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the-iyan · 1 year

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The Futile Climbing

Hi there, this is a story. It's written by the author known as T. Belfry. Tumblr has completely fucked the formatting so mind the odd indentations and messy paragraph placement. For a full reading see my Instagram @Nimnat Hope you enjoy!

Another key component of civilian public espionage that gets overlooked too many times is cacophonology. It’s like if the Charleston and the Yemenite Step found Skanking and Metaphysics alone at a party. And all four had a tumble between the sheets. Now to be perfectly fair to my fellow investi-Gators. I personally only learned it after I left the nation's elongated nipple.

I was at this home away from home in Rhode Island called the “Floating Floridian New England Barge&Gill”. I wasn’t fully licensed yet see, I had fled the state awaiting the Florida Department of Agriculture and Consumer Services Division of Licensing decision. I’m not a superstitious type, but I have found all clerical matters work swimmingly well so long as I’m not hanging around when it’s done.

Granted I’m not this place’s usual clientele. After the deceptively dingy dock was a dense forest of tulip tree tall and red wood-wide people. Thick layers of flannel, vinyl and denim so intricate Theseus himself would be left without a clue. I was like morning fog on the forest floor, slipping and sliding through angry leather work boots.

“Hi welcome to Floating Floridian New England Barge&Gill what can I get started for you today?” Mark practically growled at me. I let go of his leg and stood up.

“Sorry, Marp. Can I get food at the bar too?” I read his name tag wrong, so I thought his name was Marp.

“The bar’s closed, it’s 3 something in the morning. But if you’d like a table I could-”

“Say Marp, could I sit at the bar?”

“I just told you it’s closed. We aren't serving alcohol.”

“I know. Can I have a seat, at the bar?” Mark looked annoyed and confused.

“I’d still like just food Marp, I would just like it at the bar.”

I was attempting to clarify but I see in retrospect how that comes off as extremely condescending. Which explains how poorly Mark and I get along at first.

“What can I get you?” Behind Mark was a brick wall, with shelves cut into the material.

There was a metal gate over the booze, but you could see colors shimmering through. The place was lit with deep orange lights. All the noise and faces reflected off the bright bottles like demons hiding in flames. But the spirits inside were liquid glass, catching flickers and dancing with them.

“What do you boil your fries in?” I asked.

“Our fires?” he stopped filling my glass with sparkling water.

“Yeah, what oil? Do you use?”

“I don’t know.”

“Could you ask? Please?”

Mark left my cup half full. Which was an inconvenience because I actually was feeling quite thirsty. I saw my reflection in one of the bottles for a moment.

He didn’t blink. Two oily black eyes begging for a swim. His face was a dark mossy green. Thick hair flowed from his face like a hipster Jesus.

“Who are you?” The face didn’t say it with me. So, I knew it wasn’t mine at least.

He mouthed something. It must’ve been meaningful because he seemed very sorry to say it.

“I can’t hear you; can you hear me?”

He mouthed it again. Wherever he was it had the worst reception I have ever seen.

“We use peanut oil.” Mark came back.

“Thank you Marp! Can I have the endless fried shrimp and basket of fries hold the shrimp?”

“So you just went the fires?”

“Exactamundo Marp my friend.” I handed him the laminated menu with a smile. “And hold the ketchup!” I brought my vegan ketchup.

“What are you doing here?” Mark almost slammed the pitcher into the table.

“What am I doi-”

“Yeah!? You just ordered the fucking shrimp no shrimp.”

“I only wanted the fries. And I thought-”

“Dumbass there are no fires! There is no shrimp! This is a front. For drugs. Are you here. To buy drugs!”

“Oh! No, I’m good for now Marp. Not a lot of money so, water for me I guess.” I took a sip of my sparkling water, which he still hadn’t finished pouring.

“It’s $20 a glass. And my name Is Mark.” Mark began to walk away.

“Wait, why? Wait is this a full glass!? Why didn’t you ask me if I wanted any?” I despertly reached for his pitcher but my hands could not hook it before he left.

It was then that I noticed my glass was not only not filled all the way, but it’d seem someone had dropped an alka seltzer in my drink. Now don’t get me wrong here, I don’t just go around drinking any fizzy drink in sight. But you’ve got to understand my reasoning. That was a $20 glass of water, I didn’t wanna waste it.

How to know if you’re tripping 1.0.1

How do things feel? Touch memory always goes first for me. You know that feeling where you know you have been touched or have touched something. But the moment that sensation stops it feels like it never happened. I always check that first by touching my face. But this could also be the effect of a mild stroke so next.

