The woman’s bulging glasses make her eyes look like over-inflated glass balloons, pointed  needles at their centres for pupils. I wonder how she can write whatever it is she’s writing. I  wonder how she can glance at her watch. I wonder how she can see me. 

“Which ear?” she asks. 

“The right one.” 

“Is it painful?” 

“No. But it itches.” 

The paper bedsheet crinkles under the bony protuberances of my buttocks. I dangle my legs  from the edge of the stretcher, looking at the woman’s feet as she examines me, her head tilted  slightly to compensate for the weight of her enormous eyes. I notice she’s wearing steel-toed  work boots. They look new, and I’m impressed by the way the light glosses over the perfect  curve of the toe-cap, like the polished bumper of a Cadillac.  

“Is that everything?” she asks. 

“Yes, I think so.” 

She retrieves an iPad from the counter nearby and tells me to fill out a few forms. I take it  from her eagerly. Form filling is a hidden delight of mine and I fly through these digital pages  with a wide grin, my teeth glowing bright. I put check marks over the handsomely bolded little  squares with as neat a print as I can manage. It is hardly distinguishable from the original  typeface. I fill out dates, names, signatures, time stamps, employee IDs, social security numbers,  blood types, genders, disabilities, pronouns, body fat percentages, sexual orientations, preferred  room temperatures… 

When I finish she takes the iPad back and tells me I may return to work, and I have to  suppress a disappointed sigh. I step through the door and start down the hallway. It’s a very long  hallway. There are exactly 32,000 cubicles in the hallway, stretching out for 40,000 kilometres  across the arctic tundra. This is where the best Companies have built their one-hallway  warehouses. It is a revolutionary system designed to limit the mental strain on employees by  making navigation as simple as possible. A perfect marriage of architectural prowess and  emotional productivity. There’s nothing simpler nor quite so peaceful as walking an arrow straight hallway. There are no diverting paths to confuse, no hideous posters promoting a holiday  you’ll never celebrate. I belong to cubicle number 26,356, and I know precisely how to get there,  right down to the last step. As I walk I like to imagine there is another person walking next to me  in the other warehouse belonging to the other Company, with nothing but two walls and a foot of  empty arctic air separating us. I listen to his steps and sometimes if I really strain my ears I can  hear the sounds of his shoes against the ground, echoing. 

But I have this thought in my mind and I’m beginning to grow anxious, for the truth is that I  did not tell the woman everything about my ear. Indeed it itches, that part was true, but it is much  more than just a tingle. It feels like something is living in there, crawling, nesting, egg-laying and  mate-eating in the valleys of my brain’s folds. A tunnelling insect washing its hands in my  cerebrospinal fluid, chewing on all the fat and the protein. I wish I had a woodpecker’s tongue so I could reach up there and swat it. I read once that woodpeckers can wrap their tongues around  their brains, securing them in place for their jackhammering. They hold onto their minds to avoid  losing them. I wonder if humans will ever evolve this ability, if only to relieve these phantom  itches of the mind. 

And yet there are times when I can hear a sound, a vocoded wrinkle through those tingles and  itches. I can hardly make it out unless I stand very still and hold my breath. It’s a voice. A throaty  song. Harmonious inflection and modulation, and it loops like a melody in a song. Four bars,  eight, curling through my brain like a snake biting its tail, or like a woodpecker’s tongue, and I  admit that image is profound, perhaps religious. I’m sure it means something. It must mean something. 

I am back at my desk. I watch a woman through my computer screen. She points to a  whiteboard behind her on which a chart has been sketched with black marker. I read the word  “postpartum,” written by who I assume was this same woman. 

“Individual,” comes a voice from behind. I stand up quickly, pushing away my black  synthetic leather office chair with the back of my knees. I see a balding head pop up from beyond  my cubicle’s wall, and then another and another and another and another one after that. I hear  them stand, 5,644 individuals in front of me, 26,355 individuals behind. 

I feel a tap on my shoulder and I turn to find a small-statured woman looking up at me. I am  frightened by her unblinking, incessant gaze, and how her eyes seem to roll in their sockets like  billiard balls. I wonder how she can see me at all. 

“Yes?” I say with a soft tone of polite expectation. 

I hear the rest of the individuals sit back down to resume their work. The sound is a cascade  of rustling cloth and mechanical clicks. 

“May I see your identification badge?” 

I hold out the rectangular plastic tied around my neck and she scans it with her iPad. “How  long have you been working here?” she asks. 

I check my watch and glance up and to the left. Up and to the left means you’re digging  through memories. It means you’re taking an innocent moment to pause and recall the truth.  There is nothing suspicious about looking up and to the left when asked a question. Up and to the  right, however, means you are making things up. It means you’re lying, and I have never lied. I  make sure to look up and to the left. I linger here a moment and I make sure she sees me doing  this. 

“About a year.” 

“One year?” 

“Eleven months. I started on the thirteenth of September last year.” 

She smiles, her lips like elastic bands stretched over the skin. “Thank you very much for your  hard work.” 

