and your girlfriend's apartment. It's a path that will make you wiser, better, and emotionally stronger. Sure, you'll lose faith in humanity and then find "meaning" in everything all in the same week, but you just have to keep your wits about you. The same wits you should have after reading Advice #4. She's out there for you, kiddo. And hopefully if you've followed all my advice, she'll realize that no one is going to be a better man out there than you.
Amy
1. Men are idiots. They will forever be perpetual children, and they will only become smarter at concealing this fact. Take the most "mature" man you know, put a gun to his head and he will tell you his favorite fart joke. The best you can do with men is tolerate their childish tendencies, and the smart ones will try their best to show their mature side more often.
2. Don't let the other girls get you down. You do what you want to do, and if that makes you popular, then that's great. If you end up being a social pariah, well, that's the price for being an independent woman. Eventually people will come to respect your independent nature, trust me, they will. Heck, Destiny's Child even wrote a song promoting independent women. That was Beyonce's group before she became super famous, by the way.
3. Remember, not all the prettiest flowers are roses and not all the prettiest girls are stick-thin fashion models. You're beautiful, just like Christina Aguilera says, so just be happy who you are.
4. Kissing on the first date carries a lot of weight with it. Just imagine what sex on the first date carries. I don't know what it carries exactly, but I always picture some giant ape with those ankle weights as a visual representation. What I'm trying to say is that taking it slow is the best way to go. It rhymes, so it must work. Check out the boy's advice list's #5 for another example.
5. A nice face will blow a man away for a moment, but good humor and brains will blow him away for the rest of his life. Don't fall for their wagging tongues, when it comes down to it, a laugh and quick remark from you will stick with them more than anything else. A pretty face is only a plus at that point.
6. While we're talking about pretty faces, the only cop that can be bribed is a cop that's a sucker for pretty faces. So, always keep lipstick and mascara in your car, along with a spare tire and road flares.
7. Never take crap from anyone. If a man is being sexist to you, kick him straight in the balls. Then call me, and I'll go punch his lights out. Until the day you get married, I want to know you're honoring that Juntunen name, so don't let some punkass lessen your awesomeness. Remind me to enroll you in a Krav Maga class at some point too.
____________________________
Alright, hopefully with these 7 things each (I keep it equal) you will grow up to be two kids I'm proud to call my own, unless of course your mother actually does end up being that Guatemalan J.Lo Hooker, then I may play dumb. Sorry if that does turn out to be the case. But if things do turn out well for me and I'm with someone I care about, well, I can't speak for your mother, obviously, but I will always love you no matter what.
Until I actually do see you, I'm going to go enjoy my time and maybe try to follow the rules I set forth for you two. Mostly the boy's ones, but some of the girl's ones cross over too. Someday we'll see each other, just remember, I'll be the one smiling back at you.
Unless the person has long hair. That's your mother.
This is why I post today, so when the time comes, I can simply come back to this and print it off. Or better yet, print it now and just fold it up and keep it in the wallet. That too, will be up to God to determine. So here I shall list what I deem as the most important things my son should know as he grows up. Although, I think I will have a girl's list as well as a boy's one, just in case my wife turns out to have really powerful eggs.
____________________________
Michael
1. Always respect women. They are the most beautiful and intelligent things on this planet. And until we explore other worlds and find planets that hold even more beautiful and intelligent creatures, we shall be polite, courteous, and chivalric to the female sex.
2. Cops do not take bribes. It doesn't matter whether you have your credit card, debit card, checkbook, traveler's check, rain check, I.O.U., or cold hard cash. When they say they want your license and registration. That really is all they want.
3. It's lefty loosy, righty tighty. You have no idea how many armoire sets have failed to stay together for me because I was not bestowed with this helpful mnemonic tip until I was 17. Turn the screw left to unscrew and screw it right to screw it right. If you really are my son, by the way, you just laughed at the second part of that sentence. Good job, kiddo.
4. A little confidence, charm, and wit go a long way. Walk into a room with an upright posture, a gleaming smile, and an arched eyebrow and you will be creating something called an "Aura." It's an invisible field of energy that a man exudes that can turn him into a leader, comedian, and sex symbol. Sometimes all three.
5. Always wear a condom. You don't want to have to worry about writing an advice list when you're seventeen like I am. Rubber up, pal. Remember, "keep it snug, then shag the rug." That was kind of weird, I know, but it'll help you remember.
6. When at a sporting event, bring a Sharpie, White-out, and the nicest clothes you own. Let me explain, when you go to a baseball game or a tennis match or whatever, you find the best seats available and take them. From that point, White-out the seat and aisle numbers on your ticket, check the seat and aisle number you're now in and then fill them in with your Sharpie on your ticket where the old numbers use to be. When the "rightful owners" appear and politely tell you that you're in their seats, you can say, "No, look at my tickets." You'll embarrass them by showing them the seats are yours at which point you can go a step further and say, "You people don't even look properly dressed for a game of tennis," while brandishing your tuxedo, top hat, and cane. They will leave, sullen, sad, and without front row seats.
7. Love really does exist. It is also the most complicated thing you will ever encounter. You may have to go through a few women until you find the one. During this uncharted course, you will come across seedy clubs, loose ladies, and if you happen to have a bad break-up, you will come across all your belongings outside you and your girlfriend's apartment. It's a path that will make you wiser, better, and emotionally stronger. Sure, you'll lose faith in humanity and then find "meaning" in everything all in the same week, but you just have to keep your wits about you. The same wits you should have after reading Advice #4. She's out there for you, kiddo. And hopefully if you've followed all my advice, she'll realize that no one is going to be a better man out there than you.
Amy
1. Men are idiots. They will forever be perpetual children, and they will only become smarter at concealing this fact. Take the most "mature" man you know, put a gun to his head and he will tell you his favorite fart joke. The best you can do with men is tolerate their childish tendencies, and the smart ones will try their best to show their mature side more often.
2. Don't let the other girls get you down. You do what you want to do, and if that makes you popular, then that's great. If you end up being a social pariah, well, that's the price for being an independent woman. Eventually people will come to respect your independent nature, trust me, they will. Heck, Destiny's Child even wrote a song promoting independent women. That was Beyonce's group before she became super famous, by the way.
3. Remember, not all the prettiest flowers are roses and not all the prettiest girls are stick-thin fashion models. You're beautiful, just like Christina Aguilera says, so just be happy who you are.
4. Kissing on the first date carries a lot of weight with it. Just imagine what sex on the first date carries. I don't know what it carries exactly, but I always picture some giant ape with those ankle weights as a visual representation. What I'm trying to say is that taking it slow is the best way to go. It rhymes, so it must work. Check out the boy's advice list's #5 for another example.
5. A nice face will blow a man away for a moment, but good humor and brains will blow him away for the rest of his life. Don't fall for their wagging tongues, when it comes down to it, a laugh and quick remark from you will stick with them more than anything else. A pretty face is only a plus at that point.
6. While we're talking about pretty faces, the only cop that can be bribed is a cop that's a sucker for pretty faces. So, always keep lipstick and mascara in your car, along with a spare tire and road flares.
7. Never take crap from anyone. If a man is being sexist to you, kick him straight in the balls. Then call me, and I'll go punch his lights out. Until the day you get married, I want to know you're honoring that Juntunen name, so don't let some punkass lessen your awesomeness. Remind me to enroll you in a Krav Maga class at some point too.
____________________________
Alright, hopefully with these 7 things each (I keep it equal) you will grow up to be two kids I'm proud to call my own, unless of course your mother actually does end up being that Guatemalan J.Lo Hooker, then I may play dumb. Sorry if that does turn out to be the case. But if things do turn out well for me and I'm with someone I care about, well, I can't speak for your mother, obviously, but I will always love you no matter what.
Until I actually do see you, I'm going to go enjoy my time and maybe try to follow the rules I set forth for you two. Mostly the boy's ones, but some of the girl's ones cross over too. Someday we'll see each other, just remember, I'll be the one smiling back at you.
Unless the person has long hair. That's your mother.
Friday, December 7, 2007
The Assassination of Abraham Lincoln by the Thespian John Wilkes Booth
The man sat in the back of the trolley with a look of most ill contempt about him. He stared out the window as if each passing visage was a brutal enemy of his. He twisted his moustache in a way that classic villains would when coming up with a murderous plot. His hair was black, blacker than the night that the train was cutting through. It was around two in the morning and the train had been going for about 6 hours now, but the man had never moved from his spot. The women pushing the carts were afraid to approach him and ask if he would like any tea. He didn't look like a tea man anyway. He looked like a man who liked coffee black, black as the hair that sat upon his head and twice as dark as the night the train he was riding was cutting through. It was dark alright.
The man was John Wilkes Booth, famed thespian of his day and proud Confederate sympathizer. He took the end of his moustache and twirled away at it with his thumb and forefinger, risking to pull it out by the roots. He was maddened with deep thoughts the last few hours, hardly blinking and constantly going over in his mind the same events. He couldn't stop thinking about it, he just twirled and twisted away. The same thing had been on his mind the whole train trip up to that point.
"Where did I leave my keys?"
Booth was remarkably forgetful and quite short-sighted when it came to doing things. He had placed his keys inside his locked briefcase for "safe keeping." Now remembering this, he slapped his forehead with fury and cursed himself for his lapse in judgment. For this error, he would be left with the clothes on his back for at least another day. In the process of cursing his name, the cart pushing lady passing by took notice and became entranced at who she had been afraid of this whole time.
"Wilkes Booth?" John Wilkes Booth the actor?"
"Thespian."
"Golly, if my eyes don't tell lies, you are Booth." The woman put her hand to her chest in awe. "I loved you in that play."
Booth waited a moment for her to explain which play, but when he realized she wasn't and was just going to gawk at him, he relented.
"Thank you," he said through a false smile.
"Would you do me the honor of letting me get you something?"
Booth's voice became absolutely menacing, "Coffee. Black as the night of which this train cuts through. With sugar."
The woman nodded, still in disbelief over meeting a celebrity. She grabbed her cart and began to trot away. As she did, the other door that led into Booth's trolley opened and a kindly old man shuffled in with a newspaper. Booth watched his movements with dread, for he knew what was coming. The trolley was empty, as most midnight trains were, but this lonely old man was going to take the liberty of sitting next to him. Booth's anger grew exponentially. First the key, now this. He hated conversing with strangers, especially when he had serious thinking to do. Plans were to be laid out in his mind, and how could they unfurl when Father Time is next to you talking about why he can't stand up too long these days.
The Old Man asked quietly, "May I sit next to you, young man?"
"Burn in Hell."
The Old Man took his seat next to Booth and smiled. Old men who were hard of hearing were the bottom rung of society, according to Booth. Below even the homeless and the Negros lay the deaf old men, who put forth nothing toward society but stories that go nowhere. As The Old Man reclined back in his seat, Booth cursed himself again for forgetting his Bowie knife in his briefcase, as he could really use it to his advantage at the moment.
A moment of brilliance came over Booth. He tended to think best when speaking his plans out loud and quite nefariously. What better time than to spill his secrets to The Old Man as he sat reading the newspaper? No. It wasn't worth it. The plans that existed in his head sounded pretty good. Shoot. Jump. Escape. A three step plan toward success he ever heard of it. But he needed to fill the gaps. What to say after the shooting? It had to be grand, something memorable, and downright chilling.
"The man has been shot!"
Brilliant. Shoot. "The man has been shot!" Jump. Escape. And after the jumping he would need to do something just as good, so the audience would never forget it.
"I'll wag my finger," Booth thought, "And say, 'Nay to those who agree with the man I just shot.' Lord, it'll be a show!"
Booth was enamored with his scheme when the woman came back silently with a cup of coffee. She had a wavering smile and she seemed to be near tears, as if on the edge of hysterics. Booth took the cup and looked at her curiously.
"Goodness, woman, what is it? Did you expel saliva into my beverage?"
"N-N-No, Mr. John Wilkes Booth. I'm just so guffawed. Excuse my expression, but may I have an autograph?"
"Listen carefully, I'm on a very important...acting venture. If you are to do me a favor, I will give you an autograph, and a lock of my hair. Now, don't come back here until the train reaches Washington. Do you understand?"
The woman couldn't speak. She simply nodded violently and left the room. Having forgotten her cart, she came back in 30 seconds later to retrieve it. The Old Man just kept reading, nothing bothered him, and he bothered no one. Booth liked this man. Perhaps he had been too hasty earlier when he envisioned himself jamming a large blade into the man's neck. Maybe.
They had dozed off together, The Old Man and Booth. When they awoke, they gave each other an odd look and went about their business. Booth gathered his case, and The Old Man left the room and wiped the drool from his face. The train had reached its destination just as the morning broke. Booth looked out the window once more and saw a ray of light flying endlessly though the tree branches in the distance. And a squint of the eyes revealed the historic White House. He smiled, with a mix of amazement and pure evil. Then the train started to move again. Booth gobbled up his belongings in his arms and raced toward the nearest exit, jumping out just before he ran out of platform to land on. There amongst his scattered cases and the curious onlookers, John Wilkes Booth laid on the ground as the happiest man around. He was finally in Washington D.C.
But laying on the ground was for idle dilly dalliers, and John Wilkes Booth had a mission to accomplish. With that, he dusted himself off, gathered his belongings, and gave his moustache one last wicked twist for good luck. He made his way through the early morning crowd and found his way outside the train terminal and onto the busy streets of the downtown district, all bustling with politics and high-class gentlemen. Booth could hear it in the air.
"So I hear beards are really catching on."
"You don't say? Perhaps it's time I began giving my whiskers a break from the old cream and shave."
"Here here!"
It was like sweet music to his ears, this city and its people were just utterly sophisticated. For a moment, he considered walking to his destination, as the morning was brisk and the early spring air was dewy and invigorating. Alas, Booth had to get a move on, so he gave a whistle and a wave and hailed down the nearest horse-drawn carriage. He threw his things into the carriage and stepped in, slamming the door behind him. The driver of the carriage opened the little wooden door that separated the passenger's carriage to the driver's seat outside. The driver was a young man with a gleaming smile and mutton chops that startled Booth upon first glance.
"My Lord. What beastly hair."
The driver ignored him and spoke in a New York accented voice that told Booth two things. One, the driver had shipped on down to Washington in hopes of the rich political clientele bettering his pay and tips. And two, that the driver had been forced to memorize this speech to give to all customers.
"Hey there, sir. Thank you for choosing Right and Proper Carriage Company. I will be your honored chauffeur to wherever you wish to go. To what location may I so happily drive you to today?"
"The theater."
The driver's eyes widened, "My God...you're John Wilkes Booth! Of course, I'll get you to the theater right away, sir. You know, I saw you perform a few years ago in New York. You are remarkable man, anyone ever tell you that?"
"Yes."
"Do they?"
"Yes. Get a move on."
"Do they ever say how absolutely astounding you look."
"Yes. Mostly the women."
"Yeah, I bet. Because you're a beautiful man and I would-"
"This conversation is going down a markedly homosexual path. Perhaps we begin moving."
"Right you are, John Wilkes Booth."
As the driver closed the little door, Booth let out a heavy sigh of relief. Why did all his fans either have to be ugly women or gay carriage drivers? Those two had to have consisted of at least 85% of his fan base, Booth thought.
The ride was uneventful, just the kind of ride Booth was a fan of. The only interesting aspect of the voyage is when Booth saw his brother in a carriage alongside him. Booth took an apple he was saving for later, opened his carriage's door and hurled it at the driver of his brother's carriage, knocking him unconscious. Booth belted out a sinister laugh and shut the door, continuing his uproar all the way to the theater. Not that his brother had done anything to him, this was simply the bastard that John Wilkes Booth was.
Upon arriving at Ford's Theater, Booth took out a pocket full of coins and threw them at his driver, three of them striking his right eye simultaneously.
"Wow, hit in the eye with money by John Wilkes Booth. What an honor!"
Booth threw his bags over his shoulders and proceeded to flip the driver off. He crossed the street and opened the theater's doors with a swift power kick. There to greet him was the theater's owner, John T. Ford. Ford was a man in his forties but with the looks of a teenager. His heart belonged to the stage and his mouth likely came from a filthy sailor. Despite his ribald remarks and tendency to act aggressively toward woman, and occasionally men, he was a proper gentleman and quite the charmer.
"Booth, you slick son of a bitch. Where have you been?"
"Good morning there, John."
"You better come with me, we ain't want them homo carriage drivers swarming after you like last time. Come on, I'll take you to my office."
Booth was led through numerous backstage doors and stairs, all of which he was familiar with, until they reached the small and unorganized office of Ford. They stepped in and proceeded to step over the many papers and liquor bottles that lay strewn about the floor. As Ford closed the door behind them, Booth looked out the window of the office that was meant to look out onto the stage but was becoming more stained with cigar smoke every time Booth visited the place. Just as he turned back to face Ford, he noticed the theater owner moving papers around in a drawer until he pulled out his cigar box. After a subtle offer to Booth and a subsequent wave of the hand in a polite turn down, Ford sat back in his seat and lit up. Booth crossed his legs and ran his hand through his hair. Each man looked at each other, both knowing how the conversation was going to begin, but neither wanting to start it. Finally, Ford gave in.
"The hell are you doing here, Johnny?" Ford asked in a more subdued tone.
"I'm here on official business."
"Let's not beat around the bush, eh? Come on, Johnny, you're talking to your best friend here. What in the name of Christ are you doing here?"
"I plan to make history tonight."