How do things sound? Listen to some music and focus on that feeling. If it has depth of sound, rich tonality, and a smooth melody you may be high. When you lose your sense of self and environment, your appreciation for music skyrockets. But you could also just be listening to ELO. Or the Beach Boys.

III

How do you think? The final test requires a mirror or any reflecting surface, in my case it was a champagne bottle. Look at your face and think. Do I feel high? If the answer is yes, you may actually be high. If you said no? You’re hurling through space bud.

I have a fuzzy recollection of what happened next. I fought a dinosaur, killed a bee, stung a guy, and paid some lady to tail my ex for a month. But in either case I awoke at a dennies with a half-eaten plate of fries, and some vegan ketchup. My large pink shirt and green cargo shorts got replaced with a mankini, a constructor hat and three-piece shirt. My phone started to ring.

“Ahoy?” I used to answer the phone like a dick.

“Private dic for higher how may I help you?” I scooped cold fries into my mouth and listened through my chewing. From what I could make out, it was a companion of mine. She was calling to make sure I was ready for cycling that evening.

“Oh, absolutely I’m just having breakfast now.” She seemed confused by that answer, as it was sunset not rise. But I didn’t know that yet. I also had not known I was going cycling with her that evening. Apparently, somewhere in my stooper I had promised her I was going.

I swallowed my very cold fries and ran out of the door after leaving a 200% tip. I was met with an angry horde of people in the parking lot. All of whom had an issue with my ear bleeding solo singing to Dull Citrus. They told me so. In one sentence. In unison.

I sat outside in long white gym shorts and a green T-shirt. I have a collection of civilian clothes I had to raid to source the outfit though. She pulled in, we exchanged pleasantries and off we went to stationary bike rides.

Imagine a median the width of a house, that’s the city. Tall rectangular buildings on long rectangular blocks. With tight thin veins moving cars around like ants. Nestled amongst the grey and black was a little white corner with orange lights. Almost like a reverse orange. There was a large deep orange “1917” on the glass doors taller than Goliath and built for him judging by the heft of it. I had to dig my heels into the brick just to move it a sliver.

“Welcome to CycleTsar on Gee Ilses Rd. How can I help you?” She was the single most beautiful human I had ever seen. Her smile was lightning to my spine and her eyes melted you with warmth and kindness. In front of her reflection was the concierge who resembled an accountant in gym clothes. Nice, but accountant so.

“Yeah, we’re here for the...excuse me are those peppermint?” My companion took over while I stared at the glass mouth filled with loose mints. Not individually wrapped peppermints, not loose mint leaves. Just plain unwrapped mints in a bowl shaped like a mouth. I think I even saw stray hair in there somewhere.

“What size sir?” She was the size of a mollusk leaning on a rack of shoes that was so long it disappeared over the horizon.

“Do you have 13, men?” It’s very important to specify that point. Why can't there just be one system for all size feet? Who the hell knows. She rolled her eyes and started the trek down the rack. I looked around for my companion, but she disappeared somewhere.

“Here you go.” The shoes she was holding were almost pointed with a thick metal tooth on the bottom. But I was afraid she would ask for a tip, so I grabbed them and rushed down a hellish orange hallway to catch up with the only reason here. Who was laughing and talking with a group of sweaty toned statues calling themselves people.

The room was half window half brick façade. Against the window the company had provided small lockers under a row of benches. Against the wall were teas, lemonades, and water. Free, I assumed. There were a handful of us there. 18 total Not including myself. She had found herself the topic of conversation for three of them.

“Have you tried hot yoga here? The teache-” He was a young Idris Elba in neon green tanktop and white joggers. The man looked like he could bend a car.

“You should absolutely see my tattoo artist sh-” It would be unfair to describe this woman as anything but in peak human condition. Her eyes could draw real blood and her arms looked as dense as a neutron star.

“Do your shoes have Velcro too?” I was sitting down struggling to untie my own shoes.

As I struggled, and got a larger pair, the crowddispersed into a side room. Meaning we were standing alone essentially.

“I’m heading in. It’s going to be fun.” she smiled and headed into the abyss. I touched my face as I followed behind. The door gave way to an empty blackness for three seconds. Then a blinding white. To my right was a concave mirror 10 feet high and the length of the room. To my left was a similarly shaped set of steps. A good three feet wide at each level. It resembled a cheap theater, with just as high ceilings. The chairs were futuristic white exercise bikes, and our star was hidden in a cloak of white light. She seemed to know where she was going because she led me to the only two empty bikes in the room.

“How we feeling tonight!?” The lights immediately changed to a deep blood red orange. Her voice seemed to be coming from within my ears. I had just managed to get on the bike, while everyone was already fiddling with the resistance.

“Okay everyone straps in and let’s go!” The lights started to strobe the rainbow and basic rock started playing at full volume.