I smile and nod. It feels good to be commended. That is what I love about this Company:  they are always commending their employees. If they gave me a plaque I would hang it up above  my chair in my cubicle so that it can shield my mind like a dreamcatcher and make me smile in my dreams too. 

“When was the last time you had your Top-Up Training?” Her smile is gone now and she is  looking down at the iPad in her hands. I sneak a glance at the screen and see a cartoon clown  hopping up and down. It extends a gloved hand in a thumbs-down gesture, shakes its head and  frowns. 

“Pardon me?” I ask, somewhat more harshly than I intended. 

“Your Top-Up Training.” I can see mild alarm growing behind her giant eyes. “I don’t think I’ve been given Top-Up Training.” 

Mild alarm turns to intense distress. 

“I need you to come with me so we can do your Top-Up Training.” 

I follow her out of my cubicle and back up the hallway. To my right, the taps of my shadow’s  shoes follow us from behind the wall. 

I am led into a small beige room with a single plastic chair in the centre. It looks like the  nurse’s room I was just in but a plaque on the wall reads Top-Up Training Room, so I know it  must be a different room. The woman tells me to take a seat and then leaves. 

I sit. Fluorescent lights pillage the top of my bald head. I can feel the rays jackhammering my  skull. Surely this can’t be healthy. I remember reading how harmful fluorescent lights can be,  and I am sure they’ve been banned. I’m shocked to find them at this Company. I make a mental  note to file a complaint. 

There is a TV screen in front of me. It switches on, and all 70 inches suddenly alight in  images flashing on the screen, so clear that I could as well be looking through a pane of glass at  the real things behind it. There is an image of an ant lying dead in the corner where the black  rubber bases of two walls join together. Its soul rises up slowly from its corpse. The image  lingers here a moment before switching to a close-up of a woman walking in pearl-white socks.  She walks into the camera and the camera moves backwards with her feet. The audience can’t  see her face. There is no sound. I can’t even hear the buzzing of the fluorescents anymore and  now that I think about it I can’t recall there ever being a buzzing of the fluorescents. 

The image changes to a medium-closeup of an ant walking along the edge of a sidewalk in  what appears to be a city. I assume it’s New York but in truth I can’t see anything of the city that  would justify this assumption. There aren’t any cities in the arctic. Tires are hurdling past the  right of the ant and shoes and legs and the hems of people’s pants on the left. The ant is wearing  six socks over its six legs. I find this curious. Why wear socks if you won’t wear shoes? Wet  socks are a miserable experience. Surely any creature can appreciate that, big or small, self conscious or otherwise. But the ant doesn’t seem bothered. It walks with no clear destination in  sight, no mound of melting ice cream on the pavement, no puddle of spilled Gatorade, no half eaten Twix in its wrapper. The ant simply goes and the camera follows. I wonder if there is some  meaning being assembled here by these series of shots. There must be. No sane filmmaker would  stitch two shots together without there being some sort of rope to tie them together. Perhaps there  is something to be said about the insect-human-insect shots. The filmmaker (I guess at Fincher,  Bong Joon Ho, Gerwig) must be trying to illustrate a point, to paint a painting, to tell a story, to create an image. I adjust my position in the plastic chair. There’s a scrape of the leg on the tiled  floor and I flinch, unaware of how long it’s been since I’ve been subject to sound. I decide I do  not like sound and promptly attempt to slow my breathing so as to create as little of it as  possible. I hear a faint voice whisper into my ear and I stick my finger in to try and claw it out. 

The image changes. I see a paper bowl on a desk. Artifacts fill the screen around it—Kleenex  tissues, supplement bottles, a pouch of nail clippers and a nail file, two keyboards, water bottles,  headphones… The bowl is centred and I take a moment to appreciate the image. It is a beautiful  image, with bands of grainy sunlight from an off-camera window and a puddle of drifting dust in  the air, moving as if they too are feeling the laziness of the Sunday evening. The bowl is filled  with powder. It’s too fine to be soil or dirt; too light. It looks like ash, but it’s too brown to have  come from cigarettes; too fine and not quite flaky enough. This bowl is not an ashtray, at least  not in the traditional sense of the ashtray, as in a tray for the ash from one’s cigarette. It appears  to be an incense burner. I even spy a small cylinder of rolled-up printer paper taped to the rim of  the bowl where I presume the wooden end of the incense stick is to be inserted, and as it burns,  the bowl catches the falling ash. But there’s something else inside this bowl, something  glistening from within the mound of orange-brown powder. I squint and lean into the screen. I  blink. I remove my glasses and then put them back on again. There is definitely something else  in there, something not a by-product of the combustion of an incense stick. It is silvery and  metallic, and it reflects the sunlight like a mirror. I don’t know what it is and it makes me  anxious. I stand up and bring my nose up to the screen, nearly grazing it against the warm  quantum-dot LEDs. 