"You know I'm a big fan of vague one-liners, truly, I am," Ford's face began to redden with anger, "But if you don't give me a straight answer, well, I'm gonna start getting hot-tempered. I got the President coming tonight, Johnny. You know that? I can't have Mr. Quit-The-Theater-Business-And-Go-To-Montreal-For-Three-Months running loose in my place tonight."
"I'm here to kill the President, John."
"Holy Mother of shit. Are you a lunatic? He's a goddamn President. The goddamn President! You have got to have some firm plums to come into my office on my birthday and tell me you're about to kill the goddamn President in my establishment. Firm plums, my friend."
"It's not your birthday."
"Hey, good morning, Johnny, on this fine Sunday in April. The day of my birth! Fuck you it's not my birthday! "
"It's Friday the 14th."
Ford leaned on the desk in front of him with both elbows digging into the maple wood. Taking hard, serious puffs, and considering what various curse words he could put into a stunning rebuttal. Without anything to come back at his friend with, and accepting that his birthday was not for another two days, he pointed his cigar straight at Booth.
"Well you better have a damn nice present on Sunday for me."
"I do."
"Okay, good. Now you listen right clear and hear me out because I'm only going to say it once or twice. I'm not big on leaders getting killed, especially in my place of business. But you are a dear friend. And I owe you one for the time with the thing and I'll never forget it."
"The pleasure was mine."
"With that being said. I will let you go about your business on one condition."
"That being?"
"You have to be in the summer production of Hamlet."
"Damn..."
"That's right, you'll be performing alongside your brother again. I've already envisioned you as Horatio and your brother as Hamlet. Have you seen your brother lately?"
Booth pictured the carriage riding through the dirty, Irish part of the city with his brother trembling inside and the driver slumped over in the front, horses walking where they please. He laughed maniacally.
"Those drunken scoundrels will tear him apart!"
Booth calmed down and told Ford he was unaware of where his brother might be and that he hadn't seen him in months. Ford snuffed out his cigar with no mercy and gave out a heavy cough. He then pulled out a massive bottle of 75-proof whiskey and ten shot glasses.
"Well, Johnny, you can scurry about the place until the play tonight. Let me know if you need anything."
"Are you expecting visitors?" Booth asked in regards to the alcohol and glasses.
"No, I simply plan to drunken myself."
With that, Booth took his leave of the office and gazed at the stage from the balcony in the back. The real performance tonight would be found in the luxury booth were the President will be killed, Booth thought. He then realized the connection to where he planned on killing him and his own last name and it proved to be a sense that this was meant to be. He twisted and twirled his midnight black moustache at the brilliance of it all.
Booth spent the day walking and going over his obsessively elaborate plan. The three-step plan was engraved in his mind, along with the phrases he planned to yell between each step. Everything was falling into place, absolutely perfect in every facet of the scheme, nothing had yet gone wrong and nothing seemed to be doomed on the horizon. He thought again that such a situation going so well must mean one of two things. Either this was fate that he was conscious to, something pre-ordained that could not be altered or stopped without serious repercussions. If not that, then something at the last moment would ruin everything, the whole deal falls through, the President survives, the Confederacy dies, and Booth himself would find his new home to be 8 feet by 10 and with a gorgeous view of stone walls on all but one side. There was no gray area to Booth, it was one or the other, and he knew if he dwelt on the other too long that it was bound to come true. So for the day he thought of this, his plan's steps, and if he should partake in some popped corn before the show began.
Time flew and the clock struck nine o'clock in the evening. The President was due to arrive any second. Booth felt in his vest pocket for his weapon and after feeling the reassuring touch of the trigger, he put the plan into action. He fled out of a backdoor exit and into the alley behind the theater, leaving a rock in the door's path so it wouldn't close on him and lock him out. He jogged down the alley until he reached the gas lamp streets of nighttime Washington D.C. His hair blended in perfectly. He waved about at a young man no older that 18 who was galloping about on a horse. The lad slowed to a halt and recognized Booth.
"By golly, Mr. Booth the actor!"
"Thespian. Now, how much for this steed?"
"Shucks, I reckon my Pa paid 10 dollars for it. I'd need at least 15 to give him up."
"Done," Booth shot back as he produced 15 dollars so quickly it looked as if it came out of a skin pocket in his hand.
"Boy, my family sure ain't gon' believe this. Thanks, Mr. Booth!"
"Wait, what's his name?"
"Umm..."
"Well, the beast must be endowed with a title. What is it?"
"John Wilkes Booth."
"You damn scamp!"
Booth reached for the boy's collar, but the young chap was already paces ahead and soon far out of reach. Booth grit his teeth and made a peculiar noise that startled the horse. How dare someone name such a simple creature after a brilliant stage actor, he thought. He pulled hard on the reins and led the horse down the alley, grinding his teeth all the way.
Now with his getaway tied up to a rusty water pipe and swatting its tail at pesky bugs, Booth could move on to the next step. He made his way back to the door and removed the rock, slipping himself in and silently closing it behind him. He found the path that would lead him to the luxury booth and smiled again at the connection. Tip-toe after tip-toe eventually led him to the his endpoint. He read the placard that graced the door of the room, "Presidential Box." They had changed it just for the President's visit tonight. Booth's eye twitched with increasing madness, his hands balled up into cracking fists of rage, and his mouth was making odd movements that seemed to be unconscious it their randomness. He may have even made a high-pitched squeal. All of this because he knew it was an early sign that not all was going to fall into place as he liked it. He managed to compose himself, however, and pulled out the weapon from his vest pocket, a one-shot Derringer pistol. Three deep breaths were followed by a barely audible mutter.
"Let the show begin."
Booth slowly turned the knob of the door and let it open by itself. The tip toeing he had just perfected were put to use once more as he inched himself toward the President's seat which was now within an arm-and-a-half length away from Booth. He cocked the gun back and took aim when he caught sight of another man seated at the far end of the Box speak to his fiancee. It was one, Henry Rathbone, a military man and unfashionable beard enthusiast.
"Excuse my leave Clara, it seems the fish dinner we took to earlier tonight is producing a bit of a rumble in my stomach."
This was Booth's door of opportunity closing. He took aim at the President's head, closed his eyes and without any hesitation, pulled the trigger.
The result from the shot was a chorus of yells from ladies down below in the audience and a shocked Rathbone, who Booth took by surprise with a left hook to the jaw, knocking him out. The President's wife and Rathbone's fiancee stayed in their seats and they watched Booth smile and laugh at his historical accomplishment. He stood up on the ledge of the Presidential Box, one hand on the pistol and the other on a knife he had pulled out of his pocket. He smiled to the audience just as the spotlight shone its light upon his body. All eyes were on him.
"The man has been shot!" He laughed and cackled and roared and then repeated the process.
An older gentleman in the audience stood up and pointed at the madman Booth.
"By Heavens, that's John Wilkes Booth! He's made a surprise appearance after three months leave."
The crowd murmured and whispered amongst themselves until another man stood up.
"And he's pretended to kill the President and knock Mr. Rathbone on his back! I do say, what an entrance!"
The crowd, now believing this all to be an act, began clapping and hollering at the unorthodox return to the stage by the beloved John Wilkes Booth.
A random fellow shouted out sarcastically, "Shoot him again, Mr. Booth!"
The crowd burst out into uproarious applause, uncontained and unstoppable. No security guards were rushing toward Booth as expected, for they were on the ground dying of laughter.
Another man yelled with mock worry, "Hey, Rathbone, how's the view from the ground?"
The chuckles were deafening, and it was then that Booth realized history had set him up to play the fool. The twitch returned, along with the odd movements of the lips. He had to make his escape, the embarrassment of this misconstrued assassination was insufferable. He grabbed hold of his knife and dug it into the flag next to the Presidential Box, he held onto the blade's handle with both hands and slid down, the knife cutting the flag all the way. Unfortunately, sweat that had began emminating from him due to the humiliation of this experience. As a result, his grip slipped and he fell 10 feet to the ground floor face-first.
The crowd at Ford's Theater had never laughed so hard.
Booth picked his disgraced self up and with the determination only he could muster up at the moment, and finished through with his three-step plan.
Through teary eyes and a drooping moustache, he yelled, "Nay to those who agree with the man I just shot!"
He then dropped his head, faced the ground and hobbled away as quickly as possible on a broken ankle through a crowd of cackling men and women. His tears flowed with heat down his face as he kicked open the doors of the theater out onto the street. He would go to the alley, get the horse-version John Wilkes Booth, and ride off.
Meanwhile, the crowd laughed without interruption for 10 minutes with a chanting of "Encore" mixed in near the end. Eventually, though, the laughter came to a chuckle and soon to an end altogether. The crowd, now all suffering from sore throats, looked back up to the Presidential Box and and waited for the President and military man to pop back up. Yet, nothing happened. The two women in the Box merely cried and moaned. After another five minutes, the audience caught on. The first being the older gentleman who first believed the whole assassination to be a joke.
He looked down, thought deeply, then rose his head up when he came to realize the truth.
"Good God."
The rest is history.
_______________________________________________
The following is a podcast that is loosely tied to the story above. It was done as a historical trial of a famed person who never went to trial for reasons such as death or whatnot.
This is John Wilkes Booth's trial, it takes place a few months after his death, and all the characters are voiced by me.
First, click on the icon that says "Posts" and click on "The Prosecution of John Wilkes Booth." Listen to that first before listening to the Defense, which should play right after. Enjoy!
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The man was John Wilkes Booth, famed thespian of his day and proud Confederate sympathizer. He took the end of his moustache and twirled away at it with his thumb and forefinger, risking to pull it out by the roots. He was maddened with deep thoughts the last few hours, hardly blinking and constantly going over in his mind the same events. He couldn't stop thinking about it, he just twirled and twisted away. The same thing had been on his mind the whole train trip up to that point.
"Where did I leave my keys?"
Booth was remarkably forgetful and quite short-sighted when it came to doing things. He had placed his keys inside his locked briefcase for "safe keeping." Now remembering this, he slapped his forehead with fury and cursed himself for his lapse in judgment. For this error, he would be left with the clothes on his back for at least another day. In the process of cursing his name, the cart pushing lady passing by took notice and became entranced at who she had been afraid of this whole time.
"Wilkes Booth?" John Wilkes Booth the actor?"
"Thespian."
"Golly, if my eyes don't tell lies, you are Booth." The woman put her hand to her chest in awe. "I loved you in that play."
Booth waited a moment for her to explain which play, but when he realized she wasn't and was just going to gawk at him, he relented.
"Thank you," he said through a false smile.
"Would you do me the honor of letting me get you something?"
Booth's voice became absolutely menacing, "Coffee. Black as the night of which this train cuts through. With sugar."
The woman nodded, still in disbelief over meeting a celebrity. She grabbed her cart and began to trot away. As she did, the other door that led into Booth's trolley opened and a kindly old man shuffled in with a newspaper. Booth watched his movements with dread, for he knew what was coming. The trolley was empty, as most midnight trains were, but this lonely old man was going to take the liberty of sitting next to him. Booth's anger grew exponentially. First the key, now this. He hated conversing with strangers, especially when he had serious thinking to do. Plans were to be laid out in his mind, and how could they unfurl when Father Time is next to you talking about why he can't stand up too long these days.
The Old Man asked quietly, "May I sit next to you, young man?"
"Burn in Hell."
The Old Man took his seat next to Booth and smiled. Old men who were hard of hearing were the bottom rung of society, according to Booth. Below even the homeless and the Negros lay the deaf old men, who put forth nothing toward society but stories that go nowhere. As The Old Man reclined back in his seat, Booth cursed himself again for forgetting his Bowie knife in his briefcase, as he could really use it to his advantage at the moment.
A moment of brilliance came over Booth. He tended to think best when speaking his plans out loud and quite nefariously. What better time than to spill his secrets to The Old Man as he sat reading the newspaper? No. It wasn't worth it. The plans that existed in his head sounded pretty good. Shoot. Jump. Escape. A three step plan toward success he ever heard of it. But he needed to fill the gaps. What to say after the shooting? It had to be grand, something memorable, and downright chilling.
"The man has been shot!"
Brilliant. Shoot. "The man has been shot!" Jump. Escape. And after the jumping he would need to do something just as good, so the audience would never forget it.
"I'll wag my finger," Booth thought, "And say, 'Nay to those who agree with the man I just shot.' Lord, it'll be a show!"
Booth was enamored with his scheme when the woman came back silently with a cup of coffee. She had a wavering smile and she seemed to be near tears, as if on the edge of hysterics. Booth took the cup and looked at her curiously.
"Goodness, woman, what is it? Did you expel saliva into my beverage?"
"N-N-No, Mr. John Wilkes Booth. I'm just so guffawed. Excuse my expression, but may I have an autograph?"
"Listen carefully, I'm on a very important...acting venture. If you are to do me a favor, I will give you an autograph, and a lock of my hair. Now, don't come back here until the train reaches Washington. Do you understand?"
The woman couldn't speak. She simply nodded violently and left the room. Having forgotten her cart, she came back in 30 seconds later to retrieve it. The Old Man just kept reading, nothing bothered him, and he bothered no one. Booth liked this man. Perhaps he had been too hasty earlier when he envisioned himself jamming a large blade into the man's neck. Maybe.
They had dozed off together, The Old Man and Booth. When they awoke, they gave each other an odd look and went about their business. Booth gathered his case, and The Old Man left the room and wiped the drool from his face. The train had reached its destination just as the morning broke. Booth looked out the window once more and saw a ray of light flying endlessly though the tree branches in the distance. And a squint of the eyes revealed the historic White House. He smiled, with a mix of amazement and pure evil. Then the train started to move again. Booth gobbled up his belongings in his arms and raced toward the nearest exit, jumping out just before he ran out of platform to land on. There amongst his scattered cases and the curious onlookers, John Wilkes Booth laid on the ground as the happiest man around. He was finally in Washington D.C.
But laying on the ground was for idle dilly dalliers, and John Wilkes Booth had a mission to accomplish. With that, he dusted himself off, gathered his belongings, and gave his moustache one last wicked twist for good luck. He made his way through the early morning crowd and found his way outside the train terminal and onto the busy streets of the downtown district, all bustling with politics and high-class gentlemen. Booth could hear it in the air.
"So I hear beards are really catching on."
"You don't say? Perhaps it's time I began giving my whiskers a break from the old cream and shave."
"Here here!"
It was like sweet music to his ears, this city and its people were just utterly sophisticated. For a moment, he considered walking to his destination, as the morning was brisk and the early spring air was dewy and invigorating. Alas, Booth had to get a move on, so he gave a whistle and a wave and hailed down the nearest horse-drawn carriage. He threw his things into the carriage and stepped in, slamming the door behind him. The driver of the carriage opened the little wooden door that separated the passenger's carriage to the driver's seat outside. The driver was a young man with a gleaming smile and mutton chops that startled Booth upon first glance.
"My Lord. What beastly hair."
The driver ignored him and spoke in a New York accented voice that told Booth two things. One, the driver had shipped on down to Washington in hopes of the rich political clientele bettering his pay and tips. And two, that the driver had been forced to memorize this speech to give to all customers.
"Hey there, sir. Thank you for choosing Right and Proper Carriage Company. I will be your honored chauffeur to wherever you wish to go. To what location may I so happily drive you to today?"
"The theater."
The driver's eyes widened, "My God...you're John Wilkes Booth! Of course, I'll get you to the theater right away, sir. You know, I saw you perform a few years ago in New York. You are remarkable man, anyone ever tell you that?"
"Yes."
"Do they?"
"Yes. Get a move on."
"Do they ever say how absolutely astounding you look."
"Yes. Mostly the women."
"Yeah, I bet. Because you're a beautiful man and I would-"
"This conversation is going down a markedly homosexual path. Perhaps we begin moving."
"Right you are, John Wilkes Booth."
As the driver closed the little door, Booth let out a heavy sigh of relief. Why did all his fans either have to be ugly women or gay carriage drivers? Those two had to have consisted of at least 85% of his fan base, Booth thought.
The ride was uneventful, just the kind of ride Booth was a fan of. The only interesting aspect of the voyage is when Booth saw his brother in a carriage alongside him. Booth took an apple he was saving for later, opened his carriage's door and hurled it at the driver of his brother's carriage, knocking him unconscious. Booth belted out a sinister laugh and shut the door, continuing his uproar all the way to the theater. Not that his brother had done anything to him, this was simply the bastard that John Wilkes Booth was.
Upon arriving at Ford's Theater, Booth took out a pocket full of coins and threw them at his driver, three of them striking his right eye simultaneously.
"Wow, hit in the eye with money by John Wilkes Booth. What an honor!"
Booth threw his bags over his shoulders and proceeded to flip the driver off. He crossed the street and opened the theater's doors with a swift power kick. There to greet him was the theater's owner, John T. Ford. Ford was a man in his forties but with the looks of a teenager. His heart belonged to the stage and his mouth likely came from a filthy sailor. Despite his ribald remarks and tendency to act aggressively toward woman, and occasionally men, he was a proper gentleman and quite the charmer.
"Booth, you slick son of a bitch. Where have you been?"
"Good morning there, John."
"You better come with me, we ain't want them homo carriage drivers swarming after you like last time. Come on, I'll take you to my office."
Booth was led through numerous backstage doors and stairs, all of which he was familiar with, until they reached the small and unorganized office of Ford. They stepped in and proceeded to step over the many papers and liquor bottles that lay strewn about the floor. As Ford closed the door behind them, Booth looked out the window of the office that was meant to look out onto the stage but was becoming more stained with cigar smoke every time Booth visited the place. Just as he turned back to face Ford, he noticed the theater owner moving papers around in a drawer until he pulled out his cigar box. After a subtle offer to Booth and a subsequent wave of the hand in a polite turn down, Ford sat back in his seat and lit up. Booth crossed his legs and ran his hand through his hair. Each man looked at each other, both knowing how the conversation was going to begin, but neither wanting to start it. Finally, Ford gave in.