“Ride with that rhythm y’all!” I fumbled to start peddling along with everyone. Was I the only one who didn’t get ready in mere milliseconds? I must’ve been there because to my left she was smiling and looking at everyone. She seemed to be having fun so fuck it I thought. I sped up.

“I want to thank you all for coming out on a Tuesday no less. You know we all struggle to get out of bed and get that routine going guys but you know what you did it you’re here for 45 and we only just started!” I want you to know that’s how she said that. No commas, just one long unbroken breath.

“Wait 45?” I mumbled under my breath, which was struggling to exist in the first place.

“Let’s go up our first hill now come on!”

I looked dead ahead to my own reflection. I don’t own a mirror in my personal life so seeing it is always an interesting affair. I was revolting. A round red face frowning at nothing. But then it hit me. My side started to burn. Next my lungs, finally my mouth tasted like blood. While concerning for you I’m sure, for me this is just the price for health. However, if I didn’t slow down a bit to adjust my seat I wouldn’t be going for very long.

“And as we start to feel that burn, I’d like to take a moment to slow down a bit and talk about my dad”

It was very sweet, her monologue about her father. It was set to the tune of a remix of Dream On. Not what I would’ve chosen mind you. Though let’s be fair at the moment my vision started to go a bit purple to spite the green room. Also, Steven Tyler’s voice started to visualize in my mind as a cel-shaded man singing in a rainy oblivion.

“Hi Steven Tyler.” I thought. As I did, little Steven Tyler in my mind twirled, and the rain dissipated into a deep fog. Water Song started playing, Lil’Tyler sang along as he painted on a canvas he had. Opening my eyes, I was met with everyone else waving their hands and singing a completely different song.

“I want everyone now to think about someone in your life who motivates you. No, I want you to think about your fathers. We’re getting so close to Father's Day that I just want to-”

Frankly I stopped listening. Because reality was steadily sliding out of my view and a dark blank nothingness was replacing it. I looked at my reflection to make sure my eyelids hadn't simply given up but no, they were wide open.

In the black I peddled in now silence for what felt for an hour. Then suddenly an explosion of pinks and blues infested outward like a neural pattern. I glided over branch-by-branch dodging knobbles of immense heat. The peddles slowly got heavier and heavier. Until one of them slipped from under my foot. I stopped and looked at the offending side

My shoe was replaced with birds' eye view of an empty lot. Which I was also now standing in. I can’t explain it better than that. But there I was. Amongst broken foundations and half constructed walls for an acre. I picked up a smooth looking pebble then felt a hand on my foot.

“Do you need help with that?"

The concierge was kneeling at my side holding my foot like a pigeon with a broken wing. I nodded and she helped guide the metal tooth on my shoe into the peddle. Which she also apparently had done for my right foot. When she was done, I could peddle as fast as everyone else in the room. Before I could celebrate, I heard it.

The music cut. And a semi-robotic voice started. Find me it sang. Not nursery rhyme sing, more chant singing. I looked around but no one was speaking. My companion was smiling and laughing with the group on the other side of the room. The instructor was demonstrating a breathing technique. But no one spoke.

I finally checked the mirror to make sure it wasn’t me making an ass of myself and there they were.

12:30

Before anything I noticed the nose first, red as if they’d been standing in the cold. Then eyes like a wild animal in a mania. They had an eruption of blonde hair that bounced as they sang. Smiling and yelling it was an alluring sight, as if this silent serenade was just for me. The figure became clearer in the mirror as my reflection faded. I couldn’t hear but they sounded so excited to offer me their hand and wave me into the mirror with them. I wanted to take it.

Behind them was a gilded path through a tunnel of white lit trees. People laughing, crying, running through the mirror embracing as they went. I could feel an immense warmth when I saw them offer it to me. I felt part of something whole. I felt wanted, needed, and welcomed. There's so much to learn and so much to do and all it would take is to grab that hand.

11:15

“Doing, okay?”

I felt the warmth of her hand and looked to my left. She was yelling over the third AC/DC song and her second water break. I said yes, she smiled and continued riding. I looked into the mirror only to be disappointed by myself once more.

9:40

“Just under 10 minutes now, I want us to lean in and ride this one through.”

Hey Jude, was replaced with Day in the Life and the cusp of ass cheeks were already bruised and begging to stop. But I had to keep going. I had no idea how well I had been doing throughout this entire session. But I owed it to my companion and my own money to give the most I could these last few minutes. I had found my motivation I thought.

“Don’t you want to push yourself?” Everyone agreed but me it seemed. Because they all chanted yes, and I couldn’t catch my breath.