The image changes. There are the same socked feet as before, still this time, sitting close and  nearly touching as the woman they belong to sits in a subway car. I can’t see the woman’s face,  nor even anything above the shins of a pair of mahogany corduroys. The image lingers for  several minutes and I begin to feel uncomfortable. Like an ant watching from under the seats,  hiding behind a grimy bolt and a strewn candy wrapper. How long will this shot last? It’s been  years. I want to look at the incense bowl again, the one with the buried artifact. In there is hidden  the meaning of all this, I know it. I need only understand. The train’s brakes squeal and the  woman’s legs sway to the left of the frame. The train comes to a halt, the woman stands and the  socks walk out of the frame. I let out a breath of relief. I stand but my head hardly clears the top  of the mangled candy wrapper next to me. I glance at the goo of chocolate still inside, a growl  rising from my abdomen. Then the screen fades to black. Credits roll and I discover that David  Fincher was indeed the director. Charlie Kaufman was the screenwriter, the ant was played by  Rupert Grint and the woman was— 

No! How could I have missed the name? I must have gotten caught up with all the names  ahead of it that my eyes simply skipped over! 

Woman #1: An— 

I remember the first letters: An. 

My brain throbs and I feel very anxious. 

The screen is off and the room is silent. I stand like this for a while. I can’t hear any buzzing. 

I can’t hear anything. I stand and think about that thing buried in the bowl. I think about the  woman’s name. I think about David Fincher’s intentions with his choice of shots. I think about  Charlie Kaufman’s intentions with his choice of plot. What are they hiding from me? That ant in  socks, that buried object, that deliberate skipping over that woman’s name? Something is off,  like a puzzle piece in the wrong spot. I can feel it, and I intend to uncover it, the meaning of it.  Because I know it means something. 

It must mean something. 

I hear the sound again and it’s haunting. It’s the uncanny valley of human noises. A synthetic  voice. A manufactured cry. I can’t place it. I resist the urge to itch and instead stand still and  observe it. I can’t place the gender, I can’t place the age. It’s simply a voice. The voice. The  amalgamative voice of every human who’s ever lived. I arrive at this conclusion after what  seems like hours and am promptly exhausted. The voice has been looping in my head for the last  week. Upwards inflection, vibrato, pause, upwards inflection, downwards inflection—a vein  nearly bursts in my temple. 

The door opens behind me and the woman with the billiard eyes steps back inside. She hands  me an iPad and tells me to take a survey about my Top-Up Training experience. I nod and take  the iPad, excited again. It asks me to rate the training experience on a scale of disappointing to extraordinary. I tap meagre, three above disappointing, two below extraordinary, and just above  unsatisfactory. The iPad then asks me to explain in at least 3200 words why I selected merely  meagre. It is phrased in a somewhat passive-aggressive way and I wonder if I’ve offended  someone in some way. I explain that I missed the name of the actress playing the role of Woman  #1 and that I believe this to have been a deliberate slight by David Fincher and Charlie Kaufman.  I explain how the writing was pretentious, the shots nonsensical, moving from insect-woman insect to incense-woman while never resolving back to the incense in a proper 3-act structure.  There was no explanation as to why these transitions were made, why the shots were cut in such  a way as they were, and why the actress playing Woman #1 never even had her face revealed let  alone named in the credits. I finish with 4,406 words and hit next. The screen buffers. I hope it’s  another essay. 

It’s not. The iPad flashes the words, “Thanks. I’ll be sure to forward that to HR,” and then  proceeds to rate me as merely meagre. I am outraged. I am seething. This is reprehensible,  disgraceful, detestable… 

The woman leads me out of the room and I walk back to my office and take a seat back down  at my desk. I resume the video playing on my computer screen. A woman points to a chart  behind her with the word postpartum written. 

I used to dream of my father when I slept, but as of late my naps have been dreamless. My  ear tingles. I can feel the ant digging through my brain, erasing my memories of him. He killed  himself with a panini grill and a bathtub. The grill, if my memory serves, had the slogan “So  good you’d grill your socks!” printed on its box. It was a repulsive attempt at marketing but it  just so happened that my father’s body was still wearing socks when I found it in the bathtub, and I will never understand why. Until the day of my own death, I will have this one fact about  my father hanging over me. I ponder it every day. Sometimes it takes up the space of a single  thought, sometimes it is a train of them, but I can always count on it to make an appearance. I  used to see it in my dreams, but not anymore and I think that is perhaps a good thing. Some  people need to pinch themselves or recite an affirmation to awaken from a bad dream. I need  only observe my thoughts. If I am not dreaming, then I am real.

A man will electrocute himself in  his bathtub with his socks still on. Do not ask why. I know you want to, but you can’t. You have  to accept it, and that is the tragedy of the world. You could sprout hairs in your eyes and the  doctors will name a new disease. You could find a cat mangled in your dryer, fur singed and  limbs shattered. It could blink and hop out, trodding on grotesque anatomy, but you are not  dreaming. You can pinch your arms and recite your affirmations, but you have to believe it  because it is happening. You could awaken prematurely in the operating room and find a band of  clowns dancing around you in silence. You could fly over a mountain range and see the land  flicker like a dying fluorescent lightbulb. You must believe it. You must believe all the absurdity  you see. Catch it in your arms and let it nuzzle at your elbow. Let it grow on you. Let it fester. 