"The hell are you doing here, Johnny?" Ford asked in a more subdued tone.
"I'm here on official business."
"Let's not beat around the bush, eh? Come on, Johnny, you're talking to your best friend here. What in the name of Christ are you doing here?"
"I plan to make history tonight."
"You know I'm a big fan of vague one-liners, truly, I am," Ford's face began to redden with anger, "But if you don't give me a straight answer, well, I'm gonna start getting hot-tempered. I got the President coming tonight, Johnny. You know that? I can't have Mr. Quit-The-Theater-Business-And-Go-To-Montreal-For-Three-Months running loose in my place tonight."
"I'm here to kill the President, John."
"Holy Mother of shit. Are you a lunatic? He's a goddamn President. The goddamn President! You have got to have some firm plums to come into my office on my birthday and tell me you're about to kill the goddamn President in my establishment. Firm plums, my friend."
"It's not your birthday."
"Hey, good morning, Johnny, on this fine Sunday in April. The day of my birth! Fuck you it's not my birthday! "
"It's Friday the 14th."
Ford leaned on the desk in front of him with both elbows digging into the maple wood. Taking hard, serious puffs, and considering what various curse words he could put into a stunning rebuttal. Without anything to come back at his friend with, and accepting that his birthday was not for another two days, he pointed his cigar straight at Booth.
"Well you better have a damn nice present on Sunday for me."
"I do."
"Okay, good. Now you listen right clear and hear me out because I'm only going to say it once or twice. I'm not big on leaders getting killed, especially in my place of business. But you are a dear friend. And I owe you one for the time with the thing and I'll never forget it."
"The pleasure was mine."
"With that being said. I will let you go about your business on one condition."
"That being?"
"You have to be in the summer production of Hamlet."
"Damn..."
"That's right, you'll be performing alongside your brother again. I've already envisioned you as Horatio and your brother as Hamlet. Have you seen your brother lately?"
Booth pictured the carriage riding through the dirty, Irish part of the city with his brother trembling inside and the driver slumped over in the front, horses walking where they please. He laughed maniacally.
"Those drunken scoundrels will tear him apart!"
Booth calmed down and told Ford he was unaware of where his brother might be and that he hadn't seen him in months. Ford snuffed out his cigar with no mercy and gave out a heavy cough. He then pulled out a massive bottle of 75-proof whiskey and ten shot glasses.
"Well, Johnny, you can scurry about the place until the play tonight. Let me know if you need anything."
"Are you expecting visitors?" Booth asked in regards to the alcohol and glasses.
"No, I simply plan to drunken myself."
With that, Booth took his leave of the office and gazed at the stage from the balcony in the back. The real performance tonight would be found in the luxury booth were the President will be killed, Booth thought. He then realized the connection to where he planned on killing him and his own last name and it proved to be a sense that this was meant to be. He twisted and twirled his midnight black moustache at the brilliance of it all.
Booth spent the day walking and going over his obsessively elaborate plan. The three-step plan was engraved in his mind, along with the phrases he planned to yell between each step. Everything was falling into place, absolutely perfect in every facet of the scheme, nothing had yet gone wrong and nothing seemed to be doomed on the horizon. He thought again that such a situation going so well must mean one of two things. Either this was fate that he was conscious to, something pre-ordained that could not be altered or stopped without serious repercussions. If not that, then something at the last moment would ruin everything, the whole deal falls through, the President survives, the Confederacy dies, and Booth himself would find his new home to be 8 feet by 10 and with a gorgeous view of stone walls on all but one side. There was no gray area to Booth, it was one or the other, and he knew if he dwelt on the other too long that it was bound to come true. So for the day he thought of this, his plan's steps, and if he should partake in some popped corn before the show began.
Time flew and the clock struck nine o'clock in the evening. The President was due to arrive any second. Booth felt in his vest pocket for his weapon and after feeling the reassuring touch of the trigger, he put the plan into action. He fled out of a backdoor exit and into the alley behind the theater, leaving a rock in the door's path so it wouldn't close on him and lock him out. He jogged down the alley until he reached the gas lamp streets of nighttime Washington D.C. His hair blended in perfectly. He waved about at a young man no older that 18 who was galloping about on a horse. The lad slowed to a halt and recognized Booth.
"By golly, Mr. Booth the actor!"
"Thespian. Now, how much for this steed?"
"Shucks, I reckon my Pa paid 10 dollars for it. I'd need at least 15 to give him up."
"Done," Booth shot back as he produced 15 dollars so quickly it looked as if it came out of a skin pocket in his hand.
"Boy, my family sure ain't gon' believe this. Thanks, Mr. Booth!"
"Wait, what's his name?"
"Umm..."
"Well, the beast must be endowed with a title. What is it?"
"John Wilkes Booth."
"You damn scamp!"
Booth reached for the boy's collar, but the young chap was already paces ahead and soon far out of reach. Booth grit his teeth and made a peculiar noise that startled the horse. How dare someone name such a simple creature after a brilliant stage actor, he thought. He pulled hard on the reins and led the horse down the alley, grinding his teeth all the way.
Now with his getaway tied up to a rusty water pipe and swatting its tail at pesky bugs, Booth could move on to the next step. He made his way back to the door and removed the rock, slipping himself in and silently closing it behind him. He found the path that would lead him to the luxury booth and smiled again at the connection. Tip-toe after tip-toe eventually led him to the his endpoint. He read the placard that graced the door of the room, "Presidential Box." They had changed it just for the President's visit tonight. Booth's eye twitched with increasing madness, his hands balled up into cracking fists of rage, and his mouth was making odd movements that seemed to be unconscious it their randomness. He may have even made a high-pitched squeal. All of this because he knew it was an early sign that not all was going to fall into place as he liked it. He managed to compose himself, however, and pulled out the weapon from his vest pocket, a one-shot Derringer pistol. Three deep breaths were followed by a barely audible mutter.
"Let the show begin."
Booth slowly turned the knob of the door and let it open by itself. The tip toeing he had just perfected were put to use once more as he inched himself toward the President's seat which was now within an arm-and-a-half length away from Booth. He cocked the gun back and took aim when he caught sight of another man seated at the far end of the Box speak to his fiancee. It was one, Henry Rathbone, a military man and unfashionable beard enthusiast.
"Excuse my leave Clara, it seems the fish dinner we took to earlier tonight is producing a bit of a rumble in my stomach."
This was Booth's door of opportunity closing. He took aim at the President's head, closed his eyes and without any hesitation, pulled the trigger.
The result from the shot was a chorus of yells from ladies down below in the audience and a shocked Rathbone, who Booth took by surprise with a left hook to the jaw, knocking him out. The President's wife and Rathbone's fiancee stayed in their seats and they watched Booth smile and laugh at his historical accomplishment. He stood up on the ledge of the Presidential Box, one hand on the pistol and the other on a knife he had pulled out of his pocket. He smiled to the audience just as the spotlight shone its light upon his body. All eyes were on him.
"The man has been shot!" He laughed and cackled and roared and then repeated the process.
An older gentleman in the audience stood up and pointed at the madman Booth.
"By Heavens, that's John Wilkes Booth! He's made a surprise appearance after three months leave."
The crowd murmured and whispered amongst themselves until another man stood up.
"And he's pretended to kill the President and knock Mr. Rathbone on his back! I do say, what an entrance!"
The crowd, now believing this all to be an act, began clapping and hollering at the unorthodox return to the stage by the beloved John Wilkes Booth.
A random fellow shouted out sarcastically, "Shoot him again, Mr. Booth!"
The crowd burst out into uproarious applause, uncontained and unstoppable. No security guards were rushing toward Booth as expected, for they were on the ground dying of laughter.
Another man yelled with mock worry, "Hey, Rathbone, how's the view from the ground?"
The chuckles were deafening, and it was then that Booth realized history had set him up to play the fool. The twitch returned, along with the odd movements of the lips. He had to make his escape, the embarrassment of this misconstrued assassination was insufferable. He grabbed hold of his knife and dug it into the flag next to the Presidential Box, he held onto the blade's handle with both hands and slid down, the knife cutting the flag all the way. Unfortunately, sweat that had began emminating from him due to the humiliation of this experience. As a result, his grip slipped and he fell 10 feet to the ground floor face-first.
The crowd at Ford's Theater had never laughed so hard.
Booth picked his disgraced self up and with the determination only he could muster up at the moment, and finished through with his three-step plan.
Through teary eyes and a drooping moustache, he yelled, "Nay to those who agree with the man I just shot!"
He then dropped his head, faced the ground and hobbled away as quickly as possible on a broken ankle through a crowd of cackling men and women. His tears flowed with heat down his face as he kicked open the doors of the theater out onto the street. He would go to the alley, get the horse-version John Wilkes Booth, and ride off.
Meanwhile, the crowd laughed without interruption for 10 minutes with a chanting of "Encore" mixed in near the end. Eventually, though, the laughter came to a chuckle and soon to an end altogether. The crowd, now all suffering from sore throats, looked back up to the Presidential Box and and waited for the President and military man to pop back up. Yet, nothing happened. The two women in the Box merely cried and moaned. After another five minutes, the audience caught on. The first being the older gentleman who first believed the whole assassination to be a joke.
He looked down, thought deeply, then rose his head up when he came to realize the truth.
"Good God."
The rest is history.
_______________________________________________
The following is a podcast that is loosely tied to the story above. It was done as a historical trial of a famed person who never went to trial for reasons such as death or whatnot.
This is John Wilkes Booth's trial, it takes place a few months after his death, and all the characters are voiced by me.
First, click on the icon that says "Posts" and click on "The Prosecution of John Wilkes Booth." Listen to that first before listening to the Defense, which should play right after. Enjoy!
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Monday, November 26, 2007
Snowfall
All he could do lately was stare. He would stare at walls, chairs, desks, basically anything inanimate. The past few days, however, consisted of him looking out the window. There had been snow, for quite a while now, and it was falling heavily. He watched it with an entranced gaze that he had only reserved for the objects in the room. This snow brought back something to him; some feelings that he thought had gone.
The man went by the name Cal Davies, and he had had the worst six weeks of his life. He had cut all contact with family and friends and moved out to a cabin in the woods that once belonged to a mentor of his. The woods provided further isolation for Cal, isolation that had already begun to settle in his mind. It had been exactly 42 days to the date that he drove his car off the road and into a deep ditch. His wife Jane had been in the passenger seat and suffered major head trauma, lapsing into a coma that she never came out of. Needless to say, Cal was devastated by this loss, as any loving husband would be. But he seemed to take it extremely hard, so much so that his family couldn't console him, he even stopped playing hockey at the local ice rink, and that's when he packed to move into the cabin.
For three weeks he had been living in the cabin, going out only for food at the supermarket. Other than that, he continued to stare. Nothing brought joy to him, and yet nothing brought tears either. He was a shell of his former self, wishing he could go back and feel whole again. It wasn't enough to say that Jane was the love of his life, for she was everything in his life. Cal worked at an industrial plant, a job he hated, but because it provided for them and he was skilled at welding, he held on to it. Jane, with her raven-black hair and endlessly blue eyes, made the world a brighter place than what Cal usually saw it as. But that light had flickered out, and Cal was left to live in darkness.
There was one small feat that Cal managed to accomplish in his days at the cabin. It was to write. On the computer, freehand, in his mind, he wrote and visualized stories and ideas. He wrote them for no one in particular and never planned for them to be seen by anyone anyway. But while his face remained stoic, his hands dispelled everything he felt into written words. Sometimes he would write all day, and over the course of the three weeks he must have accumulated 500 pages of stories, spanning every genre. What he took notice to was that he was a heavy user of metaphors, symbols, and foreshadowing, concepts that his mentor had stressed upon him to help his writing reach a higher level. Never had he written like this before. Never had he the time or resources. He had taken an indefinite time off work, leaving him to hold up in the cabin and write.
But the writings were a curse to him as well. While they brought a sort of relief, they brought back the memories also, especially the night of the accident. He regretted going out that night, especially in that weather. Freezing rain had started to pour as he and Jane left the Christmas party of a mutual friend. Neither had been drinking, merely enjoying themselves and talking it up with those they hadn't seen in some time. When the time came to go, the rain had begun and their friend, who was throwing the party, Jason, invited them to stay the night. Ever the polite-non-burdensome-people, Cal and Jane risked the roads and crossed their fingers.
They were 5 minutes in when the wipers stopped wiping, and that's when both their hearts started pounding. Furiously, and louder than the engine, their heartbeats raced. Jane pleading with Cal to at least stop for a while, but he refused, reminding her they were only going 25 miles per hour and the roads were familiar. Nevertheless, such slow speeds can still cause problems, no matter how often the roads have been safely traveled. A patch of ice can never be seen in time, even for those with working wipers. Cal's car hit it, and from there it never had a chance at recovery. They knew where they were going; the ditches were everywhere and absolutely unavoidable. In they went, passenger side first, and with that, Jane's head it the glass window and her neck underwent tremendous whiplash. Her seat belt didn't save her, and neither could Cal. She slipped in and never came out again. The doctors pronounced her dead three days later, the same day Cal was cleared to leave for his fractured hip and jaw.
The snow he was watching filled him with feeling, a sense of wonder, the first sense he had honestly felt in such a long time. It almost made him smile, but he still couldn't bring himself to that, he wouldn't allow himself to. So he took it upon himself to somehow preserve this, and so he went and slept, hoping that he could accumulate these feelings in him over time like the snow on the ground.
Just like that he awoke again and was watching the snow continue to fall, this time with a cup of coffee in hand. Cal reckoned he had been out for at least 5 hours, which was the usual for him these days. The snow was still falling at a steady pace and Cal could tell that this was the kind of snow he would have loved as a kid. The kind you could pack together so tightly that when you threw it, the kid it hit would not have been able to tell whether it was a snowball or a baseball. And how beautiful it fell, each flake being the size of a half-dollar, but each one being priceless to Cal. They seemed to heal him, an alternative medicine that simply needed to be looked upon to cure its patients. The outside lights from the cabin made the ground light up, and the falling snow seemed like little lit bulbs being slowly pulled down to Earth.
This inspired him to write again. He took a deep breath and almost smiled as his fountain pen touched the paper. It flowed forth the words he still couldn't say, this time in the form of a poem. He was trying to connect his wife's radiant white skin to that of the snow he watched. He saw the branches collecting snow and was reminded of how every flake would cling to his wife's hair, as if it were magnetically attracted. Cal wrote all this and more, working through the ache that began in his wrist and spread to his elbow. This poem was grand, consisting of seven pages and 23 stanzas, all of which were necessary and fully expressive. It took everything out of Cal to write it, leaving him drained and collapsed on the couch, falling asleep once again.
His acute hearing interrupted his sleep. A car had pulled up, an old one, or at least one in poor quality judging by the brakes. He shot out of the couch and put on his boots and jacket, whoever was here, Cal wanted to beat them to the door. This was still his isolated world, and he was going to keep it that way. No one knew he was here, Cal realized as his left boot finally slipped on. And it wasn't until his jacket was fully zipped did he recall that many horror movies went like this. The emotions of slight fear and certain paranoia had apparently come back to Cal.
He opened the door without bothering to look out the peephole and began walking to the car, which had it's windows bouncing the morning sun into Cal's eyes. All he could hear was a greeting, at once familiar and curious. It was one he had heard before, or something like it, but who's it was was still being blinded by the light. Cal shielded his eyes and saw a man of average height looking up at him, as Cal was six-foot-four-inches. This man was dressed quite out-of-date, yet very fashionable, with a fedora atop his head and a personally crafted suit fitting snugly to his body. A traditional gray overcoat draped over him like it was made in Heaven. The man was stunningly dressed and tailored to the stitch; he was a sight to behold in these lonely woods. The man greeted Cal once more, noticing that he had now gotten a good look at him.
"Good morning. Hope I didn't wake you."
Cal didn't bother returning the pleasantry, "Who are you?"
"Just a man in the woods. You?"
"Same. What's your business in the woods, mister?"
"I'm just here to see you, Cal."
Cal's posture and tone became more defensive by the second. He didn't know this man but the man knew him, that much was sure. Cal began scanning through his mind who this might be, and with his mental database coming up with nothing, he decided to take a crack at guessing.
"Did my family send you here? A friend maybe?"
"No, no, no. They don't have the slightest clue if you're even really alive at the moment."
"Well, it's been six weeks."
"It has, Cal. Mind if we talk inside?"
"Not until you tell me exactly who you are and what your business is here."
"I think that's best left to be discussed inside. I'd hate to ruin my suit out here in the snow telling you why I drove here today."
Cal stared long and hard at the man, having mastered the art over the weeks. He looked into the stranger's eyes, which were hazel and reassuring, and saw that no harm was going to be brought about by this man. His defensive posture broke down and his voice fell as well, leaving Cal to motion the man inside. Both walked in, with the stranger in the lead, observing every facet of the cabin. He slowly took off his overcoat as his eyes continued to sweep over the area. Cal closed the door behind them at the same time the man's eyes fell upon Cal's large mass of writings on his work desk. He didn't say anything about them, no comment made, he simply watched them with a hawk's glare as he removed his coat and threw it over his arm. Cal hadn't been paying attention, rather he went toward the kitchen area of the cabin and opened the refrigerator.
"Milk? Water?"
"Ah, no thanks, but thank you. Do you write a lot, Cal?" The man had finally taken his eyes off the papers and was staring at the floor.