“Come on you got this; it isn’t that bad push through it!” I know this was said as encouragement, but it just served to make my already herculean task of keeping up that much more humiliating. Just then the lights went red.

“Feel all that good energy out there ya'll.” The room was now being lit by some ground lights I had not seen. But in my current state it made the floor look like a river of blood.

“We got-” Then it got hot out of fucking nowhere. My shirt was a good three pounds heavier than it was when I arrived. It was then I noticed the souls of my feet had been sewn into the plastic pedals all along.

“You’re not even trying? Do you take anything seriously?” That was all I heard as the walls melted into the steel belly of a furnace. My lungs had started to dry.

“Welcome to hell. You deserve to be tortured and driven mad for your sins!” I was peddling away as my bike slowly sank into the boiling stew of blood. Above me flew a winged beast which took the phase of everyone I had ever loved. Its neck was long and hairy, leading to a kiwi sized body and bloodied wings. It spit a tooth at me.

00:00

“I wish I had remembered a cool down song I’m sorry y’all. We’ll just slow it down with some Men at Work here”

I slowly got off my bike and funneled out to the locker room with everyone else. Having lost 20% of my body weight in sweat alone.

I stood alone struggling to remove my shoes from the small locker when I saw my companion talking with the group from before. Even the concierge joined in the merriment. Mr. Elba was hosting some sort of post work out stretch at his place and half of the class was going. I would have known more details but that was about when I stumbled and knocked over the lemonade jug.

Sticky, sweaty, and severely dehydrated we left and headed to drop me off. I didn’t say much on the way. Half from the exhaustion half from the lack of conversational awareness. I was glad I went though, it’s important to be healthy.

We parted ways, she went to join up with the rest of them, I to my solitude. I walked into my room, I sat and rested my poor feet. Thinking over the events I came to a sobering conclusion. No matter what transpires, at the end of the day, I will always come home alone.

#writing #short story #creative writing #fiction #nonfiction #slipstream #surreal #absurd #lonelly #When logic and proportion have fallen sloppy dead

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the-iyan · 1 year

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At the Peak

I never wanted to be a PI you see. Back in my youth I’d tell you I was born to be a spaceman. But dreams change over time and boom, before you know it, you're applying for your license at the Florida Department of Agriculture and Consumer Services Division of Licensing. I suppose it’s because I was a lonely kid. Didn't much care for the other boys you see, not that they cared much for me either. So, the idea of finding people for a living just scratched that itch at the back of my psyche. That and my brief stint as an anarchist where I stalked and spied on certain members of the Floridian legislative branch who shall for now remain unnamed. Made the job more than fulfilling.

I have a very specific style, see the other dicks have it all backwards. We as people go about our days in a nonchalant slow-motion tango. Twisting and spinning into each other's collective lives before disappearing into the fog of ambiguity once more. My fellow private eyes are out here standing in the middle of the dance floor. To me being in public places means to be a public figure. If everyone is focused on you nobody is worrying about who is focusing on them. I’m no spectacle of course, just more laxed and hedonistic. A frowned upon lifestyle which I can use to my advantage.

It’d be advantageous for anyone thinking of joining my profession to have an established set of ethics and conduct. But treat these ethical guides more as a budget than a limit. Pushing yourself to the very limits when necessary. I recommend sitting down and considering these 5 ethical conundrums to get started.

You have not eaten since the day before. Walking through an empty mall on your lunch break you notice in the fountain there is $6.97 in coins, the exact price of your favorite sandwich from the local deli including tax. You also know that money is collected and donated to an Ornithological Research Scholarship. Do you take the money? Why or why not?

During a normal day’s investigation, a bystander asks you for a light as you wait for the bus. They are wearing the garb and headwear of a local cult. Which you also know to be highly abusive and controlling towards its members. One of their beliefs being that smoking is highly corrosive to the soul. And doing so means three weeks of fasting where most perish. Do you deconvert this stranger before their bus arrives? Do you actively refuse your lighter? Do you light their cigarette? Why or why not?

Your subject goes into a public bathroom. After some time, you get up and follow them into the room. But when you walk through the door you see a massive expanse in front of you. The ceiling has vanished and been replaced with a light grey cloud, the humidity is choking. Around you is a world of tiled half walls and chrome circular drains. Showers are everywhere, some in the same stall as a toilet. After exploring for half the day, you find the stall they are using. Their phone just so happens to have fallen underneath the toilet without the subject's knowledge. Do you reach for their phone? Why or why not?

Two separate clients offer you the same amount of money. But you only have time in your calendar to do one. The first client needs you to tail her soon former business partner, ideally as they gamble with company money. This would be for a week in Vegas travel and room paid for. The second client wants proof his longtime girlfriend, former soon-fiancé, is cheating. This is a bus ride away at a local mall/movie theater. The entire job would take a day tops. How do you tell the second client “no” nicely?