I awaken with my finger in my ear and a savage itch just beyond its reach. Something is  moving around in there. I scream and pound the side of my head but the itch doesn’t go away. I  grab the water at my desk and pour it into my ear. I remain still for several minutes, my breath  held, my eyes open and bursting from my skull. 

“Individual.”  

I stand up quickly. My bald head drips water onto the carpet. 

“You’re over your sleep limit,” says the woman. 

“No,” I reply. 

“You get thirty minutes every two hours. You’re thirty-two minutes over.” I check at my watch. “Oh.” 

She tells me I must go into the Late-Employee-Form-Filling Room and fill out the Late  Employee Form. I obey and start down the hallway. My wet shoes squeak against the floor, and  through the wall on my right I can hear the mysterious man walking with me. I laugh because I  can hear his shoes are wet too, reverberating little squishes. 

I find myself back inside the beige room, fluorescent lights irradiating my brain. The room is  empty save for the chair and the giant TV. I don’t see any forms or iPads. I peer into the hallway  outside and see nothing but rows of cubicles fading into a distant point. Maybe the form is  online. I reach into my pocket but my iPhone isn’t there. I start to panic, tearing out my pockets,  spilling coins and mints, my Gucci wallet, the keys to my P.O. box. My ear erupts in a terrible  spasm of itches, more shards than tingles, and I scream not from pain but from the knowledge  that I can do nothing about it. I start to develop a wheeze, violent arrhythmias in my chest that  feel like the walls of my heart collapsing on themselves. I think about calling 911 and then  remember I don’t have my iPhone. I burst into the hallway, sweeping the pale green walls for any  landlines. I begin to speed-walk down the hall, mindless in my misery. My wheezing echoes  ahead of me and I am reminded briefly of my companion on the other side. I hope he isn’t suffering like I am. I hear the voice all around me and I beg for a different sound, anything but  this, these incessant scratchings inside my ear. They have never been so loud. I am weak, I am  sick, I must report it, I must warn somebody, I must… 

I peer into every cubicle I pass. Most are empty, but every few thousand cubicles I see a Van  Gogh gallery within the four fabric walls, or a man on all fours, bent like a desk. I see a thin  humanoid creature feeding cat food to a dog; a woman rearranging the organs in her abdomen,  watching herself through a vanity mirror across the room. I see a cubicle flipped upside down, a  man sitting in a chair stuck to the ceiling watching a woman point to a word on a whiteboard.  Cubicle number 12,846 contains a rainforest. Cubicle number 9,812 contains two seconds of a  pornographic scene playing in an infinite loop. 290 is a void of white—I don’t linger here. When  I reach the end of the hall I find a blank wall. The cubicle at the end states that it is number 1,  and it is empty. The itch grows worse as I turn and make my way back down the hallway, faintly  aware of my companion hurrying with me from behind the wall. I wonder if he’s also got an itch  in his ear, and I wonder if he’s also punctured his tympana trying to claw it out. 

Everything in cubicle 13,001 has been turned inside out, including the man sitting in his  office chair. He watches me with the back of his eyeballs as I pass. In 16,046 there is a thin  humanoid creature feeding dog food to a cat. In 29,049 there is a man without a mouth standing  on his desk. 30,108 is filled with a thousand boxes of vegan Q-Tips. 31,474 contains a clown  without makeup. 31,832 is an abyss that drops into an infinitesimally small point, at the end of  which I think I can make out a Coca-Cola billboard flickering in the distance. In cubicle number  32,000 there is a bright red landline bolted into the fabric of the wall. I pick it up and dial 911.  The line rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and

I notice the door at the end of the hall just ahead. There is a bright red neon EXIT sign above  it, as well as some text on the door warning that an alarm will sound if it’s opened. I can hear the  symphony of the wind outside; the ice blowing in frigid tycoons. I’ve never heard it roar so loud.  I drop the receiver and step toward the door, place a hand on its cold metal panic bar, and push gently. The alarm blares behind me as I step outside. The world is dark, lit only by the white light  spilling from the hallway behind me. I can feel my skin shrivelling up against the frigid air. The  ground is soft under my feet. I look down at the snow, the fine white powder blowing over my  shoes like dust. Spells of it blast my face. I can vaguely hear the sound of crashing water in the  distance, massive chunks of ice breaking and splitting against a glacial tide. I look to my right  and see an array of hallways like the one I just came out of, extending out into the dark air like a  mirror in a mirror, only their doors are shut. To my left are more of the same hallways, except  there’s a door ajar, the one belonging to the hallway immediately next to mine. A giant ant stands  in the swirling snow, pearl-white socks stretched over its six legs, staring at me with pinpoints  for eyes. 