Cal took his time before he answered this, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt and considering why he was going to even talk to this man about his writings. Yet, he answered the man's questions without an air of sarcasm in his voice.
"Not much else to do out here."
"It is pretty lonely out here, yeah. A man can sure get a lot of thinking done."
"It's all I do. Think and write. Please take a seat..." Cal left the sentence open for the man to finish.
"Jack, and thank you very much."
The two men each took a seat, with Jack very calm in his seat on the couch and Cal leaning forward trying to get a read on the guy. Silence sat in the room with them for awhile, eventually leaving when Cal began to speak.
"I don't know how you found me, Jack, and I don't know how you know me, but I'll be honest with you, I'm getting a little edgy about you asking me such a question when I know next to nothing about you. So if you could please clear some of this up, I would much appreciate it."
Cal's words did not make Jack move any which way, the man still sat in that seat in a relaxed fashion, with the slightest smile since Mona Lisa on his face. When he answered, he didn't move anything but his mouth, his eyes stayed fixed and his body in place.
"Do you believe in God, Cal?"
"I used to," Cal answered quickly despite his surprise.
Jack's smile finally widened and showed some teeth, "It's a good thing he still believes in you then."
Cal didn't know what to make of this. He wanted to ask another question but he actually feared it being countered with another question such as that one. He tread carefully before he decided to question Jack from a different angle.
"Who are you? Beyond your name, who are you?"
"Truthfully?"
"I would hope so."
"I'm someone you won't believe at first, Cal, until I prove my claims. But before I prove anything, I suppose I must try and tell you."
"Please, do tell."
"You can see me in different ways, Cal. I'm your guardian angel, your regular angel, you're conscious, your subconscious, your inner voice, your voice of reason, I'm all of those, Cal, personified as the man sitting before you."
Cal was dumbfounded, but his face didn't show it. This man was crazy. Clearly, if nothing else, this man was insane. Still trying to figure out what the man was talking about, Cal spoke without thinking.
"Prove it."
"Cal, the last thing you thought before you're wife passed away was, and I quote, "God, you let this happen. You were stupid enough not to take me. You'd rather kill an innocent woman and let the man who caused her so much pain continue to live. I hate you. I hate for everything you've done." End quote."
Cal's eyes sparked, wide-eyed and beginning to sweat, Cal jumped out of his seat and began pacing around the room. This was something that was beyond his realm of comprehension, something that just didn't happen to people. He wanted to yell at the man. He wanted to scream for the man to get the hell out and stay away, but he couldn't bring himself to it. Every last one of his words was on hold as he cupped his mouth and began to have trouble breathing. All the while Jack sat calmly in his seat with a look of sincerity in his brown eyes. The man had leaned forward and looked down at the floor once more. Cal continued his labored breathing and stood frozen in his place, staring with absolute disbelief at this man who had come out of the woods and read his mind.
"I'm sorry, Cal. I shouldn't have, ahem; I should have started with something lighter, a happier memory. I apologize."
"Who are you?"
"I'm your guardi-"
"No! Don't you say that again. You are not...you can't be anything...no, no, no."
"Cal, please listen to me. What do you remember after the crash?"
"What?"
"Details, specifics, exact things. What cab did you take up here, what was the day when you arrived here, what brand of coffee did you drink last night?"
"What does it matter?"
"Try and just answer it as a normal question."
"I don't know."
"Anything? Not even the coffee?"
"No. Nothing."
Jack stood up and took a calculated step toward Cal, who was being struck with the thought that he couldn't recall any dates or names of anything at the moment. His mind was going through its database again, but everything was coming up empty, even the coffee. Jack lowered his tone and spoke each word with precision.
"Doesn't that strike you as odd? That in three weeks up here you can't recall the names or dates of one single thing?" Jack paused and took a breath before he continued on, "Can you even remember the name of the hospital your wife passed away in?"
This was like a dagger to Cal. He kept asking himself why he couldn't remember anything specific. Blanks were drawn on every fact, making it feel like a weight had crashed on his chest. Cal wanted this man out of his cabin immediately. Three weeks of solitude were starting to have positive effects on Cal; he was steadily recovering like the snow that continued to gradually fall. This man had come out of nowhere and was undoing everything in just minutes. Before Cal could yell out at Jack to leave his premises, the man asked another calm but pressing question.
"It's been snowing a lot, Cal. Haven't you been concerned in the least? Three days, now four, of this snow. You're looking at five feet soon enough. Without a shovel on you, I don't see how you're going to make you're way out either.
Cal deflected this as much he could, but even as he did, he began to wonder about the snow's accumulation for the first time, yet he gritted his teeth and made himself clear.
"Get out. Get out now."
"What do you hear when you dream, Cal?"
"Get out."
"Do you hear noises? Voices? Any sounds?"
"Get out!"
"Cal! What do you hear when you dream!?"
Jack's sudden intensity made Cal sit down in his seat. For the first time since he saw his wife in that passenger seat, slumped over, just before they both passed out, did he finally cry. Tears fell into his hands and flooded out in between his fingers. He could barely muster out his words as he wiped his nose and coughed.
"What do you want?"
Jack knelt in front of Cal and put his hand on his shoulder. It was warm, strangely warm, like a heat that he had not felt in the longest time. The tears stopped at an instant. Cal looked up with watery eyes at this man of great claims and many questions and waited for an answer.
"I'm here, Cal, to help you come to terms with something. But I can't help you do that unless you answer my questions honestly. Now, let's try this again. What do you hear when you dream?"
"I don't know. I, I, I hear my car running. It's all blurry, but I know, I know it's the night we're driving home from the party. I can't tell myself to slow down even though I'm trying to scream it out, you know? I want to wake up because I know how it's going to end, but I just can't wake up from it, and I'm stuck there watching it all again. And then I hear her. I hear her, Jane, she's, her voice is really quiet, like a whisper or something. This is after the crash. And I can't see anything really anymore, but I can hear her voice. She's probably asking me for help, but I can't do anything, I'm stuck where I am, and I just have to hear her saying my name. Then it all fades away. It's gone. And then I'm up and about again writing or watching snow."
"This is every night you sleep?"
"Every night for six weeks."
"You just hear Jane's voice?"
"Every night for six weeks. Saying my name."
"I need you to close your eyes and think hard, Cal. I need you to really try here. I need you to think of your dream. Are you slumped up against the door or away from it?"
"What do you mean?"
"In the ditch. What side is the car laying on?"
"The passenger side. My wife's dead because I slid into the ditch passenger side first."
"Close your eyes and think. In your dream, what way are you slumped over?"
Cal could do nothing immediately but stare in increased terror at the man. Finally, he slowly shut his eyes and his dream began replaying step-by-step. The broken wipers, the patch of ice, the skid, then Cal began slowing down the process, as if he had a remote control to the event. The car twirled around as if without care on the road, and into the ditch it went. Cal and Jane slammed around inside and both were partially knocked out. Cal's eyes opened and looked left; with full concentration he opened his eyes and saw Jane above him, ensnared in her seat belt, whispering his name through a bloody mouth. He saw long locks of hair streaming down toward him, just a foot from his face. Then with all energy spent, he laid his head back upon the cracked glass window of the driver's side door, through which he could see right in front of him nothing but cold, wet grass.
Cal slowly opened his eyes again to look at Jack. Profound realization was shown on his face. He was about to speak words that he had believed not to be true, that couldn't be true. How could they be true?
"I went in that ditch driver's side first."
"Would you like to know your last thought before going into the ditch? You thought, "It can't be her. I won't let her feel any pain." And then you came to a stop."
Silence returned. Cal stared. Jack looked at the floor once more.
"Where am I?" Cal asked unblinkingly.
Jack continued to look at the floor, not even able to hold his head up for his answer. "You've been in a coma, Cal. For the past six weeks. I'm sorry."
The answer, surprisingly, did not seem to faze Cal the least bit. In his mind, he was still able to piece together what was going on. One by one, they all fell into place.
"I can't remember anything because facts and stuff can never be recalled in dreams. And her voice, Jane's voice, that's her at my hospital bed, right? But what's the snow mean?
"The snow piling up outside means your time is nearing an end. Once you're enclosed, this, all this around you is over. That's why I'm here, Cal. To see you through it, I'll be here with you and take you once it's over."
"I'm not coming out of this."
"I'm sorry."
Cal turned to Jack, who finally looked back up. He felt it, he was full again, of all his emotions. He took a breath and it felt real within him. Most astonishing of all, he smiled. He smiled wide and forced his watery eyes to shed the last tears from him. Jack was honestly curious as to this and couldn't help but comment on it.
"You're smiling."
"Because," Cal began, "Because I know she's okay."
MERRY CHRISTMAS
The man went by the name Cal Davies, and he had had the worst six weeks of his life. He had cut all contact with family and friends and moved out to a cabin in the woods that once belonged to a mentor of his. The woods provided further isolation for Cal, isolation that had already begun to settle in his mind. It had been exactly 42 days to the date that he drove his car off the road and into a deep ditch. His wife Jane had been in the passenger seat and suffered major head trauma, lapsing into a coma that she never came out of. Needless to say, Cal was devastated by this loss, as any loving husband would be. But he seemed to take it extremely hard, so much so that his family couldn't console him, he even stopped playing hockey at the local ice rink, and that's when he packed to move into the cabin.
For three weeks he had been living in the cabin, going out only for food at the supermarket. Other than that, he continued to stare. Nothing brought joy to him, and yet nothing brought tears either. He was a shell of his former self, wishing he could go back and feel whole again. It wasn't enough to say that Jane was the love of his life, for she was everything in his life. Cal worked at an industrial plant, a job he hated, but because it provided for them and he was skilled at welding, he held on to it. Jane, with her raven-black hair and endlessly blue eyes, made the world a brighter place than what Cal usually saw it as. But that light had flickered out, and Cal was left to live in darkness.
There was one small feat that Cal managed to accomplish in his days at the cabin. It was to write. On the computer, freehand, in his mind, he wrote and visualized stories and ideas. He wrote them for no one in particular and never planned for them to be seen by anyone anyway. But while his face remained stoic, his hands dispelled everything he felt into written words. Sometimes he would write all day, and over the course of the three weeks he must have accumulated 500 pages of stories, spanning every genre. What he took notice to was that he was a heavy user of metaphors, symbols, and foreshadowing, concepts that his mentor had stressed upon him to help his writing reach a higher level. Never had he written like this before. Never had he the time or resources. He had taken an indefinite time off work, leaving him to hold up in the cabin and write.
But the writings were a curse to him as well. While they brought a sort of relief, they brought back the memories also, especially the night of the accident. He regretted going out that night, especially in that weather. Freezing rain had started to pour as he and Jane left the Christmas party of a mutual friend. Neither had been drinking, merely enjoying themselves and talking it up with those they hadn't seen in some time. When the time came to go, the rain had begun and their friend, who was throwing the party, Jason, invited them to stay the night. Ever the polite-non-burdensome-people, Cal and Jane risked the roads and crossed their fingers.
They were 5 minutes in when the wipers stopped wiping, and that's when both their hearts started pounding. Furiously, and louder than the engine, their heartbeats raced. Jane pleading with Cal to at least stop for a while, but he refused, reminding her they were only going 25 miles per hour and the roads were familiar. Nevertheless, such slow speeds can still cause problems, no matter how often the roads have been safely traveled. A patch of ice can never be seen in time, even for those with working wipers. Cal's car hit it, and from there it never had a chance at recovery. They knew where they were going; the ditches were everywhere and absolutely unavoidable. In they went, passenger side first, and with that, Jane's head it the glass window and her neck underwent tremendous whiplash. Her seat belt didn't save her, and neither could Cal. She slipped in and never came out again. The doctors pronounced her dead three days later, the same day Cal was cleared to leave for his fractured hip and jaw.
The snow he was watching filled him with feeling, a sense of wonder, the first sense he had honestly felt in such a long time. It almost made him smile, but he still couldn't bring himself to that, he wouldn't allow himself to. So he took it upon himself to somehow preserve this, and so he went and slept, hoping that he could accumulate these feelings in him over time like the snow on the ground.
Just like that he awoke again and was watching the snow continue to fall, this time with a cup of coffee in hand. Cal reckoned he had been out for at least 5 hours, which was the usual for him these days. The snow was still falling at a steady pace and Cal could tell that this was the kind of snow he would have loved as a kid. The kind you could pack together so tightly that when you threw it, the kid it hit would not have been able to tell whether it was a snowball or a baseball. And how beautiful it fell, each flake being the size of a half-dollar, but each one being priceless to Cal. They seemed to heal him, an alternative medicine that simply needed to be looked upon to cure its patients. The outside lights from the cabin made the ground light up, and the falling snow seemed like little lit bulbs being slowly pulled down to Earth.
This inspired him to write again. He took a deep breath and almost smiled as his fountain pen touched the paper. It flowed forth the words he still couldn't say, this time in the form of a poem. He was trying to connect his wife's radiant white skin to that of the snow he watched. He saw the branches collecting snow and was reminded of how every flake would cling to his wife's hair, as if it were magnetically attracted. Cal wrote all this and more, working through the ache that began in his wrist and spread to his elbow. This poem was grand, consisting of seven pages and 23 stanzas, all of which were necessary and fully expressive. It took everything out of Cal to write it, leaving him drained and collapsed on the couch, falling asleep once again.
His acute hearing interrupted his sleep. A car had pulled up, an old one, or at least one in poor quality judging by the brakes. He shot out of the couch and put on his boots and jacket, whoever was here, Cal wanted to beat them to the door. This was still his isolated world, and he was going to keep it that way. No one knew he was here, Cal realized as his left boot finally slipped on. And it wasn't until his jacket was fully zipped did he recall that many horror movies went like this. The emotions of slight fear and certain paranoia had apparently come back to Cal.
He opened the door without bothering to look out the peephole and began walking to the car, which had it's windows bouncing the morning sun into Cal's eyes. All he could hear was a greeting, at once familiar and curious. It was one he had heard before, or something like it, but who's it was was still being blinded by the light. Cal shielded his eyes and saw a man of average height looking up at him, as Cal was six-foot-four-inches. This man was dressed quite out-of-date, yet very fashionable, with a fedora atop his head and a personally crafted suit fitting snugly to his body. A traditional gray overcoat draped over him like it was made in Heaven. The man was stunningly dressed and tailored to the stitch; he was a sight to behold in these lonely woods. The man greeted Cal once more, noticing that he had now gotten a good look at him.
"Good morning. Hope I didn't wake you."
Cal didn't bother returning the pleasantry, "Who are you?"
"Just a man in the woods. You?"
"Same. What's your business in the woods, mister?"
"I'm just here to see you, Cal."
Cal's posture and tone became more defensive by the second. He didn't know this man but the man knew him, that much was sure. Cal began scanning through his mind who this might be, and with his mental database coming up with nothing, he decided to take a crack at guessing.
"Did my family send you here? A friend maybe?"
"No, no, no. They don't have the slightest clue if you're even really alive at the moment."
"Well, it's been six weeks."
"It has, Cal. Mind if we talk inside?"
"Not until you tell me exactly who you are and what your business is here."
"I think that's best left to be discussed inside. I'd hate to ruin my suit out here in the snow telling you why I drove here today."
Cal stared long and hard at the man, having mastered the art over the weeks. He looked into the stranger's eyes, which were hazel and reassuring, and saw that no harm was going to be brought about by this man. His defensive posture broke down and his voice fell as well, leaving Cal to motion the man inside. Both walked in, with the stranger in the lead, observing every facet of the cabin. He slowly took off his overcoat as his eyes continued to sweep over the area. Cal closed the door behind them at the same time the man's eyes fell upon Cal's large mass of writings on his work desk. He didn't say anything about them, no comment made, he simply watched them with a hawk's glare as he removed his coat and threw it over his arm. Cal hadn't been paying attention, rather he went toward the kitchen area of the cabin and opened the refrigerator.
"Milk? Water?"
"Ah, no thanks, but thank you. Do you write a lot, Cal?" The man had finally taken his eyes off the papers and was staring at the floor.
Cal took his time before he answered this, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt and considering why he was going to even talk to this man about his writings. Yet, he answered the man's questions without an air of sarcasm in his voice.
"Not much else to do out here."
"It is pretty lonely out here, yeah. A man can sure get a lot of thinking done."
"It's all I do. Think and write. Please take a seat..." Cal left the sentence open for the man to finish.
"Jack, and thank you very much."
The two men each took a seat, with Jack very calm in his seat on the couch and Cal leaning forward trying to get a read on the guy. Silence sat in the room with them for awhile, eventually leaving when Cal began to speak.
"I don't know how you found me, Jack, and I don't know how you know me, but I'll be honest with you, I'm getting a little edgy about you asking me such a question when I know next to nothing about you. So if you could please clear some of this up, I would much appreciate it."
Cal's words did not make Jack move any which way, the man still sat in that seat in a relaxed fashion, with the slightest smile since Mona Lisa on his face. When he answered, he didn't move anything but his mouth, his eyes stayed fixed and his body in place.
"Do you believe in God, Cal?"
"I used to," Cal answered quickly despite his surprise.
Jack's smile finally widened and showed some teeth, "It's a good thing he still believes in you then."
Cal didn't know what to make of this. He wanted to ask another question but he actually feared it being countered with another question such as that one. He tread carefully before he decided to question Jack from a different angle.
"Who are you? Beyond your name, who are you?"
"Truthfully?"
"I would hope so."
"I'm someone you won't believe at first, Cal, until I prove my claims. But before I prove anything, I suppose I must try and tell you."
"Please, do tell."