The target you have been paid to follow contacts you through mail. They say they know you were hired and are willing to pay you to falsify your report. Inside the envelope is a check for three times the amount that your client gave you. What do you do?

Have you gotten your answers? Because I’ll need your full attention if I am to start this story and you seem a bit distracted. I don’t want you flipping pages back and forth to read these again, okay?

Now you understand my headspace when I’m at work. These issues and paradoxical ethical traps are littered all over my profession! It brings me no great pain but boy is it a pain in my neck. I’ll give you all an example.

It was Valentine's Day. My target was a 23-year-old man. Infidelity was the accusation, and it was my job to witness it. I was not planning to do this particular one, however. See any other year and I’d be in a park dressed in a wicker hat, Hawaiian shirt, and short shorts. But I was still relatively new, and the job had subsequently broken my previous relationship. The wound was still sore after a year, so the topic of romance was touchy at best. But after a mysterious letter in the mail whose contents shall remain private, I had found my schedule open for another job.

Given the choice, always choose public transportation over private. With a car you must be focused and aware of your driving. Splitting your attention between your target and your wheel. Whereas the bus allows you the freedom to be entirely oblivious to the world around you. A privilege I was not given the liberty to utilize.

“’Scuse me sir, have a light?” He was dressed head to toe like a giant rat. I was being accosted by an absurdly large rodent holding an unlit cigarette in my face. At first, I thought I was tripping something fears, but I soon regained agency.

“It’s out of fluid.” I was lying. I don’t carry lighters.

“That’s alright” he was vaguely French from the sound of it. I didn’t like one bit about him. I had to be cautious with what I said to him.

“Do you ever think about how little we actually know ourselves?” He pulled out a lighter and lit the end of his cigarette.

“I’m sorry are you talking to me?” I turned to engage mostly to understand how he planned to smoke that through a smiling mask the size of my torso.

“Yeah like, how much of who we are has no experiential tie to the individual.”

“I don’t know man. Just waiting for my bus so-”

“Just think, the version of you that people care about, and love has absolutely nothing to do with your own ego. It is total sublimation of who you are. Becoming a haze of personality rather out of the monument to personhood you’ve constructed from what you thought was stone.”

“Okay.” I was uncertain as to why this man felt so comfortable around me. But before I could ask him, he raised the cigarette to the mouth of the mask. He took an audibly deep drag, then smoke seeped through the two big teeth. Just then the bus came.

The route was just long enough for me to go over his schedule. The client found tickets reserving movie seats at 12:30pm Feb 14th inside the subjects' jeans. He claimed to be working on this day. So here was my thinking:

I get to Target at 11, buy a new outfit and trash the one I’ve been seen in. Spend time familiarizing myself with the space. The theater is behind the complex so short walking distance.

Grab lunch at 11:30.

Buy movie ticket by 12, choose a seat sufficiently far enough away as to not be seen, but still close enough to get on camera.

Hide in dumpster to watch incoming vehicles unnoticed at 12:15.

But before I got too carried away my mousey companion poofed back into my life.

“Where do you think we are anyway? And I don’t mean where physically but where are we in here?” leaning over my shoulder his furry hand poked the temple of his rat head.

“What the fuck man? Seriously I don’t care!”

“Suit yourself I guess.” He leaned back in his chair leaving me to my peace. Until two seconds later when I had to get off the bus.

The sky was beautiful. A neon blue with paper white clouds. I find that nice days are scant in Florida, so it’s important to soak them in when they do.

Short lived was my soaking, because it was 11:15 and I was still in the clothes I wore that morning.

I ran through the open doors, shoving the empty carts strewn about the entrance. The entire store was both extremely busy and completely empty. Dense pockets of people scattered between aisles. Enclaves of young adults within thick clouds of elderly. Like lilies on a river, they all flowed with a soft current. Moving from apparel, to snacks, to contraceptives, to drinks. What I didn’t know then was that they all were coming to see the same movie as I was.

Black satin shirt, with long billowy sleeves. Blue bell-bottom jeans with brown faux leather dress boots. I couldn’t find any hats, so aviator shades had to make do. This is building an identity. Part of mt process see, I have to be at least noticed. To be seen as a person that is more distinct, and vastly different. So, if I am seen again my face may seem familiar but my personhood and demeanor will be completely foreign. Plausible deniability is the key.