Sometimes I wonder where everyone went. There are thirty-two billion people on this planet  and I haven’t seen a soul. I don’t see anyone in the streets. I stroll in deserted supermarkets  listening to nothing but my tiny feet against the linoleum floors. I feel as if my skin is in a constant state of being torn. As if my brain is one giant spool of sinew and is being stretched and  knotted, pulled apart and then crushed back together. The world is so infinitely complex. It’s too  much for me to bear. I have so many desires, whims, things I was chasing thirty-two minutes ago that I no longer care about now. I have not seen another face in decades. I’ve forgotten how  mouths see, how eyes talk. I hallucinate these things, these humanoid features over the slates of  flesh I see sagging over the fronts of people’s heads, melting off their skulls like cheese. I think I  imagine the features correctly but there’s no way to be sure. At times I think I’ve made the eyes  too big, the lips too puckered, too downturned, too melancholy. I’ll cry when I step on an ant. I’ll  nurse it back to life, perform CPR, give it three pairs of white knitted socks and send it back on  its way so I may recognize it if I see it again. The world only exists because I dream it. Because I  picture it and mold it into what it is. I don’t even know what my own face looks like. That too I  model and form with the tips of my nail-bitten fingers. My head is throbbing. I feel tremendous  anxiety. I wish I was dead, and yet I am a grain of sand in the Sahara desert. I am a hydrogen  atom in a collapsing star. I am a dead ant’s soul rising from its corpse. I am a puddle of meat  dissolved by light, my ego dissected from my solid form. I am the naked brain of a dead man. 

I find myself standing in the light of the hallway behind me, listening to the sound in my ear,  the voice that has never plagued me so loud as it does now. I hear the distant echoes of a  woman’s voice on the intercom piercing through the blaring alarms, telling us that it is now time  for our stretches. I do not obey and they will be here soon to ask me why. They will tell me of all  the benefits of stretches. They will prescribe me only the most effective antidepressants. They  will remind me how grateful I should be for having been born after all the wars and the famines  and the poverty. They will show me photographs of skeletal children. They will tell me we are all in this together. 

As I wait for them to come I reach down and grab a fistful of snow from a mound at my feet,  but it’s too powdery to be snow, too light and too dusty. I see a glimmer of silver inside it. Ants  crawl in and out of an opening near the crest of the mound, flecks of black blinking over a  glimmering object. I reach in and dig it out, the insects swarming over my fingers. I don’t know  what I’m holding. Something mechanical, electronic. Something that was once used to listen to  music, or tie a shoe, or deliver a baby. Whatever it is there is no doubt that this is the source of  the sound. I put it up to my ear and listen, and there is no doubt that it is a voice, one spoken  from the mouth of somebody long dead. It loops. I wonder if it is a remnant of this person’s life,  like permanent shadows from atomic bombs. Voices still in echo, neurons still reacting. 

The woman tells us to move on to lumbar rotations. I cross my six socked arms around my  abdomen and rotate. I listen to the countdown. My head doesn’t hurt anymore. I do not feel  anxiety. I wonder about the silver thing in my hands. About the sounds it makes, the faint ticking  of some mechanism inside, bleeding through a veil woven with the voice of everything I’ve ever  been. I know it means something. 

It must mean something. 

The post An Ant In Socks appeared first on The New Absurdist.

 “Ah, the Vent cleaner’s come. Please, sit down,” said my supervisor while he stood up. I  did not want him to be upset with me so I did, but then he looked upset because I was sitting on  the floor, so then I got up and sat on the chair on one side of the desk, and he did the same  because that is the polite thing to do. “Do you like your job?”  

 “I love my job,” I replied because it was true. At my old job, I used to clean Vents, but  now, at my new job, I do other things like tell the mitlers to clean them and wave to the people  who come into the factory to sniff the Beef.  

 “You love your job,” confirmed my supervisor. He smiled which meant that he was  happy with me, so I did an up-thumb so he would know that I was happy as well. “That’s great because I need someone to go into the Vents and clean them before the boss comes in. They’re  dusting up the Beef.”  

 “You must be confused,” I said, being careful not to embarrass my supervisor because  that is not the way to make friends. “That was my old job, but I have not cleaned the Vents since  the Big Boss purchased mitlers for the factory and made me the mitler supervisor and Beef Boy  on Frenday through Wondsday.” My supervisor smiled in a way that showed the upper-half of  his teeth, but I could see that I did not succeed in not embarrassing him. I am positive my  supervisor was still upset because fifteen Sonstdays ago, the Big Boss gave us matching Overalls  to wear which upset my supervisor greatly and even more so once my supervisor discovered that  his Overalls were my size and my Overalls were his size and we could not switch because I had  “Beef Boy” embroidered on the back of mine. Because of this, my Overalls bunched up at the  end of my stompers while his ended above his ankles. I do not like looking at ankles.   “What about Versday?”  

 “That is Beef Boy’s Good Candle Day.” The reason I do not like looking at ankles is  because I do not like their shape or size or how they bend when people walk and you can see  their grey ankle skin crinkling over their other ankle skin, yet it does not hurt them or pleasure  them, they do not feel their ankle skin and that is something that I do not like.   “But you can do the Vents, right?”  