"You can see me in different ways, Cal. I'm your guardian angel, your regular angel, you're conscious, your subconscious, your inner voice, your voice of reason, I'm all of those, Cal, personified as the man sitting before you."
Cal was dumbfounded, but his face didn't show it. This man was crazy. Clearly, if nothing else, this man was insane. Still trying to figure out what the man was talking about, Cal spoke without thinking.
"Prove it."
"Cal, the last thing you thought before you're wife passed away was, and I quote, "God, you let this happen. You were stupid enough not to take me. You'd rather kill an innocent woman and let the man who caused her so much pain continue to live. I hate you. I hate for everything you've done." End quote."
Cal's eyes sparked, wide-eyed and beginning to sweat, Cal jumped out of his seat and began pacing around the room. This was something that was beyond his realm of comprehension, something that just didn't happen to people. He wanted to yell at the man. He wanted to scream for the man to get the hell out and stay away, but he couldn't bring himself to it. Every last one of his words was on hold as he cupped his mouth and began to have trouble breathing. All the while Jack sat calmly in his seat with a look of sincerity in his brown eyes. The man had leaned forward and looked down at the floor once more. Cal continued his labored breathing and stood frozen in his place, staring with absolute disbelief at this man who had come out of the woods and read his mind.
"I'm sorry, Cal. I shouldn't have, ahem; I should have started with something lighter, a happier memory. I apologize."
"Who are you?"
"I'm your guardi-"
"No! Don't you say that again. You are not...you can't be anything...no, no, no."
"Cal, please listen to me. What do you remember after the crash?"
"What?"
"Details, specifics, exact things. What cab did you take up here, what was the day when you arrived here, what brand of coffee did you drink last night?"
"What does it matter?"
"Try and just answer it as a normal question."
"I don't know."
"Anything? Not even the coffee?"
"No. Nothing."
Jack stood up and took a calculated step toward Cal, who was being struck with the thought that he couldn't recall any dates or names of anything at the moment. His mind was going through its database again, but everything was coming up empty, even the coffee. Jack lowered his tone and spoke each word with precision.
"Doesn't that strike you as odd? That in three weeks up here you can't recall the names or dates of one single thing?" Jack paused and took a breath before he continued on, "Can you even remember the name of the hospital your wife passed away in?"
This was like a dagger to Cal. He kept asking himself why he couldn't remember anything specific. Blanks were drawn on every fact, making it feel like a weight had crashed on his chest. Cal wanted this man out of his cabin immediately. Three weeks of solitude were starting to have positive effects on Cal; he was steadily recovering like the snow that continued to gradually fall. This man had come out of nowhere and was undoing everything in just minutes. Before Cal could yell out at Jack to leave his premises, the man asked another calm but pressing question.
"It's been snowing a lot, Cal. Haven't you been concerned in the least? Three days, now four, of this snow. You're looking at five feet soon enough. Without a shovel on you, I don't see how you're going to make you're way out either.
Cal deflected this as much he could, but even as he did, he began to wonder about the snow's accumulation for the first time, yet he gritted his teeth and made himself clear.
"Get out. Get out now."
"What do you hear when you dream, Cal?"
"Get out."
"Do you hear noises? Voices? Any sounds?"
"Get out!"
"Cal! What do you hear when you dream!?"
Jack's sudden intensity made Cal sit down in his seat. For the first time since he saw his wife in that passenger seat, slumped over, just before they both passed out, did he finally cry. Tears fell into his hands and flooded out in between his fingers. He could barely muster out his words as he wiped his nose and coughed.
"What do you want?"
Jack knelt in front of Cal and put his hand on his shoulder. It was warm, strangely warm, like a heat that he had not felt in the longest time. The tears stopped at an instant. Cal looked up with watery eyes at this man of great claims and many questions and waited for an answer.
"I'm here, Cal, to help you come to terms with something. But I can't help you do that unless you answer my questions honestly. Now, let's try this again. What do you hear when you dream?"
"I don't know. I, I, I hear my car running. It's all blurry, but I know, I know it's the night we're driving home from the party. I can't tell myself to slow down even though I'm trying to scream it out, you know? I want to wake up because I know how it's going to end, but I just can't wake up from it, and I'm stuck there watching it all again. And then I hear her. I hear her, Jane, she's, her voice is really quiet, like a whisper or something. This is after the crash. And I can't see anything really anymore, but I can hear her voice. She's probably asking me for help, but I can't do anything, I'm stuck where I am, and I just have to hear her saying my name. Then it all fades away. It's gone. And then I'm up and about again writing or watching snow."
"This is every night you sleep?"
"Every night for six weeks."
"You just hear Jane's voice?"
"Every night for six weeks. Saying my name."
"I need you to close your eyes and think hard, Cal. I need you to really try here. I need you to think of your dream. Are you slumped up against the door or away from it?"
"What do you mean?"
"In the ditch. What side is the car laying on?"
"The passenger side. My wife's dead because I slid into the ditch passenger side first."
"Close your eyes and think. In your dream, what way are you slumped over?"
Cal could do nothing immediately but stare in increased terror at the man. Finally, he slowly shut his eyes and his dream began replaying step-by-step. The broken wipers, the patch of ice, the skid, then Cal began slowing down the process, as if he had a remote control to the event. The car twirled around as if without care on the road, and into the ditch it went. Cal and Jane slammed around inside and both were partially knocked out. Cal's eyes opened and looked left; with full concentration he opened his eyes and saw Jane above him, ensnared in her seat belt, whispering his name through a bloody mouth. He saw long locks of hair streaming down toward him, just a foot from his face. Then with all energy spent, he laid his head back upon the cracked glass window of the driver's side door, through which he could see right in front of him nothing but cold, wet grass.
Cal slowly opened his eyes again to look at Jack. Profound realization was shown on his face. He was about to speak words that he had believed not to be true, that couldn't be true. How could they be true?
"I went in that ditch driver's side first."
"Would you like to know your last thought before going into the ditch? You thought, "It can't be her. I won't let her feel any pain." And then you came to a stop."
Silence returned. Cal stared. Jack looked at the floor once more.
"Where am I?" Cal asked unblinkingly.
Jack continued to look at the floor, not even able to hold his head up for his answer. "You've been in a coma, Cal. For the past six weeks. I'm sorry."
The answer, surprisingly, did not seem to faze Cal the least bit. In his mind, he was still able to piece together what was going on. One by one, they all fell into place.
"I can't remember anything because facts and stuff can never be recalled in dreams. And her voice, Jane's voice, that's her at my hospital bed, right? But what's the snow mean?
"The snow piling up outside means your time is nearing an end. Once you're enclosed, this, all this around you is over. That's why I'm here, Cal. To see you through it, I'll be here with you and take you once it's over."
"I'm not coming out of this."
"I'm sorry."
Cal turned to Jack, who finally looked back up. He felt it, he was full again, of all his emotions. He took a breath and it felt real within him. Most astonishing of all, he smiled. He smiled wide and forced his watery eyes to shed the last tears from him. Jack was honestly curious as to this and couldn't help but comment on it.
"You're smiling."
"Because," Cal began, "Because I know she's okay."
MERRY CHRISTMAS
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Rap: An Analysis
Rap, or "Hip-Hop", is arguably the most influential thing in a white, suburban teenager's life. It is only obvious that we must come to grips with this phenomenon, for it doesn't seem to be going away, no matter how much we politely ask it to. This is meant to be an examination into the history of Rap, important terms rappers use, and what the Internet has declared the "greatest rap lyrics ever", per Google search. Before we delve into this world of "flows" and "beats", we must take a look at the most basic elements of the world of Rap.
HOW RAP STARTED
Rapper - A combination of the Anglo-Saxon words "rap" and "perr", meaning "intimidating" and "minorities".
Rap, as it is widely understood was invented by a notorious street gang named Sugarhill in 1979. This Sugarhill Gang was led by Wonder Mike, who was experimenting with his hands and mouth one day when he noticed by utilizing them together, a stupendous noise could be made. Within a week, he was producing "sick beats", or pleasant sounding noises. Fellow gang members Big Bank Hank and Master Gee, former choir boys, asked Mike if he could use his new found talent to make music. With this, Wonder Mike created the basic sound for the first song in Rap history, "Rapper's Delight." Later that year the song made it on the radio, likely through intimidation, and a new culture was born.
IMPORTANT TERMS
Due to the long history of this movement, a few words have sprung up from the Rap community that are now commonplace in schools and businesses. We shall list a few.
"Wanksta" - One who speaks as though they have lived a "hood" life but in fact have never participated in a robbery/murder/manslaughter/mugging. This term was made popular by the artist Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson and can now be widely heard in inner-city schools by students exposing those who talk with a criminal accent but are in fact "whack ass gangstas."
"M****rf**kin'" - A complicated adjective that can mean something is deplorable, wretched, and disgusting. Conversely, it can exemplify the greatness of a bar, prostitute, or blunt. Rumored to have been created by Biz Markie but popularized by Will Smith and later the "Gangsta" Rappers. Today it is used by my 5 year-old daughter, and I'm sure many other young ladies, when doing her impression of Chris Rock.
"N***a" - A friendly name for a friend. Similar to "buddy", "pal", "chum", or "good fellow". This was the most ingenious move that came out of Rap, the taking of a term that was used to offensively describe the African-Americans and make it a term of endearment. Because of the disestablishment of its former meaning, both whites and blacks can now use it to each other without repercussions.
"God" - A faceless being who grants Rappers with Grammy, B.E.T., and Hip-Hop Honors awards. Through research, God seems to have been first quoted by Tupac Shakur in an acceptance speech in 1994, therefore making him the inventor of this imaginary giver of prizes.
"-izzle" - A suffix that can be added to any word, such as "atmospherizzle", and instantly make it a rap word. Credited to Snoop Dogg, a West Coast artist who used his speech impediment of finishing all his words with the same nonsensical ending and making it into the thing that he is best known for, aside from marijuana use.
GREATEST RAP LYRICS EVER
The first great lyric ever. This is packed with deep meaning about a poor youth with dreams of having nice things. He imagines swimming in a wall pool and owning a television with color. This inspirational piece is an obvious comment on Carter-era politics.
______________________________________________
The "Godfathers of Rap" wrote this as a shout-out to "haters", those who discriminate against the talented. Sucka MCs are being told to show respect to Run DMC because of their higher status in the social hierarchy. The third line is just a basic rule of thumb from 13th-century kingdom-burning procedure manuals, displaying this group's extensive knowledge of history. The final line is quite simply a declaration that they will play music loudly until they have enough money stored away to stop the Rap "game".
________________________________________________
This is on the list not for its depth or critiques on modern culture as most Rap lyrics are, but because it shows that even the greatest rappers can produce the most meaningless lyrics.
________________________________________________
Vanilla Ice, voted by MTV as the greatest Caucasian rapper (1991), quickly shot to the top of the charts all around the world for his true to life rhymes about his dealings with gun violence and gang activity in his native Dallas. This is but a slice of the immense pie that is Vanilla Ice's bakery of lyrics.
________________________________________________
The most accomplished little person of color, 'Lil Wayne has sold millions of albums because of lyrics like this. He is known for his packed CDs with 50+ songs. He is able to do so because most of his songs are just beats, and his lyrics are a scant eight lines or less. The lyrics sampled above, for example, make up the entire song "Shine". His accomplishments as a lyricist and artist has allowed him to overcome his stature and rise above the "m****rf**kin' wankstizzle n***as" that he competes with in the Rap Game.
OVERVIEW
Rap is something that should be taken seriously, for its presence has lasted over 25 years and looks to maintain its rule. Scientists have predicted that by 2015, all rappers will be replaced by self-aware, voice-emulating computers, allowing producers to be the new rappers. Timbaland [sic] is a visionary in this regard as he puts out albums or makes frequent collaborations despite his lack of singing on the tracks. Geniuses like this artist are the way of the future for Rap. Eventually, the "streets" will lose all cred and many more will finally be paved. 50 Cent and Kanye West are predicted to retire by age 35 and their proteges, Canadian Nickel & Kanye West's Protege (actual rapping name), are likely to try and take their place. If this analysis can do anything, it is to suggest homeowners invest in double-paned windows, for the bass from slow-driving Escalades are sure to continue rolling down your streets for years to come.
HOW RAP STARTED
Rapper - A combination of the Anglo-Saxon words "rap" and "perr", meaning "intimidating" and "minorities".
Rap, as it is widely understood was invented by a notorious street gang named Sugarhill in 1979. This Sugarhill Gang was led by Wonder Mike, who was experimenting with his hands and mouth one day when he noticed by utilizing them together, a stupendous noise could be made. Within a week, he was producing "sick beats", or pleasant sounding noises. Fellow gang members Big Bank Hank and Master Gee, former choir boys, asked Mike if he could use his new found talent to make music. With this, Wonder Mike created the basic sound for the first song in Rap history, "Rapper's Delight." Later that year the song made it on the radio, likely through intimidation, and a new culture was born.
IMPORTANT TERMS
Due to the long history of this movement, a few words have sprung up from the Rap community that are now commonplace in schools and businesses. We shall list a few.
"Wanksta" - One who speaks as though they have lived a "hood" life but in fact have never participated in a robbery/murder/manslaughter/mugging. This term was made popular by the artist Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson and can now be widely heard in inner-city schools by students exposing those who talk with a criminal accent but are in fact "whack ass gangstas."
"M****rf**kin'" - A complicated adjective that can mean something is deplorable, wretched, and disgusting. Conversely, it can exemplify the greatness of a bar, prostitute, or blunt. Rumored to have been created by Biz Markie but popularized by Will Smith and later the "Gangsta" Rappers. Today it is used by my 5 year-old daughter, and I'm sure many other young ladies, when doing her impression of Chris Rock.
"N***a" - A friendly name for a friend. Similar to "buddy", "pal", "chum", or "good fellow". This was the most ingenious move that came out of Rap, the taking of a term that was used to offensively describe the African-Americans and make it a term of endearment. Because of the disestablishment of its former meaning, both whites and blacks can now use it to each other without repercussions.
"God" - A faceless being who grants Rappers with Grammy, B.E.T., and Hip-Hop Honors awards. Through research, God seems to have been first quoted by Tupac Shakur in an acceptance speech in 1994, therefore making him the inventor of this imaginary giver of prizes.
"-izzle" - A suffix that can be added to any word, such as "atmospherizzle", and instantly make it a rap word. Credited to Snoop Dogg, a West Coast artist who used his speech impediment of finishing all his words with the same nonsensical ending and making it into the thing that he is best known for, aside from marijuana use.
GREATEST RAP LYRICS EVER
so after school, i take a dip in the pool
which really is on the wall
i got a color TV so i can see
the knicks play basketball
-Sugarhill Gang, "Rapper's Delight"
The first great lyric ever. This is packed with deep meaning about a poor youth with dreams of having nice things. He imagines swimming in a wall pool and owning a television with color. This inspirational piece is an obvious comment on Carter-era politics.
______________________________________________
I'm the king of rock, there is none HIGHER,
sucka MCs, should call me SIRE,
to burn my kingdom, you must use FIRE,
I wont stop rockin till I RETIRE!
-Run DMC, "King of Rock"
The "Godfathers of Rap" wrote this as a shout-out to "haters", those who discriminate against the talented. Sucka MCs are being told to show respect to Run DMC because of their higher status in the social hierarchy. The third line is just a basic rule of thumb from 13th-century kingdom-burning procedure manuals, displaying this group's extensive knowledge of history. The final line is quite simply a declaration that they will play music loudly until they have enough money stored away to stop the Rap "game".
________________________________________________
it ain't about black or white cuz we're human,
i hope we see the light before its ruined."
-Tupac Shakur, "Ghetto Gospel"
This is on the list not for its depth or critiques on modern culture as most Rap lyrics are, but because it shows that even the greatest rappers can produce the most meaningless lyrics.
________________________________________________
Reading for the chumps on the wall
The chumps acting ill because they're so full of eight balls
Gunshots rang out like a bell
I grabbed my nine all I heard were shells
Falling on the concrete real fast
Jumped in my car slammed on the gas
-Vanilla Ice, "Ice, Ice, Baby"
Vanilla Ice, voted by MTV as the greatest Caucasian rapper (1991), quickly shot to the top of the charts all around the world for his true to life rhymes about his dealings with gun violence and gang activity in his native Dallas. This is but a slice of the immense pie that is Vanilla Ice's bakery of lyrics.
________________________________________________
Let's talk about this ice I'm carrying
All these carats like I'm a fucking vegetarian
-'Lil Wayne, "Shine"
The most accomplished little person of color, 'Lil Wayne has sold millions of albums because of lyrics like this. He is known for his packed CDs with 50+ songs. He is able to do so because most of his songs are just beats, and his lyrics are a scant eight lines or less. The lyrics sampled above, for example, make up the entire song "Shine". His accomplishments as a lyricist and artist has allowed him to overcome his stature and rise above the "m****rf**kin' wankstizzle n***as" that he competes with in the Rap Game.