Now I refuse to operate on an empty stomach. So next was lunch. I am a fan of most fruit and recommend it as a stakeout snack. Not pears of course. Pears are the spawn of Satan. For this particular mission I was going to need watermelon spears. Like pickles but sweet and soft. To drink a 2-quart carton of premade Iced Mocha Coconut Latte, and a Piña colada juice blend courtesy of Koala Lemonade. One to hydrate and one to caffeinate. But when I reached for my bladder popping ingredient I was stopped by a decrepit green hand.

Loose skin draped on bone, its nails were black and long. The arm was hairy when chunks of meat weren’t missing from underneath. At moments it wiggled and writhed from underneath with maggots and roaches. It had this horrific scent of mold and rot.

“Excuse me sonny, just didn’t see you there.” Following the arm, I was face to face with an 8-foot-tall green head. He looked like the child of Green Arrow and Guy Fawkes. His hair was almost blackish green. His pupils were black and teeth, the few he had left, matched.

“You all right bud?” I couldn’t speak. He gave me a weird look then walked away.

At 11:45 I was sitting in the men's room of the mall next to the Target; eating my watermelon and siping my drinks from the bag. The air was sour and lemony, poorly hiding crimes against the nose too horrific to fathom. The walls were a dark carpet collage of colors like the floors of old movie theaters. Lavender trim made the whole experience unenjoyable. I would go so far as to say it was the single reason for my anxiety inside that room. Let’s examine the facts I did and maybe you’ll understand.

Walls are not carpeted. It is a waste of material and quite frankly never looks good. So why of all places are they experimenting with interior design as a form of expression (in which the artist has chosen to experiment with the form of expression itself) in a bathroom?

Furthermore, the entire purpose of a bathroom is paradoxical as is! An often-public place in which you have an absolute expectation of privacy. Decorating any space like that is walking a thin line between sanitized cleanliness and warm hospitality. Did the designers of this particular bathroom simply go insane?

Which may explain the choice of carpeting as well. It was dark and murky, with greens and blues speckled between patches of purple. Such a design would camouflage stains and streaks making them harder to clean. The fabric was dense and soft, allowing it to absorb smells like a blackhole.

“That’s it!” my voice bounced from the hard checkered tile and landed in the soft carpeted wall behind Victor in the stall in front of me.

“I’m sorry?” Victor sounds like a mix between Lonny Price and Patton Oswalt.

“What’s your name stranger?” I had slipped my hand under the stall at this point, shaking it, waiting for his hand to do the same.

“I’m Victor? Can I help you?” He didn’t shake my hand, and in fact slapped it back down.

“Well Victor not really. But I think I solved the bathroom.” Victor must have been really engrossed in his task up there because my hands were able to tie his fancy leather shoes together.

“The bathroom?”

“Exactly Vic! The designers must have snapped when they built this place. It’s the only explanation.”

“What designers?”

“No no no my dear Vicar. See that was my first thought so good instinct. But if you think only of the known facts of the case and you come to a-” I had been slowly shimming up the side of his stall this entire conversation. I dropped in.

“-Stunning conclusion.” Victor yelped like a dog and fumbled to shove bags of weed inside his pockets. He had navy knee high pants and a pink polo shirt.

“Don’t tell my dad!” he dropped a wooden board and joints scattered all around our feet.

“Is that weed?” I held out my hand and he kindly put one of his little bags in my hand. I pocketed it then put my arm around him

“Yes.”

“I’m not mad about your weed Vice, but this bathroom was not a mistake. These were the very decisions that broke them. Consider the walls. What better way to subvert your artistic and functional purpose than spit in the face of the form itself? Even the floor itself is speaking to us!” I shoved Victor’s face on the floor with my own. This gave me good emphasis for my point, while allowing me to reach the joints that rolled under the stall.

“It is?” he yelped again.

“It is both part of and explaining the artist's message. At first look the tile is inherently juxtaposed with its counterpart. However, the two have switched conventional roles. As now the walls are carpeted. Yet! The very existence of this contrast is criticized in the tile itself. The black and white motif may seem to be a story of conflict, but with a deeper appreciation for the choice of medium as a mode of expression, then you see it is one of harmony. The black and the white are in fact equals. As both are needed for the checkered pattern itself”

“Who the fuck are you man!?” I had made him visibly uncomfortable by now.

“I’m a cop man” I was lying. Even as a PI, ACAB.

“Shit!” Victor was one of the cuter, but not one of the smarter men I have encountered in the bathroom.

“I’ll need an ID VD.” I opened the stall door because I was starting to feel cramped. Plus, I wanted to give the guy his space.

“I got one in my wallet hold up” he reached for his wallet and pulled out a driver license. Clearly not a PI. I took a picture of it with my phone.

“Date of birth?” I was just fucking with him at this point.

“November 7th?”

“Was that a question?”

“No.”

“What year?”