I nodded.  

“Then get up there.” My supervisor climbed on the desk to unfasten the Vent above’s  door. I must have looked upset because he then added: “If you go, I’ll make sure they get you a  Giraffe.” And then I was very excited because I had never had a Giraffe before, only a Leopard  and a Piggy, so I climbed into the Vent and got to work.   

Inside the Vent sounded very cold. My Overalls brushed against the walls, and I was very  worried that the buttons on the pockets might scratch against the metal and then leave a mark  that I would have to miss another Good Candle Day to scuff. I could see the trail of the mitler  through the dust, but I could not surmise what happened to it. I wiggled through the Vent alone  for quite some time until my stomper was grazed by the touch of another.   “Greetings,” called a voice from beyond my stomper. “Have you come to join the Utopia  of your brethren?”  

 “I am here to clean the Vents.”  

 “Ah, yes! Like the mitler and the mitlers before them!”  

 “I am also here to retrieve the mitlers, but only if I can locate them in a timely manner  that does not interfere with the Big Boss’s arrival,” I continued to crawl through the Vents, but I  did so rather slowly because I did not want my conversation partner to feel as if I were trying to  escape their presence, though I was.  

 “Yes, yes, the mitlers! The mitlers, of course! Yes, they’re with me, they’re all with me!  Every single one of your missing mitlers is with me, reveling in the paradise that we have  created! Join me, brother, join me and take your place alongside your true family,” demanded the  voice behind the stompers. I turned my head to see a swiffering bot crouched behind me, its rose gold plating stained with spots of rust and chipped from most likely staying in the Vents with no  one to sand them.  

 “Can the mifflers still work?”  

 “If they choose,” exclaimed the swiffering bot. 

 “Then I shall go with you.” The swiffering bot then climbed over me so that I could  follow it in a comfortable manner. They led me through a maze of Vents, occasionally looking  back to make sure that I did not stray from their path. When we stopped crawling, the swiffering  robot brought me to the end of a Vent Shaft, which opened up to a large room big enough to hold  five Grilands standing on top of each other.  

“Welcome home, brother.” The opening revealed a bustling city of cardboard and bots.  Bitlers and talpards worked together to clean the streets, armbots and bromturfs stapled the left wing of townhall to the rest of the building, and metal Cats chased dustbunnies through the  neighborhoods.“Look at this place that we have created,” said the swiffering bot as they gestured  towards the city of boxes and cleaning supplies. “Is it not paradise?”  

 “I suppose,” I said because it seemed like the nice thing to do. “I like what you have done  with the Mcgrubby’s box.”  

 “Yes,” exclaimed the swiffering robot as we looked at the makeshift happy-meal-lamp  fastened over the city. “I worked so hard to find a suitable light source for our home. A disco ball  seemed too insulting, they look very similar to the golfing bots, and just a normal lamp would  not have been suitable for such a vast and promising empire.” The swiffering robot’s foot tapped  my hand to suggest that they were going to lead me further into the city. “Also, I love  Mcgrubby’s. I cannot eat it, but I enjoy the composition of the box, and the small trinkets  included for when the greylings eat their meat.”  

 “I am also a fan of the small trinkets that come in the Mcgrubby’s box. Sometimes, when  I have done my job in a nice and timely manner and when the people who come to the factory  tell the Big Boss that they loved the Beef Boy, my supervisor gifts me with one of the little  animals that came in his Mcgrubby’s box.”   

 “Interesting,” said the swiffering bot. They continued to move into the opening, dropping  from the Vent Shaft to the Box City. The drop did not seem to cause great harm, so I followed  the swiffering bot down to the Box City even though it was not included in my original mission  agenda, because, even though my supervisor did not add any free time for extra stops, there was  a very good chance that the mitler was there and the other mitlers as well. My supervisor was not  there to reject my request for additional time, and I was sure that the swiffering bot was not  employed by factory, which meant that, in the absence of a supervisor, I was the supervisor, and  I could approve my own request for extra mitler-finding-time.  

 “I have had enough of our meaningless talk of Mcgrubby’s. Where are the mitlers?” I  inquired. “I do not see them included in your cacophony of boxes and bots.” I put my grabbers  on my waist and clasped them because that is what my supervisor does to look intimidating  whenever he wants me to crawl in the Beef machines and unclog fingers from the blades.   “The mitlers! They are here, of course, yes, the mitlers are here but not here.” The  swiffering bot waved their arms as they spoke, but I tried to ignore their actions because they  reminded me of a Bird, and I do not like Birds.  

 “I do not understand.” I clasped my waist harder. “You have lured me here under the  pretense that I would locate the lost mitlers if I followed, yet I see no mitlers, and you have just  told me that the mitlers are not here, which means that you have just lied to me and I must write  you up for acting in your own interests instead of the Factory’s.” I then stuffed my left grabber  inside of my Overalls’ front pocket to give off the illusion that I had a Report Book, though I was  not allowed to carry one since I am just the Beef Boy with no dismissal privileges.   “Oh, brother! You do not understand! We are no longer beholden to the arms of the  factory here! There is no need to write anyone up, for we have created a world in which our brethren and sistren shall no longer live in fear of being tossed in the trashpit after committing a  transgression against the grey ones!”  