OVERVIEW
Rap is something that should be taken seriously, for its presence has lasted over 25 years and looks to maintain its rule. Scientists have predicted that by 2015, all rappers will be replaced by self-aware, voice-emulating computers, allowing producers to be the new rappers. Timbaland [sic] is a visionary in this regard as he puts out albums or makes frequent collaborations despite his lack of singing on the tracks. Geniuses like this artist are the way of the future for Rap. Eventually, the "streets" will lose all cred and many more will finally be paved. 50 Cent and Kanye West are predicted to retire by age 35 and their proteges, Canadian Nickel & Kanye West's Protege (actual rapping name), are likely to try and take their place. If this analysis can do anything, it is to suggest homeowners invest in double-paned windows, for the bass from slow-driving Escalades are sure to continue rolling down your streets for years to come.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Playing God
Since God has existed, there have been those jealous souls who have wanted to be Him. I, admittedly, am no exception. Let's be serious, the job is glamorous and it certainly has its perks. Unlimited power? Check. Flowing beard/robe? Check. Ability to cure cancer? Check*. With all this working for Him, who wouldn't be a tad bit envious? The answer, of course, is everybody. Which is pretty ironic because envy is a deadly sin and therefore an automatic disqualification for deism. Not being envious, just curious*, I shall fill the shoes of a God with a universe to create.
*He's saving it for the right time.
*Curiousity being an automatic disqualification of life for cats.
(God-Up)
So, if I was God, and starting from scratch, I wouldn't begin with such a grandiose display as "Let there be light!" Instead, I would just give Myself* night vision and work My magic in the darkness. Although I'd have to invent darkness first. How do you create darkness? That's a pretty good question to ask college students tripping on LSD. I'll have to remember that. Sorry, Gods digress too. Anyway, by working in the dark with night vision, when I finally did invent light, there would be something to actually show off. I bet it was pretty embarrassing for First God when all he illuminated was a barren rock of a planet*.
*Myself being capitalized because I am God, of course.
*That planet being called, as Samuel L. Jackson dubbed it, "Erf"
By the way, it's hard to emphasize My great importance and Godliness in the first person, but I am in fact capitalizing "I" as I go, even more so than usual. I call it a Holy Capitalization, so just be aware of that.
Getting back on track, the first thing I would do is create the Garden of Eden*, because I feel that First God got that idea right the first time. But I would save a shitload of time and just go into the future and get a list of all the world's animals and plants and recreate them in the past. Except I'd have to invent the future first. And how does one invent the future and have all those animals and plants there to take them back into the past if one has not created them yet? Damn. Okay, okay, I will just create paradoxes, but allow Myself to break them. I can do that because I'm who? God, that's fuckin' who.
*Garden of Eden would be renamed "Pepsi Presents: Eden".
Alright, so now I got Eden set up in all its paradisaical beauty plus I'm ahead of schedule. Now what? Oh! Those humans need creating, right. So obviously the first man would be in My image, because who the hell else's image is he going to be based off of? On second thought, Brad Pitt would be a good basis for My first man. Back to the future it is. Now that that is taken care of and I have an Adam of My own, I must bear upon him a name that evokes wonder, strength, and wisdom. And so I shall name him Superman*. The guy needs a gal though, and I'm pretty tired from this world creation gig already. What would First God do? Uh...oh, right! He pulled that chick out from Adam's rib or something. Dang, I worked way too hard chiseling those abs of his to have them ruined by a scar. I'll just have her come out an orifice of his.
*Latin for "Truth, Justice, and The American Way".
Eden, done. Humans, made. Next on the agenda is finding a place for those souls who have passed away. Heaven, as made by First God, was a cloudy little village community, very suitable for the pious crowd. I'm more about vitality, I'd make Heaven a giant hotel party in a 1,000-story shimmering tower. It would have pools that always have just the right amount of chlorine not to burn your eyes out and there would be a view of the ocean from every room. Seems Superman is the first to arrive, something about uncontrollable bleeding from his rectum.
Moving on, I would make Purgatory the lobby, where the concierge is a complete asshole and won't tell you where you're room number is.
"I vill be vith in you just a moment, sir," he will always reply*.
*Spoken with a heavy German accent.
Hell, I would probably keep Hell mostly the same. Caves, seven levels, The Devil, pitchforks and brimstone, it would all be there except everything in it would all be low lit. There's nothing worse than trying to work in the dark, and that would really get the point across to those who art wick'd that they truly are in Hell. Also, I would make the The Devil have a greater affinity for random raping.
Son of a bitch! I've been so busy making that afterlife that I forgot the...what's between before and after? The nowlife, yeah, I've been neglecting the nowlife. Huh, apparently they're trying to talk to Me. They're on their hands and knees, hands clasped, look like they're begging. It's faint though.
"Please, no, don't let Vesuvius erup...oh no!"
This is simple, I'll have their begs transferred into e-mail form, like in Bruce Almighty. Great movie, a little on the preachy side though. Boy, they sure are talking to Me a lot. Arguing too. Will someone please inform me as to what the fuck Judaism is? Who started that? Why wasn't I told? Well, I'll make sure to make those "followers" miserable. I would not give them cookies in the Afterlife Hotel. Didn't First God have a messiah at about this point from some lady he knocked up? There he* is, and there is his mom. I don't remember hooking up with her when I visited the Human's land on Whataday*. Hmm, I really don't want to share the glory but...he would lighten up my inbox and he is My son*. I bet if he got martyred, like, half of My current followers would start begging to him. Alright, I'll set the cards in motion. I hate following in the footsteps of First God so much at this point. It seems He knew what He was doing the first time around. This Jesus fellow gets the brunt end no matter who's God, I guess.
*Jesus remains uncapitalized in pronoun form because he forgot to take out the trash at the time of this writing.
*Whataday = Saturday.
*Lab results pending.
This is looking good. Rome is controlling things very well, technology is advancing, what's next? I should have paid attention in History class, but I got to go use the Bill*. Okay, I'm bac- Whoa! What happened to Rome? Why is everything so dark? F! Those idiots down there screwed things up. How am I supposed to run things when these idiots can't even hold down the fort for a bathroom break? Jesus, watch over things for Me. I'm taking a vacation.
*Bill is derived from Bill Norman, the first guy who called me a "douchebag". Therefore I named the bathroom in his honor. God had a similar story concerning the originating of the term "the John".
...
Ugh...fine, I'll come back. Let's see what's going on. Year 2021? How long was I gone? I guess it's like the old saying goes, time flies when you're on Al-Galactogine IV*. What's the situation? I need a closer look. Hmm, "America" seems to be all over the map and that boot-shaped land appears to be, yeah, it's on fire. Okay, Brazil looks...wait, didn't there use to be trees there? And why are people wearing shorts and tees in Siberia? Weird. WHOA! What was that explosion? Jesus, I thought you were keeping a tab on what was going on? Playing video games? I don't want to hear it. I want you to get back down there and sort things out. No "buts", mister. Get down there and save my work. And we're gonna have a talk about that hair when you get back too.
*Al-Galactogine IV = Mercury.
I don't think I can do this anymore, being a God is rough.
(UnGod)
Well, from what I can report, playing God has its pros and cons. Pro, ability to do anything. Cons, constant vigilance of creations and son is unappreciative of Father's accomplishments. And this whole experience just left me with more questions than answers. Who created me? Why do people beg to my giant hotel in the sky? Why does Jay-Z* reference me so much? After some thinking, I think it is best that I leave it all up to First God to handle. Although, if I could ask for one favor, I would ask of Him to give my grandmother a long and healthy life. Because, to be honest, I don't plan on moving out of her basement anytime soon.
*AKA Jigga, Jigga Man, Jay Hova, Hova, Hov, and Young Hova.
*He's saving it for the right time.
*Curiousity being an automatic disqualification of life for cats.
(God-Up)
So, if I was God, and starting from scratch, I wouldn't begin with such a grandiose display as "Let there be light!" Instead, I would just give Myself* night vision and work My magic in the darkness. Although I'd have to invent darkness first. How do you create darkness? That's a pretty good question to ask college students tripping on LSD. I'll have to remember that. Sorry, Gods digress too. Anyway, by working in the dark with night vision, when I finally did invent light, there would be something to actually show off. I bet it was pretty embarrassing for First God when all he illuminated was a barren rock of a planet*.
*Myself being capitalized because I am God, of course.
*That planet being called, as Samuel L. Jackson dubbed it, "Erf"
By the way, it's hard to emphasize My great importance and Godliness in the first person, but I am in fact capitalizing "I" as I go, even more so than usual. I call it a Holy Capitalization, so just be aware of that.
Getting back on track, the first thing I would do is create the Garden of Eden*, because I feel that First God got that idea right the first time. But I would save a shitload of time and just go into the future and get a list of all the world's animals and plants and recreate them in the past. Except I'd have to invent the future first. And how does one invent the future and have all those animals and plants there to take them back into the past if one has not created them yet? Damn. Okay, okay, I will just create paradoxes, but allow Myself to break them. I can do that because I'm who? God, that's fuckin' who.
*Garden of Eden would be renamed "Pepsi Presents: Eden".
Alright, so now I got Eden set up in all its paradisaical beauty plus I'm ahead of schedule. Now what? Oh! Those humans need creating, right. So obviously the first man would be in My image, because who the hell else's image is he going to be based off of? On second thought, Brad Pitt would be a good basis for My first man. Back to the future it is. Now that that is taken care of and I have an Adam of My own, I must bear upon him a name that evokes wonder, strength, and wisdom. And so I shall name him Superman*. The guy needs a gal though, and I'm pretty tired from this world creation gig already. What would First God do? Uh...oh, right! He pulled that chick out from Adam's rib or something. Dang, I worked way too hard chiseling those abs of his to have them ruined by a scar. I'll just have her come out an orifice of his.
*Latin for "Truth, Justice, and The American Way".
Eden, done. Humans, made. Next on the agenda is finding a place for those souls who have passed away. Heaven, as made by First God, was a cloudy little village community, very suitable for the pious crowd. I'm more about vitality, I'd make Heaven a giant hotel party in a 1,000-story shimmering tower. It would have pools that always have just the right amount of chlorine not to burn your eyes out and there would be a view of the ocean from every room. Seems Superman is the first to arrive, something about uncontrollable bleeding from his rectum.
Moving on, I would make Purgatory the lobby, where the concierge is a complete asshole and won't tell you where you're room number is.
"I vill be vith in you just a moment, sir," he will always reply*.
*Spoken with a heavy German accent.
Hell, I would probably keep Hell mostly the same. Caves, seven levels, The Devil, pitchforks and brimstone, it would all be there except everything in it would all be low lit. There's nothing worse than trying to work in the dark, and that would really get the point across to those who art wick'd that they truly are in Hell. Also, I would make the The Devil have a greater affinity for random raping.
Son of a bitch! I've been so busy making that afterlife that I forgot the...what's between before and after? The nowlife, yeah, I've been neglecting the nowlife. Huh, apparently they're trying to talk to Me. They're on their hands and knees, hands clasped, look like they're begging. It's faint though.
"Please, no, don't let Vesuvius erup...oh no!"
This is simple, I'll have their begs transferred into e-mail form, like in Bruce Almighty. Great movie, a little on the preachy side though. Boy, they sure are talking to Me a lot. Arguing too. Will someone please inform me as to what the fuck Judaism is? Who started that? Why wasn't I told? Well, I'll make sure to make those "followers" miserable. I would not give them cookies in the Afterlife Hotel. Didn't First God have a messiah at about this point from some lady he knocked up? There he* is, and there is his mom. I don't remember hooking up with her when I visited the Human's land on Whataday*. Hmm, I really don't want to share the glory but...he would lighten up my inbox and he is My son*. I bet if he got martyred, like, half of My current followers would start begging to him. Alright, I'll set the cards in motion. I hate following in the footsteps of First God so much at this point. It seems He knew what He was doing the first time around. This Jesus fellow gets the brunt end no matter who's God, I guess.
*Jesus remains uncapitalized in pronoun form because he forgot to take out the trash at the time of this writing.
*Whataday = Saturday.
*Lab results pending.
This is looking good. Rome is controlling things very well, technology is advancing, what's next? I should have paid attention in History class, but I got to go use the Bill*. Okay, I'm bac- Whoa! What happened to Rome? Why is everything so dark? F! Those idiots down there screwed things up. How am I supposed to run things when these idiots can't even hold down the fort for a bathroom break? Jesus, watch over things for Me. I'm taking a vacation.
*Bill is derived from Bill Norman, the first guy who called me a "douchebag". Therefore I named the bathroom in his honor. God had a similar story concerning the originating of the term "the John".
...
Ugh...fine, I'll come back. Let's see what's going on. Year 2021? How long was I gone? I guess it's like the old saying goes, time flies when you're on Al-Galactogine IV*. What's the situation? I need a closer look. Hmm, "America" seems to be all over the map and that boot-shaped land appears to be, yeah, it's on fire. Okay, Brazil looks...wait, didn't there use to be trees there? And why are people wearing shorts and tees in Siberia? Weird. WHOA! What was that explosion? Jesus, I thought you were keeping a tab on what was going on? Playing video games? I don't want to hear it. I want you to get back down there and sort things out. No "buts", mister. Get down there and save my work. And we're gonna have a talk about that hair when you get back too.
*Al-Galactogine IV = Mercury.
I don't think I can do this anymore, being a God is rough.
(UnGod)
Well, from what I can report, playing God has its pros and cons. Pro, ability to do anything. Cons, constant vigilance of creations and son is unappreciative of Father's accomplishments. And this whole experience just left me with more questions than answers. Who created me? Why do people beg to my giant hotel in the sky? Why does Jay-Z* reference me so much? After some thinking, I think it is best that I leave it all up to First God to handle. Although, if I could ask for one favor, I would ask of Him to give my grandmother a long and healthy life. Because, to be honest, I don't plan on moving out of her basement anytime soon.
*AKA Jigga, Jigga Man, Jay Hova, Hova, Hov, and Young Hova.
Monday, October 22, 2007
The Home Stretch
The blackness of the Michigan night did not stop Jason Einhorn from starting his car. The sound of the autumn wind did not slow down his speed. The jet lag did not make him weary and it sure would not be stopping him from getting home that night.
Jason Einhorn was a businessman, and a well-respected one at that. A mid-30 gentleman with hair that's color can only be compared to the black ink of a printer. This was hair that had had Jason's hand run through it many times lately, partially out of stress but mostly out of longing. He had been in New York City the past two months hawking his company's newest product, a plastic that is environmentally-safe and biodegradable. Although he was winning over clients left and right, the hotel he stayed in was no comfort to him. Despite it's placement on the 75th floor of one of the most elegant hotels in Manhattan, nothing compared to the sweet, warm feeling of being at home with his fiance, Natalie.
He had proposed to her six months ago, and a week before finding out about the trip. Expecting this news to be met with tears and anger, Jason was surprised to find that his soon-to-be wife was more than understanding.
"I'll be here when you come back," was all Natalie said as she grazed his cheek.
Jason took these words to New York with him, thinking them over as he looked at the skyline. Though they made him smile as well as tear up, he thought of Natalie often. She was his emotional parachute after his father died and he lost his job two years ago. Without her, Jason was certain, he would have fallen to depths he could not fathom. With Natalie's support and caring nature, Jason recovered from his sorrow and self-pity and found a job at H&U Inc., the aforementioned plastics company.
These days, his life was together. He had survived two months without the love of his life, and now all that stood between him and her were 20 miles of empty roads.
The country roads at night would pose an ominous threat to most city drivers, but Jason had taken this route hundreds of times. He knew the way from the airport to the house by heart: A left bank, a right, a straight shot, a hard right turn, then a final straight shot home. It was all a matter of keeping your eyes open for rogue deer, although most were asleep by now, and not becoming hypnotized by the driving.
Jason decided that he would throw the high-beams on, as there didn't appear to be any oncoming traffic as far as he could see. With the flip of the switch, his car emitted a power blast of light that shone on trees well over a mile away. Jason was occupied with his mind again, thinking of Natalie. He began thinking of what to do once they were together again. Whether to hug her tight, or kiss her straight off, or just lie down with her and stare into each other's eyes all night. He couldn't help but want to do all three.
He zoomed past a mile marker at 85 m.p.h., but Jason knew there were no cops patrolling these roads, and if he got caught, it was likely by someone he knew, and he could get away with it without a problem. He eased up as he reached his first mental checkpoint, the left bank. The high rock face on the right side of the road was awe-inspiring during the day, but at night, it proved to be nothing more than a wall that was partially lit up by car lights. With the left bank behind him, Jason kicked it up to 90, but then had to ease up once again as the right bank came along.
Then he hit the danger zone, the 10-mile straight shot. Jason knew many people, including his best buddy, Arnold, who had dozed off behind the wheel due to the sheer lack of will it took to drive. Arnold was lucky enough to hit a soft spot in a ditch and suffered only a cut on the head and a hefty mechanic's bill. Even though this was like a real-life PSA to Jason, he couldn't slow down now, not with Natalie so close. He began thinking about what her reaction would be when he returned. Would she just smile that smile that made him smile back or would she scream with glee at his grand return? Jason knew whatever she did, he would cry at it. He missed her so much he pressed the gas peddle unconsciously, boosting his speed to 95.
The positive aspect of this long stretch was that it gave those with good imaginations a chance to run wild. Jason took advantage of this opportunity and began planning his first outing with Natalie after he got back. He'd take her out to that Italian place they don't go to often enough, Patenero's, and she could get the most expensive wine on the menu. They would go for a stroll along the lake, and if it got cold, he'd have his jacket right there for her, and at a moment's notice, it would be draped over her shoulders along with his arm. They would drive home and smile at each other every five seconds and laugh every time they did it. Then they'd walk in the door of their home and...
A chill was sent through Jason. The shock from this sudden cold made his heart beat faster and he zipped up his coat a little bit. The heat was on, the windows were up, there should have been no reason for such a feeling. The thought of this made Jason a little edgy, as his attempts to continue thinking of his perfect date were stifled in trying to figure out where this chill came from. Jason was without an answer, but didn't mind suddenly as he realized the straight shot was coming to an end and the hard right bank was on its way. He quickly began applying pressure to the brake, going as slow as 55 before leveling off. He began prepping for the turn when he caught sight of a deer on the side of the road.