“1997.”

“Hmm. Well, this all seems to be in order. Well Victor I’m not mad about the weed. I’ll let it slide this once, but for fucks sake man you’re 25. Find a private place to do that.”

“Hey can I have my license back?” he was slowly catching on so I had to make my escape while it was still sociably acceptable to do so.

“I will be keeping that.” I started to slowly walk backwards towards the door.

“You can’t do that?” He attempted to walk after me but stumbled because someone had tied his shoes together earlier. “Wait what’s your badge number!?”

“You’re not too bright, love ya buddy see you around!” I made haste through the mall because it was already going to be 12:10 when I get the tickets.

The line wrapped itself around the building, wringing out half-drunk movie goers every hour or so. Two hit movies were released that day. The Rōbŏbitch Diary, and Down the Gullet. The first, a historical romance about the extremely raunchy lives of Aristocrats at the turn of the century. The second an aggressive delve into the explicit and experimental sex lives of two college best friends. Both had graphic and unsimulated sex scenes for different reasons. Both were not technically porn for very different reasons. Both pulled surprisingly different demographics.

Those who came to see Down the Gullet can be best described as a comfortable crowd of sex positive hipsters and post ironic critics. There were frantic discussions of about the ramifications of seeing sex commodity, genuine praise for the film as a meta commentary of its form. Debates on whether the plot was supposed to contain a meta narrative criticizing the current state of for-profit learning.

The Rōbŏbitch packs were displays of debauchery, filth, and a blatant disregard for public decency. People had tightened and cut their clothes as close as possible, I witnessed swirls of elderly all kissing and groping one another. Hair was dyed and plucked; underwear was pulled over the pants. Sometimes, going so far as to show diaper. The entire scene was unsettling to say the least.

In all fairness. You had your rogue sexual addict with a DtG shirt or a cinema loving Rōbŏbitch intellectual. These were the exceptions that proved the rule.

I was beyond late. Even if I had gotten to the theater when I attended, I’d be maybe 2 people away from the ass of the line. It was Sisyphean waiting in that line, so I plopped myself on one of the benches out front to think. I was given dirty looks from the line every time I took a swig from my carton of coffee. That was good, it means they were focusing on what I was doing and not who I was.

“I don’t think it was such a big deal honestly.” a shadow ate the sun. The coffee spilled out of my mouth when the body of an elderly woman eight miles tall descend. Her sheer black clothes were covered in a thick black cardigan and cut with a leopard print scarf the size of a highway. When she landed, the bench wailed like Giles Corey. A 60ft wave flowed through her winkled tanned skin.

“I was asked to leave 13 minutes in Ruth! All I said to her was I thought she was doing very well at her job, and you just don’t see that from people her- Hold on I’ve got to put you on hold.” I was making my way up her arm, climbing black crochet like a pirate aboard a ship’s sail.

“Can I help you young man?” She was very unhappy, but thankfully offered me her hand to stand on.

“Sorry mam, I’m supposed to be seeing my girl, but she left me for this guitarist. I don’t want to lose her, but the friendship is really eating away at my-”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“Oh, could you spare a pen? I need to sign my note to her.” This was a lie.

“I’ll see.” She had no intention of actually giving me a pen.

She dropped me and her wallet on the bench when she started to pretend to look through her purse for a pen. I got to work. Her wallet had a snap fastener the size of a beach ball made of what I can only guess was inch thick tungsten steel. After multiple full body presses, and three mysterious bone cracks, I got the sucker open. The ticket read

THEATER

Admit 1 Adult:

The Rōbŏbitch Diary

I couldn’t get the clasp to close before she finished humoring my pen request.

“Don’t have any.” she snatched her wallet from next to me, her ticket fluttered to the ground below. She checked her cash, which I could use as a bed sheet, counted then scoffed. So, I didn’t tell her.

Phase two of my new plan relied on the kindness of youth. I needed a way to get at least somewhat close to the front without pissing too many people off. Bribery would have to be the way.

“Sorry to interrupt but I seem to have forgotten my ticket.” I tapped Rio’s shoulder of a young-looking person three people from the ticket booth.

“Hey man I’m sorry to hear that but we were in the middle of a conversation here.” They were understandably annoyed with me.

“Pardon my abruptness, uh what’s your name?” I shook their hand. Looking in their eye I attempted to form a friendly connection with them. I did not notice their severe lack of left eye until then and they could see the shock in my face.

“Yeah, usually I have an eyepatch, but I didn’t want to deal with people like you calling me a pirate.” already off on a bad foot.