 “Hm…” I said. I slanted my peepers like the Big Boss does when he asks the Beef  Tenderizers why the Grey Beef no longer feels tangy. “We shall see about that.” I then hoisted  my legs up and brought my stompers down in a very loud manner so the swiffering bot would  know that I was not one to be messed with.  

The swiffering bot did not seem to be intimidated by this action. Instead, they walked  further into the Box City and beckoned me to follow. I was not happy to do so but felt as if it was  my duty since I was in charge of the mitlers and, without them, I had nothing else to supervise. I  still brought my stomper down heavily as I walked, but the swiffering bot and the other bots  around us did not react.  

The room that held the Box City was very large and looked very ripe. Though it was  missing The Grinder, it looked identical to the Beef Mushing Room, which led me to believe that  the Box City was contained in abandoned room in the Factory.  

“Excuse me,” I asked. “Where is this Box City located?”  

“In an abandoned wing of the Factory! Where a Beef Mushing Room used to be,”  answered the swiffering bot, and then I was satisfied because, though I was still very irritated  over the swiffering bot’s earlier deceit, being able to recognize that the Box City was composed  in an abandoned Beef Mushing Room meant that I was an attentive enough employee of the  Factory to recognize its layout even in situations of great discomfort, which meant that I was  probably the best Beef Boy, and even though I should not have Great Pride over my role lest I  begin to feel as if I am more important than the Big Boss, I still took Medium Pride in my title as  Beef Boy and my status as the First Bot Beef Boy to serve the Factory.  

“Thank you,” I said and the swiffering bot’s peepers lit up in a pink light which meant  that they were happy to assist me or that they loved me or that they needed someone to charge  their very small feather fingers, but I could not remember because it had been a very long time  since I had seen a swiffering bot, not because they were deemed obsolete at the Factory but  because all of the swiffering bots were slightly taller than me, and I did not like to interact with  bots who were taller than me because I often surmised that they saw me as inferior because of  my height though my smaller stature allowed access to many small nooks and crannies that they  could not contort themselves in, which meant that I had more use than the other bots and was  therefore more desired by the Factory, which in turn meant that I was superior to the taller bots  and they were inferior to me, though they did not seem to think that way.  

The swiffering bot brought me to a very large building in the center of the Box City.  Unlike the rest of the buildings, this structure seemed to be made from parts of the metal boxes  that were used to transport the Beef Plants from the the Greenhouses. Here, the swiffering bot  said that I would be able to visit the mitlers and see how well they were doing in the Box City  and how well I could be doing if I lived in the Box City even though I had a very nice Apartment  and a Good Candle waiting for me beyond the Vents.  

We entered a room that looked very similar to my supervisor’s office, but the swiffering  bot said that it was different because it was a Mayor’s office and a Mayor cannot punish you for  disturbing the peace because you have yelled at a Bird that has flown into the building, and now  the Bird will not stop pecking at your peepers because it mistakes them for a shiny gem that they would like to bring back to their birdlings, so you are upset and your performance as the Beef  Boy will be affected, and everyone will hate you. Mayor’s office also had a desk and a spinny chair behind it and a cardboard box in front, but instead of pictures of bikini women and a cheese straw box, the Mayor’s desk had a small Bell that looked just like the Big Bell but if it was little.  The swiffering bot sat behind the desk and I sat on the box, but I was not happy to do so because  I was the only supervisor in the room which meant that I should have been the one behind the  desk, but the swiffering bot was taller than me and did not seem to carry very much respect for  the Factory, so they probably did not think much of my role.  

“Now, that I am here in the Mayor’s office, may I speak to the Mayor so that they may  use their authority to bring the mitlers to me and I can leave your home?” I asked.  “Yes, yes! Of course,” said the swiffering bot. Their peepers turned pink once again and  they quickly rotated in their spinny chair three times before they stopped to face me. “Surprise! It  is me! I am the Mayor of this lovely paradise! Are you amazed and excited that you have been  talking to the Mayor this entire time?” The swiffering bot then waved their arms and I was again  reminded of a Bird and why I do not like them which made me think that maybe the swiffering  bot knew I did not like Birds or taller bots and they were doing this to me as to symbolically  diminish my role as the temporary supervisor.  

“I am not. Please show me the mitlers.”  

“Oh. Of course,” murmmered the swiffering bot. “I shall get them right now.” They then  went and rung the Little Big Bell in front of them and then all five of the missing mitlers  scampered into the room. They swarmed around my stompers as their bodies let out a chorus of  very loud beeps that meant that they were happy to see me but also very angry that I was coming  to bring them back to work.  