The deer, as the phrase applies here, was caught in his headlights of Jason's car. The eyes of this deer locked with Jason's, and from that point on, they could not be detached. Though well away from Jason, he could see the bright blue surrounding the shrinking pupils of the deer. They were majestic, as if looking into the face of God, Jason couldn't break away. His mind shut off and his breathing was at a standstill. He and the deer stood still in time, it seemed, while the whole world continued to go on. Without even knowing it, Jason's body was still driving the car and had successfully managed the turn and left the deer behind. All at once, Jason blinked rapidly and took in a deep, desperate breath, as if he had just been held underwater for a length of time. That chill from before was nothing to what he felt now. Jason was shivering uncontrollably, as if having taken a December dive in Superior. His hand, shaking with vigor, grabbed hold of the A/C knob and cranked it to its warmest settings. But before it could even kick in, the cold went away, as if a blanket of ice had been lifted from Jason's body.
Jason, for the first time in his life, was genuinely frightened. But even with all this going on in his head, he realized something else was wrong. He should be looking at a sign right now reading, "Welcome to Kulla, Michigan", the sign letting him now he was back home. Jason looked as far off into the distance as his eyes would let him, but all he could see was a straight road. Not the straight road he was accustomed to after making that turn, though. This one featured no signs on the side of the road or late night cafe lights shining in the distance. This road was similar to the one just taken by Jason, identical even. Jason couldn't accept that, it was impossible. He drove faster, as if frustrated by these occurrences. He was hitting 80 when his brights caught the glimpse of an oncoming turn, a hard right.
Jason hit the brakes with a force that jolted him forward a bit. When his speedometer read a steady 60, he let go of the brake. Then he felt the presence of the deer again, as if it were watching him intently from only inches away. His head kept facing forward, but his eyes looked left, searching for the deer. Sure enough, it was there again, caught in the bright lights he shone at it. The connection between their eyes was made again, leaving Jason speechless. He didn't think anymore in sentences when looking into the huge orbs of this creature, merely coming up with words in his mind. "Away", "can't", "turn", "cold", and "Natalie" were just some of the things his brain was able to produce. This animal, with it's gaze, was haunting to Jason. It was as if he were seeing a ghost. Again, his body made the turn while his mind was taken by the deer. And once out of sight of it, Jason gasped for air again, blinking over and over, but the regaining of control of his breathing came later than last time. Then the feeling of that descending chill from his skin to his bones came back, worse than before. It was subarctic in his car, he couldn't even move out of fear that his bones would snap like icicles.
But it all went away, just like before, and Jason regained heat. But as he basked in this momentary warmth, it occurred to him that he was back, back on the straight road. He slammed on the brakes with all his might until it finally came to a dead standstill. Was he going crazy? Hallucinating? Had he died and this was some sick dream of the dead? Jason went through these possibilities and ones even more insane until he couldn't think of any more. Curse words from A-Z flew out of Jason's mouth without any breaks in between. If he was crazy, he was about to make himself sane again, he decided. Jason was becoming frustrated, to the point where he was punching the steering wheel. A range of emotions were flooding Jason, and his predicament was sending him into a flurry. He hit the gas in his moment of rage and went head on. 10...40...80...110...Jason was hitting the breaking point of his car, as evidenced by the excessive rumbling. But he pressed on, the turn was right in sight.
Jason closed his eyes shut, to the point where it actually hurt, but he dared not open them, he didn't want to see that deer. He was legitimately afraid to see it again. There was no plan here, he just drove, fast and forward, into the trees he went. Like an explosion of light, Jason saw a flash of the deer in his mind. It was burned in there, seared in, and Jason felt a pain from it. He grabbed his forehead at the sharp blow to his head he felt from this vision, causing him to open his eyes as wide as possible. All he could see was a white light blinding him, and he prepared for the car to slam into something any second.
But the light faded, and he felt the ground moving beneath him. The familiarity of driving returned, but did not comfort him.
Miles and miles and miles of straight road lie ahead of him, and all there was left to do was cry.
Jason stopped the car and put his head on the wheel, defeated. All this had happened so fast, the strangeness of it all, that he was overwhelmed. What was going on? He couldn't even think at this point, he just let loose tear upon tear on the steering wheel, which dripped on his seat. He slammed his fist on the dashboard repeatedly, not stopping to notice he was beginning to bleed from it.
After what he believed to be half an hour, he looked up and out the window. The high beams, ever so brightly lit up the road he could not pass. After so much of it, Jason just stared, without emotion now, down the road. But deep in the recesses of his mind, Jason had a plan. It was primitive in it's scope, but it was all he could conjure up at the moment. So he unbuckled his seat belt and got out of the car, not bothering to even turn it off.
He walked. For the first mile, Jason trudged through the brisk night, with one single thought in his mind. But soon enough, he began to run down the road. Guided by the light he ran with all his remaining energy. His legs began to buckle, and his breath ran short, but he only pushed harder then. Tears ran down Jason's face from the cold, unforgiving wind sweeping across the road. Finally to the point of collapse, he dropped down to his knees, exhausted. And as he took deep breath after deep breath, spitting in between. This is when he finally noticed the blood pouring from his hand. It was then that he heard the clicks of footsteps nearing him as he laid helpless on the icy concrete.
Jason moved his head to get a view of what he already knew was there. The deer, in all its majesty, moved in on Jason, when the eyes met again.
Like ice water flowing through his veins, the eyes of the deer gave him a chilling pain that was absolute torture. Jason had nowhere to go, and yet he been so close to where had wanted to be. Again and again, so close, and having to face the pain of almost being with her, his love, Natalie, was worse than death. He couldn't speak, didn't dare try, and yet Jason was able to mouth the words he longed to scream, "Natalie...please."
At this, the pain left, and Jason could think once more. The presence of the deer was gone, no more eyes were being laid upon him, and best yet, he could breathe normally. But he felt that rumbling, that acceleration, of being back in the car, hitting top speeds. How did he...it was useless to think anymore. Jason hit the brakes and got out of the car again, but didn't bother walking or running, he just screamed. He screamed until his throat felt like it would rip, and he just yelled for her, his one and only love, Natalie. Over and over, he yelled her name. Through the voice cracks and burning tears, he yelled her name. He was trapped, alone, without her. But he couldn't do it forever, and he dropped down on his knees once more, in self defeat. He couldn't get back to her, even though she was so close, so damn close it made him want to throw himself in the woods and die there.
With his face in his hands, and knees on the ground, Jason cried. The thought of never seeing Natalie ever again, the meaning in his life, was too much to bear. He could only wish to hug Natalie and feel her warmth again. He begged to have her arms around him one more time, just one more time...
A soothing lamp light made Jason squint. A feeling of confusion swept over him, wondering where he was and how he got there. He jumped out of bed and threw himself toward the window, and suddenly back when he glimpsed what was outside it. Jason was looking over New York City's Times Square from his hotel room.
It was a dream....just a dream. No. A nightmare, the worst of his life. Jason rushed to the bathroom and ran his head over the cold water of the sink. It felt good, it felt real to him. He breathed a sigh of relief like no other and toweled off.
Natalie!
He grabbed his hotel phone and dialed with pianist-like precision. It rang, and it rang, and it rang. Click.
A smooth, comforting voice answered, "Hello?"
"Natalie?"
"Jason?"
...
"I love you."
"I love you too, honey. What is it?"
"I just needed to call and say that to you. Natalie, could you say what you told me before I left?"
"I'll be here when you come back."
"I love you, Natalie."
"I love you too, Jason. I'll see you tonight?"
"I'll be there. No matter what happens, I'll be there."
Click. Jason grabbed his briefcase and plane ticket, threw on his coat, and rushed out to catch the next plane out of New York to Michigan. He wouldn't be driving at night anytime soon.
Jason Einhorn was a businessman, and a well-respected one at that. A mid-30 gentleman with hair that's color can only be compared to the black ink of a printer. This was hair that had had Jason's hand run through it many times lately, partially out of stress but mostly out of longing. He had been in New York City the past two months hawking his company's newest product, a plastic that is environmentally-safe and biodegradable. Although he was winning over clients left and right, the hotel he stayed in was no comfort to him. Despite it's placement on the 75th floor of one of the most elegant hotels in Manhattan, nothing compared to the sweet, warm feeling of being at home with his fiance, Natalie.
He had proposed to her six months ago, and a week before finding out about the trip. Expecting this news to be met with tears and anger, Jason was surprised to find that his soon-to-be wife was more than understanding.
"I'll be here when you come back," was all Natalie said as she grazed his cheek.
Jason took these words to New York with him, thinking them over as he looked at the skyline. Though they made him smile as well as tear up, he thought of Natalie often. She was his emotional parachute after his father died and he lost his job two years ago. Without her, Jason was certain, he would have fallen to depths he could not fathom. With Natalie's support and caring nature, Jason recovered from his sorrow and self-pity and found a job at H&U Inc., the aforementioned plastics company.
These days, his life was together. He had survived two months without the love of his life, and now all that stood between him and her were 20 miles of empty roads.
The country roads at night would pose an ominous threat to most city drivers, but Jason had taken this route hundreds of times. He knew the way from the airport to the house by heart: A left bank, a right, a straight shot, a hard right turn, then a final straight shot home. It was all a matter of keeping your eyes open for rogue deer, although most were asleep by now, and not becoming hypnotized by the driving.
Jason decided that he would throw the high-beams on, as there didn't appear to be any oncoming traffic as far as he could see. With the flip of the switch, his car emitted a power blast of light that shone on trees well over a mile away. Jason was occupied with his mind again, thinking of Natalie. He began thinking of what to do once they were together again. Whether to hug her tight, or kiss her straight off, or just lie down with her and stare into each other's eyes all night. He couldn't help but want to do all three.
He zoomed past a mile marker at 85 m.p.h., but Jason knew there were no cops patrolling these roads, and if he got caught, it was likely by someone he knew, and he could get away with it without a problem. He eased up as he reached his first mental checkpoint, the left bank. The high rock face on the right side of the road was awe-inspiring during the day, but at night, it proved to be nothing more than a wall that was partially lit up by car lights. With the left bank behind him, Jason kicked it up to 90, but then had to ease up once again as the right bank came along.
Then he hit the danger zone, the 10-mile straight shot. Jason knew many people, including his best buddy, Arnold, who had dozed off behind the wheel due to the sheer lack of will it took to drive. Arnold was lucky enough to hit a soft spot in a ditch and suffered only a cut on the head and a hefty mechanic's bill. Even though this was like a real-life PSA to Jason, he couldn't slow down now, not with Natalie so close. He began thinking about what her reaction would be when he returned. Would she just smile that smile that made him smile back or would she scream with glee at his grand return? Jason knew whatever she did, he would cry at it. He missed her so much he pressed the gas peddle unconsciously, boosting his speed to 95.
The positive aspect of this long stretch was that it gave those with good imaginations a chance to run wild. Jason took advantage of this opportunity and began planning his first outing with Natalie after he got back. He'd take her out to that Italian place they don't go to often enough, Patenero's, and she could get the most expensive wine on the menu. They would go for a stroll along the lake, and if it got cold, he'd have his jacket right there for her, and at a moment's notice, it would be draped over her shoulders along with his arm. They would drive home and smile at each other every five seconds and laugh every time they did it. Then they'd walk in the door of their home and...
A chill was sent through Jason. The shock from this sudden cold made his heart beat faster and he zipped up his coat a little bit. The heat was on, the windows were up, there should have been no reason for such a feeling. The thought of this made Jason a little edgy, as his attempts to continue thinking of his perfect date were stifled in trying to figure out where this chill came from. Jason was without an answer, but didn't mind suddenly as he realized the straight shot was coming to an end and the hard right bank was on its way. He quickly began applying pressure to the brake, going as slow as 55 before leveling off. He began prepping for the turn when he caught sight of a deer on the side of the road.
The deer, as the phrase applies here, was caught in his headlights of Jason's car. The eyes of this deer locked with Jason's, and from that point on, they could not be detached. Though well away from Jason, he could see the bright blue surrounding the shrinking pupils of the deer. They were majestic, as if looking into the face of God, Jason couldn't break away. His mind shut off and his breathing was at a standstill. He and the deer stood still in time, it seemed, while the whole world continued to go on. Without even knowing it, Jason's body was still driving the car and had successfully managed the turn and left the deer behind. All at once, Jason blinked rapidly and took in a deep, desperate breath, as if he had just been held underwater for a length of time. That chill from before was nothing to what he felt now. Jason was shivering uncontrollably, as if having taken a December dive in Superior. His hand, shaking with vigor, grabbed hold of the A/C knob and cranked it to its warmest settings. But before it could even kick in, the cold went away, as if a blanket of ice had been lifted from Jason's body.
Jason, for the first time in his life, was genuinely frightened. But even with all this going on in his head, he realized something else was wrong. He should be looking at a sign right now reading, "Welcome to Kulla, Michigan", the sign letting him now he was back home. Jason looked as far off into the distance as his eyes would let him, but all he could see was a straight road. Not the straight road he was accustomed to after making that turn, though. This one featured no signs on the side of the road or late night cafe lights shining in the distance. This road was similar to the one just taken by Jason, identical even. Jason couldn't accept that, it was impossible. He drove faster, as if frustrated by these occurrences. He was hitting 80 when his brights caught the glimpse of an oncoming turn, a hard right.
Jason hit the brakes with a force that jolted him forward a bit. When his speedometer read a steady 60, he let go of the brake. Then he felt the presence of the deer again, as if it were watching him intently from only inches away. His head kept facing forward, but his eyes looked left, searching for the deer. Sure enough, it was there again, caught in the bright lights he shone at it. The connection between their eyes was made again, leaving Jason speechless. He didn't think anymore in sentences when looking into the huge orbs of this creature, merely coming up with words in his mind. "Away", "can't", "turn", "cold", and "Natalie" were just some of the things his brain was able to produce. This animal, with it's gaze, was haunting to Jason. It was as if he were seeing a ghost. Again, his body made the turn while his mind was taken by the deer. And once out of sight of it, Jason gasped for air again, blinking over and over, but the regaining of control of his breathing came later than last time. Then the feeling of that descending chill from his skin to his bones came back, worse than before. It was subarctic in his car, he couldn't even move out of fear that his bones would snap like icicles.
But it all went away, just like before, and Jason regained heat. But as he basked in this momentary warmth, it occurred to him that he was back, back on the straight road. He slammed on the brakes with all his might until it finally came to a dead standstill. Was he going crazy? Hallucinating? Had he died and this was some sick dream of the dead? Jason went through these possibilities and ones even more insane until he couldn't think of any more. Curse words from A-Z flew out of Jason's mouth without any breaks in between. If he was crazy, he was about to make himself sane again, he decided. Jason was becoming frustrated, to the point where he was punching the steering wheel. A range of emotions were flooding Jason, and his predicament was sending him into a flurry. He hit the gas in his moment of rage and went head on. 10...40...80...110...Jason was hitting the breaking point of his car, as evidenced by the excessive rumbling. But he pressed on, the turn was right in sight.
Jason closed his eyes shut, to the point where it actually hurt, but he dared not open them, he didn't want to see that deer. He was legitimately afraid to see it again. There was no plan here, he just drove, fast and forward, into the trees he went. Like an explosion of light, Jason saw a flash of the deer in his mind. It was burned in there, seared in, and Jason felt a pain from it. He grabbed his forehead at the sharp blow to his head he felt from this vision, causing him to open his eyes as wide as possible. All he could see was a white light blinding him, and he prepared for the car to slam into something any second.
But the light faded, and he felt the ground moving beneath him. The familiarity of driving returned, but did not comfort him.
Miles and miles and miles of straight road lie ahead of him, and all there was left to do was cry.
Jason stopped the car and put his head on the wheel, defeated. All this had happened so fast, the strangeness of it all, that he was overwhelmed. What was going on? He couldn't even think at this point, he just let loose tear upon tear on the steering wheel, which dripped on his seat. He slammed his fist on the dashboard repeatedly, not stopping to notice he was beginning to bleed from it.
After what he believed to be half an hour, he looked up and out the window. The high beams, ever so brightly lit up the road he could not pass. After so much of it, Jason just stared, without emotion now, down the road. But deep in the recesses of his mind, Jason had a plan. It was primitive in it's scope, but it was all he could conjure up at the moment. So he unbuckled his seat belt and got out of the car, not bothering to even turn it off.
He walked. For the first mile, Jason trudged through the brisk night, with one single thought in his mind. But soon enough, he began to run down the road. Guided by the light he ran with all his remaining energy. His legs began to buckle, and his breath ran short, but he only pushed harder then. Tears ran down Jason's face from the cold, unforgiving wind sweeping across the road. Finally to the point of collapse, he dropped down to his knees, exhausted. And as he took deep breath after deep breath, spitting in between. This is when he finally noticed the blood pouring from his hand. It was then that he heard the clicks of footsteps nearing him as he laid helpless on the icy concrete.
Jason moved his head to get a view of what he already knew was there. The deer, in all its majesty, moved in on Jason, when the eyes met again.
Like ice water flowing through his veins, the eyes of the deer gave him a chilling pain that was absolute torture. Jason had nowhere to go, and yet he been so close to where had wanted to be. Again and again, so close, and having to face the pain of almost being with her, his love, Natalie, was worse than death. He couldn't speak, didn't dare try, and yet Jason was able to mouth the words he longed to scream, "Natalie...please."