I wanted to point out that they were wearing a kilt and light pink crop top and that the eye patch would weirdly make them look less pirate like. Or acknowledge how they resembled the child of Audrey Hepburn and Bob Dylan, and that if anything the absence of an eye does them a favor because it made them both beautiful and unique. Maybe even coming back around to explain my shock was simply that I was not expecting someone to be missing an eye and not because I found the sight necessarily shocking. But retrospect allows freedom of thought not action.

“Look I’ll give you each a pre-rolled joint in return for just letting me stand in front of you.”

“Fuck off man.” They turned to their friend who looked nervous at the sight of the rolls.

“Rio, we are running low?” their friend pointed to an almost dry vape pen.

“Fine.” Rio took the joints and let me in front.

Phase three was not entirely thought out, things were getting close because I had 10 minutes before the film was about to start and I hadn’t even gotten in the theater.

“Welcome to Globoflicks, my name is Franklin. Down the Gullet Is currently sold out for the evening how else may I help you?” Franklin was a sad man. His eyes were too weak to pull themselves out of their eyelids. His tongue and mouth barely slung out what mumbled words he spoke.

“High ya Franky, I have a slight snafu. I was wondering if, maybe someone, you for instance, can help me?” He needed a show, and I was willing to give him one.

“What can I help you with?”

“Well, I was actually already in there maybe eight minutes ago and I came out for a smoke,” I pointed to Rio and their acquaintance. “and I already threw away my ticket so if you could just let me back in that’d be great.”

“Ticket must be shown at the door, next.” he tried to wave Rio forward but I blocked his path.

“I can prove it! Here I can tell you the exact theater and seat I was at. Even where it was in relation to the screen!” I don’t know if it was the years of minimum wage or my optimistic pursuit that broke him but his eyes suddenly jolted alive and rolled themselves awake.

“Fine what movie are you seeing?” he started typing something in his little computer.

“The Rōbŏbitch Diary for 12.”

“Can I see an ID?”

“You already checked it the first time!?” this was a lie. But if I feigned frustration, it would be more realistic. Minimum wage workers expect shitty behavior. While unfortunate it does come with advantages.

“Listen sir I have highschoolers with fake ID’s and dressing like old folks to get in either of these movies. So, if I’m helping you out, I’m seeing an ID.” I flashed him Victors ID covering the picture with my thumb.

“I’m sorry Mr. Gwin but I have a Margaret V. purchasing that seat.” his little smile filled with nostalgia for my anarcho-communist days.

“I know that’s her over there,” I sheepishly pointed to the bench woman Margaret. Who was at the time yelling over the phone about not receiving a refund for not saving her ticket. Due to her immense stature and strength the entire building shuttered at her words.

“We have a sugar momma, sugar baby thing going on here. And if you could let me watch the rest of the movie while all of, that, blows over you’d be doing me a real solid.”

Franklin let me in the theater. I had to leave Victor’s ID behind as collateral though. If I didn’t come back to pay for my ticket, we agreed he could call the police and send them to the address. I know what you’re thinking and no, don’t worry. I have not gone back to that theater for various reasons.

I wish I could say it was smooth sailing from there. I had to convince the person whose reserved seat I was sitting in, that I was with the DEA tracking a weed supplier (this was before its legalization mind you). And that I was spying on Rio and their friend who just so happened to be three aisles away from me stoned off their asses. But then the target walked in.

She was smiling when I saw her. Must have just finished laughing actually. Holding on to his arm as if it was the only thing keeping her from blowing away. Her hair was brown and fuzzy, like she had fallen from great heights. The theater was darker now, but I could tell, she was wearing her favorite light pink blouse and jean bell-bottoms. As if someone ripped her right out of the 70’s. A strange cruel coincidence because she wore the same thing when my heart was broken a year ago.

I took what pictures I could to prove I had done my job. But I threw in the towel after an hour of kissing broken up intermediately by mall exploration and occasional double entendre.

I was waiting for the bus by 4pm sharp. I wasn’t quite sure why. I told myself I had enough money now to buy myself a car and just give up this entire process. At the time I was still able to seek formal training as a criminal investigator. Thinking of my possible slip into the dark world of police work I pulled out a joint. I bit the end and started patting myself for a lighter.

“’Scuse me sir, have a light?” He was dressed head to toe like a giant rat. I was being greeted by an absurdly large rodent holding a lighter. At first, I thought I was tripping something fears, but I soon regained agency.

“Still out of fluid.” I shrugged; I was lying. I don’t carry lighters.

“That’s alright” he was vaguely French from the sound of it. I didn’t understand a thing about him. He lit the end for me, and we sat quietly for the bus. I didn’t feel alone.

#writing #short story #creative writing #fiction #nonfiction #slipstream #surreal #absurd #lonelly #When men on the chessboard get up and tell you where to go

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