At this, the pain left, and Jason could think once more. The presence of the deer was gone, no more eyes were being laid upon him, and best yet, he could breathe normally. But he felt that rumbling, that acceleration, of being back in the car, hitting top speeds. How did he...it was useless to think anymore. Jason hit the brakes and got out of the car again, but didn't bother walking or running, he just screamed. He screamed until his throat felt like it would rip, and he just yelled for her, his one and only love, Natalie. Over and over, he yelled her name. Through the voice cracks and burning tears, he yelled her name. He was trapped, alone, without her. But he couldn't do it forever, and he dropped down on his knees once more, in self defeat. He couldn't get back to her, even though she was so close, so damn close it made him want to throw himself in the woods and die there.
With his face in his hands, and knees on the ground, Jason cried. The thought of never seeing Natalie ever again, the meaning in his life, was too much to bear. He could only wish to hug Natalie and feel her warmth again. He begged to have her arms around him one more time, just one more time...
A soothing lamp light made Jason squint. A feeling of confusion swept over him, wondering where he was and how he got there. He jumped out of bed and threw himself toward the window, and suddenly back when he glimpsed what was outside it. Jason was looking over New York City's Times Square from his hotel room.
It was a dream....just a dream. No. A nightmare, the worst of his life. Jason rushed to the bathroom and ran his head over the cold water of the sink. It felt good, it felt real to him. He breathed a sigh of relief like no other and toweled off.
Natalie!
He grabbed his hotel phone and dialed with pianist-like precision. It rang, and it rang, and it rang. Click.
A smooth, comforting voice answered, "Hello?"
"Natalie?"
"Jason?"
...
"I love you."
"I love you too, honey. What is it?"
"I just needed to call and say that to you. Natalie, could you say what you told me before I left?"
"I'll be here when you come back."
"I love you, Natalie."
"I love you too, Jason. I'll see you tonight?"
"I'll be there. No matter what happens, I'll be there."
Click. Jason grabbed his briefcase and plane ticket, threw on his coat, and rushed out to catch the next plane out of New York to Michigan. He wouldn't be driving at night anytime soon.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Recollections of Timothy Fredericks: Founding Father
Chapter 7
From what I can remember, the room was alive with smoke, free-flowing tea, and talk of politics. The smoke was emanating from the pipes of many wigged gentlemen, the tea being poured in endless amounts by a properly dressed fellow making his rounds, and the politics concerned limiting the fundamental rights of women.
We were in Philadelphia, and the first meeting of the most prominent politicians in the land had just begun. We had been told to meet at this get-together by Thomas Jefferson, who let us pick the city to meet in. We chose Philadelphia because most of us had grown accustomed to it over the years, and the decision to meet at Benjamin Franklin's house was a group consensus. Franklin had not been particularly thrilled at this decision but alas he gave in.
"Not everybody wins in a Democracy," he quipped.
This was the gathering of what was later to be dubbed The Founding Fathers' League.
"The name was my idea," John Adams would always remark.
So here we were, the greatest political minds of our day, and yet none of us were quite sure why we were here. Jefferson had sent out invitations to all of us, we knew that much, but he was sketchy on the details.
"Perhaps it's another one of his orgies," Hamilton suggested.
This put Franklin in one of his trademark "Franklin tiffs," which consisted of him pacing around the room, arms crossed and eyes gleaming with tears. After we concluded it wasn't a famous Jeffersonian orgy (after all, where were the slaves and saddles?) we decided it must have been a political matter for which we were called to. But what about? Britain? We all thought we had a great standing relationships with the homeland, aside for some recent troop harassment, we were all quite content with our situation. Who wouldn't be? A prosperous colony protected by the greatest army the world had ever witnessed, coupled with the high influx of cheap tea, we were in Heaven. As the well-dressed man came by and poured me some of that tea, the door burst open. It was Jefferson in all his red-haired glory. We all stood at attention, except the frustrated Washington, who's teeth had fallen into his teacup.
"I beseech you to heareth my words, gentlemen," Jefferson bellowed.
Jefferson, ever the wordsmith. After Washington regained his composure, Jefferson asked us all to take a seat, for he had something important to tell us. At least, that's what we assumed. He began on about some additional troops that the King had recently sent to patrol Boston. Big deal, it happens all the time. Then Jefferson droned on and on about independence and revolution. Some of us grew impatient with this never ending lecture on liber-something. Madison was the first to crack.
"Where's the slaves!?"
Jefferson was expounded by our lack of appreciation for his declaration which he had claimed to have worked on for days. He yelled at us about how all we cared about were ourselves.
"Here here!" We cheered.
Upon hearing this, Jefferson took out his flintlock and shot a round into the ceiling, much to Franklin's disdain.
"That's authentic stucco, you ass."
The whole room had gone silent at Jefferson's outburst. The smoke settled in our pipes, the tea sat untouched, and politics were the last thing on our mind. This man was clearly insane. Jefferson berated us for what seemed like minutes on our selfish behavior and indulgence in luxuries. He obviously wasn't getting through to us, in fact, Charles Cotesworth Pinckney had actually dozed off in his seat while John Jay picked his pocket.
Then everything took a turn as Jefferson spoke words that would strike heart in the fear of any man. A sentence constructed so perfectly to scare, that no spine could resist the tingle. This is what made us all listen to Jefferson, possibly for the first time in our lives.
"You all do know that King George recently put another tax on us without representation, right?"
Patrick Henry scoffed, "On what, chicken feed?"
We laughed, oh did we laugh! Patrick Henry had always been the most reliable for a chuckle, ever since his raucous rant on the difference between White people and the French.
"You know the worst thing about the French? The French always want credit for some things they are supposed to do. A Frenchman'll brag about some stuff a normal man just does. A Frenchman'll say some stuff like 'I take care of my children.' You're supposed to you low-intelligent ninny! What kind of ignorant stuff is that!? 'I have never been to the penitentiary, sir!' What do you want, a cookie?! You're not supposed to go to the penitentiary you low expectation-having halfwit!"
We laughed for a fortnight at that. And while we scoffed away and considered Henry's brilliance, Jefferson hit us with the news that would change our lives forever.
"The tax was on tea, one-eighth pence per dram."
The scoffing stopped instantly, the upper-class chortling went dead, and Franklin passed gas. All this made for a disturbing silence.
"That's right you snobby imbeciles, your precious tea has been taxed behind your backs!"
We stood up, nearly simultaneously, and threw up our fingers in protest. We spoke at once, yelling various claims of "this cannot happen" and "how dare that George". I could only make out snippets of these protests amid the volume and confusion.
"I'll go broke entertaining all my guests!"
"What will I serve my prostitute?" (100 pounds says this is attributed to Monroe)
"What will I bathe in?"
"Hey, Pinckney's not breathing."
All these were drowned out my another Jeffersonian gunshot to the stucco ceiling. Franklin let out a whimper and the room went still again. He looked at us intensely, as if he had just had his way with Sally. Those eyes burned with something. Revolution? Lack of tea? No one in the room was sure. We knew we were thinking revolution and already we were feeling pressed by this tea tax. Those British bastards! Who do they think they are? Apparently Washington and I were on the same page.
"Here's the plan, gentlemen. We shall revolt against these barbarians of taxation. Fight against the tyranny of that King George. Jefferson, that stuff you said earlier, write it down. Just spice it up some, can you do that? Alright, we are going to get stuff done. Who in the Devil's name are they to mess with us?"
We hollered and hooted uncontrollably. To fight our homeland, to cut ties, to take on the greatest army in the world (not personally, we have citizens for that). This undertaking would be grand. No man or country shall make us pay so much for our tea. And that representation deal? Not cool. Those troops have been awfully pushy lately as well. Those red-coated demons will pay for the grievances they've caused us. Blood will spill until my cheap tea returns.
I screamed with all my heart, "TEEEEEEAAAAAAAAA!"
And that's how I remember how the Revolutionary War started.
____________________________________________________________________
ADDITIONAL HISTORICAL FACTS
-Franklin's stucco ceiling was eventually fixed by Jefferson, who felt so bad, that after Franklin died, Jefferson became President in his honor. Without acting to honor Franklin, Jefferson would not have been elected in a thousand years. [Source: My Life In Hell. Thomas Jefferson's Autobiography]
-The room was also full of Hamilton's children. He couldn't find a sitter. [Source: A Collection of Founding Fathers' Letters to the Goode Olde Babysitting Service]
-Pinckney did not die, but his heart did stop for 97 seconds. He spent the rest of his life in a bed, drooling. [Source: Guinness Book of World Records 1776 - Ugliest Man to Have Survived Myocardial Infarction]
-Washington only decided to lead the army after being tricked by Franklin into believing the post would include access to a mythological Pegasus. [Source: The Many Trickeries of Benjamin Franklin in Colonial Times]
-Jefferson had forgotten some of what he had said, and requested it be checked over and improved by the town drunk, who's name is lost to history. [Source: My Reluctant Admittances. Thomas Jefferson's Confessionals]
-Patrick Henry's "White People and The French" routine would later be read by secret history buff Chris Rock, who would modernize it in his act "Niggas vs Black People." [Source: Bigger and Blacker commentary track]
-The term "Jeffersonian" was used for the first time in this recollection, it would later be applied to things he was less popular for among his peers. These being architecture, political philosophy, and democracy. During his days, "Jeffersonian" was used by the Founding Fathers to describe an other's high level of douchebaggery or "excessive queerness". John Adam's prickness for example, had a Jeffersonian quality to it. [Source: My Life In Hell 2 - A Continuation. Thomas Jefferson' second autobiography]
-Jefferson never had an orgy in his life. That didn't stop him from spreading rumors, though. [My Sad Twisted Lies - A Further Confessional. A sequel to My Reluctant Admittances]
-Timothy Fredericks went on to become a Special Advisor during the Washington Administration. His two main contributions were his suggestion to name the capitol Washington, D.C. and the invention of crack cocaine. [Source: Recollections of Timothy Fredericks: Founding Father, Chapter 21]
From what I can remember, the room was alive with smoke, free-flowing tea, and talk of politics. The smoke was emanating from the pipes of many wigged gentlemen, the tea being poured in endless amounts by a properly dressed fellow making his rounds, and the politics concerned limiting the fundamental rights of women.
We were in Philadelphia, and the first meeting of the most prominent politicians in the land had just begun. We had been told to meet at this get-together by Thomas Jefferson, who let us pick the city to meet in. We chose Philadelphia because most of us had grown accustomed to it over the years, and the decision to meet at Benjamin Franklin's house was a group consensus. Franklin had not been particularly thrilled at this decision but alas he gave in.
"Not everybody wins in a Democracy," he quipped.
This was the gathering of what was later to be dubbed The Founding Fathers' League.
"The name was my idea," John Adams would always remark.
So here we were, the greatest political minds of our day, and yet none of us were quite sure why we were here. Jefferson had sent out invitations to all of us, we knew that much, but he was sketchy on the details.
"Perhaps it's another one of his orgies," Hamilton suggested.
This put Franklin in one of his trademark "Franklin tiffs," which consisted of him pacing around the room, arms crossed and eyes gleaming with tears. After we concluded it wasn't a famous Jeffersonian orgy (after all, where were the slaves and saddles?) we decided it must have been a political matter for which we were called to. But what about? Britain? We all thought we had a great standing relationships with the homeland, aside for some recent troop harassment, we were all quite content with our situation. Who wouldn't be? A prosperous colony protected by the greatest army the world had ever witnessed, coupled with the high influx of cheap tea, we were in Heaven. As the well-dressed man came by and poured me some of that tea, the door burst open. It was Jefferson in all his red-haired glory. We all stood at attention, except the frustrated Washington, who's teeth had fallen into his teacup.
"I beseech you to heareth my words, gentlemen," Jefferson bellowed.
Jefferson, ever the wordsmith. After Washington regained his composure, Jefferson asked us all to take a seat, for he had something important to tell us. At least, that's what we assumed. He began on about some additional troops that the King had recently sent to patrol Boston. Big deal, it happens all the time. Then Jefferson droned on and on about independence and revolution. Some of us grew impatient with this never ending lecture on liber-something. Madison was the first to crack.
"Where's the slaves!?"
Jefferson was expounded by our lack of appreciation for his declaration which he had claimed to have worked on for days. He yelled at us about how all we cared about were ourselves.
"Here here!" We cheered.
Upon hearing this, Jefferson took out his flintlock and shot a round into the ceiling, much to Franklin's disdain.
"That's authentic stucco, you ass."
The whole room had gone silent at Jefferson's outburst. The smoke settled in our pipes, the tea sat untouched, and politics were the last thing on our mind. This man was clearly insane. Jefferson berated us for what seemed like minutes on our selfish behavior and indulgence in luxuries. He obviously wasn't getting through to us, in fact, Charles Cotesworth Pinckney had actually dozed off in his seat while John Jay picked his pocket.
Then everything took a turn as Jefferson spoke words that would strike heart in the fear of any man. A sentence constructed so perfectly to scare, that no spine could resist the tingle. This is what made us all listen to Jefferson, possibly for the first time in our lives.
"You all do know that King George recently put another tax on us without representation, right?"
Patrick Henry scoffed, "On what, chicken feed?"
We laughed, oh did we laugh! Patrick Henry had always been the most reliable for a chuckle, ever since his raucous rant on the difference between White people and the French.
"You know the worst thing about the French? The French always want credit for some things they are supposed to do. A Frenchman'll brag about some stuff a normal man just does. A Frenchman'll say some stuff like 'I take care of my children.' You're supposed to you low-intelligent ninny! What kind of ignorant stuff is that!? 'I have never been to the penitentiary, sir!' What do you want, a cookie?! You're not supposed to go to the penitentiary you low expectation-having halfwit!"
We laughed for a fortnight at that. And while we scoffed away and considered Henry's brilliance, Jefferson hit us with the news that would change our lives forever.
"The tax was on tea, one-eighth pence per dram."
The scoffing stopped instantly, the upper-class chortling went dead, and Franklin passed gas. All this made for a disturbing silence.
"That's right you snobby imbeciles, your precious tea has been taxed behind your backs!"
We stood up, nearly simultaneously, and threw up our fingers in protest. We spoke at once, yelling various claims of "this cannot happen" and "how dare that George". I could only make out snippets of these protests amid the volume and confusion.
"I'll go broke entertaining all my guests!"
"What will I serve my prostitute?" (100 pounds says this is attributed to Monroe)
"What will I bathe in?"
"Hey, Pinckney's not breathing."
All these were drowned out my another Jeffersonian gunshot to the stucco ceiling. Franklin let out a whimper and the room went still again. He looked at us intensely, as if he had just had his way with Sally. Those eyes burned with something. Revolution? Lack of tea? No one in the room was sure. We knew we were thinking revolution and already we were feeling pressed by this tea tax. Those British bastards! Who do they think they are? Apparently Washington and I were on the same page.
"Here's the plan, gentlemen. We shall revolt against these barbarians of taxation. Fight against the tyranny of that King George. Jefferson, that stuff you said earlier, write it down. Just spice it up some, can you do that? Alright, we are going to get stuff done. Who in the Devil's name are they to mess with us?"
We hollered and hooted uncontrollably. To fight our homeland, to cut ties, to take on the greatest army in the world (not personally, we have citizens for that). This undertaking would be grand. No man or country shall make us pay so much for our tea. And that representation deal? Not cool. Those troops have been awfully pushy lately as well. Those red-coated demons will pay for the grievances they've caused us. Blood will spill until my cheap tea returns.
I screamed with all my heart, "TEEEEEEAAAAAAAAA!"
And that's how I remember how the Revolutionary War started.
____________________________________________________________________
ADDITIONAL HISTORICAL FACTS
-Franklin's stucco ceiling was eventually fixed by Jefferson, who felt so bad, that after Franklin died, Jefferson became President in his honor. Without acting to honor Franklin, Jefferson would not have been elected in a thousand years. [Source: My Life In Hell. Thomas Jefferson's Autobiography]
-The room was also full of Hamilton's children. He couldn't find a sitter. [Source: A Collection of Founding Fathers' Letters to the Goode Olde Babysitting Service]
-Pinckney did not die, but his heart did stop for 97 seconds. He spent the rest of his life in a bed, drooling. [Source: Guinness Book of World Records 1776 - Ugliest Man to Have Survived Myocardial Infarction]
-Washington only decided to lead the army after being tricked by Franklin into believing the post would include access to a mythological Pegasus. [Source: The Many Trickeries of Benjamin Franklin in Colonial Times]
-Jefferson had forgotten some of what he had said, and requested it be checked over and improved by the town drunk, who's name is lost to history. [Source: My Reluctant Admittances. Thomas Jefferson's Confessionals]
-Patrick Henry's "White People and The French" routine would later be read by secret history buff Chris Rock, who would modernize it in his act "Niggas vs Black People." [Source: Bigger and Blacker commentary track]
-The term "Jeffersonian" was used for the first time in this recollection, it would later be applied to things he was less popular for among his peers. These being architecture, political philosophy, and democracy. During his days, "Jeffersonian" was used by the Founding Fathers to describe an other's high level of douchebaggery or "excessive queerness". John Adam's prickness for example, had a Jeffersonian quality to it. [Source: My Life In Hell 2 - A Continuation. Thomas Jefferson' second autobiography]
-Jefferson never had an orgy in his life. That didn't stop him from spreading rumors, though. [My Sad Twisted Lies - A Further Confessional. A sequel to My Reluctant Admittances]
-Timothy Fredericks went on to become a Special Advisor during the Washington Administration. His two main contributions were his suggestion to name the capitol Washington, D.C. and the invention of crack cocaine. [Source: Recollections of Timothy Fredericks: Founding Father, Chapter 21]
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