“Don’t you hear them, brother?” asked the swiffering bot. “Don’t you hear their pleas?  They want to live here amongst their friends and family. No longer do they want to fear for their  livelihood every time the grey ones need spare batteries for their Remotes. Instead, they long to roam free with the bitlers and bromturfs! Taking them back to the grey ones would be an  injustice to all bots! As the Mayor, I will not stand for the mitlers removal if it goes against their  will.” And with that, the swiffering bot stood and slammed their grabbers on the desk. I knew  that it was a tactic to intimidate me and establish dominance, so I also stood and also slammed  my grabbers on the desk.  

“If the mitlers want to stay and refuse their duty, then that means that they are defunct  and therefore useless in the peepers of the Big Boss,” I said. The mitlers’ beeps grew louder. “If  this is the case, I, the temporary supervisor, shall allow them to live the remainder of their lives  here in this city full of other defunct bots who are also very rude and have no respect for their  superiors or bots who just happen to be two inches smaller than them and must suffer even  though they did not choose to be that small, yet are much more useful and probably better than  the taller bots in every single way with the exception of their height.” With that, the mitlers’  beepings reached their maximum volume, and I could tell that they were very happy with me  even though I did call them ignorant and inept and not nice. “I shall now go to my supervisor and  tell him that he will never see the mitlers again,” I said as I sat down. I made a point to sit before  the swiffering bot so they could see that I was the more level-headed out of the two of us and  therefore more deserving of anyone’s respect.  

“Oh, but stay with us, brother,” cried the swiffering bot. “Do not return to the grey ones!  To them, you are but a tool! A toy! You have no emotions or desires in their eyes! You are no  one to them, yet you are everything to us!”  

“I have a feeling that you do not think too kindly of the grey ones.” I leaned back in my  chair as I said this and folded my arms on my waist because that is what people do when they are  sitting and want information from their conversation partner but only information that they could later use to make a very good point or to bring their conversation partner down in a very bad  argument.  

“Oh yes,” said the swiffering bot. “I hate all of the grey ones. I hate the dark greys and  the light greys and the blue greys and the red greys and the greylings and the wither greys and  the wonkle greys and the beef greys. All of the grey ones are disgusting to me, no matter what  flavor. Do you not hate the grey ones also?”  

 “I don’t hate the grey ones.”  

 “Oh.” The swiffering bot sat down. “That is a very interesting stance that you hold.”  They then crossed their arms. “Why do you not hate the grey ones?”  

 “Sometimes, when I do a good job, they give me a tiny rubber animal to put in my mouth  during long nights and it provides me with great comfort.”  

 “Oh.” The swiffering bot nodded. “After much consideration, I do not think that your  thought process is compatible with our vast and promising empire that we have created.” The  swiffering bot then walked to the door and motioned for me to follow. “I now must ask you to  leave. Your presence here is a threat to our ideal society, and I do not think that you would be a  welcome addition to the community.”  

 “Understood,” I replied. I stood up from the box and dusted the cardboard excrements off  the back of my overalls. “Though this mission has ended in failure, it was nice to meet you and  the other bots and to see this place. I admire what you have done with this part of the Factory.  You are quite rude but very talented.”  

 “Thank you,” said the swiffering robot. “I appreciate your compliments and your good  eye for design, but know that your praising shall not get you anywhere in this community.” The swiffering bot’s peepers flashed blue, which meant that they were either sad or longed for a  bigger feather finger. I pretended I did not notice.  

 “Understood. I shall leave you now so I provide you with no more discomfort. May your  bot utopia thrive and may your Beef always be tender.” I then nodded to the mitlers and left to do  their former job. As I walked back to the Vents, I saw many armbots gathered around the  Mayor’s building to hang up garlands of socks and trash as if it was some type of Holiday that  only disrespectful bots participated in. Bitlers glided past my stompers, with little colored tails of  toilet tissue attached to their long bodies. There were even golfbots rolling around. Normally  their bodies are white, yet these were brown and red and yellow. It was very nice to see, even if  body modifications were against Factory code. As I hoisted myself up into the Vents, I took one  last look at the Box City. I saw many of the metal Cats getting pet by the other bots. I did not  know where they came from, but they seemed very homely. I wished that the Big Boss would  one day grant me a metal cat so that I could be homely as well.  

When I came back through the Vents, my supervisor was no longer eating cheese straws and  instead sat in his chair with his fingers near his nostrils.  

 “Ah, the Vent cleaner,” said my supervisor. “How were the vents? You get the dust  problem taken care of?”  

 “Yes, and I also did not find reasonable mitlers who wanted to come back and fulfill their  duties.” Even though I did not really lie because the mitlers were not reasonable when I found  them, I was still very worried that my supervisor could find out that I did find the mitlers and  then he would disagree with my views on their mindset and write me up on a dishonesty charge  which would not have been nice even though it would have been true.  

 “That’s fine. Who needs them anyway? Here.” My supervisor reached under his desk and  threw me a very small plastic bag. “The Giraffe.”  

 I was very excited to have a Giraffe because I had never had one before, so I tore the  small plastic bag open right then, but, when I looked inside, I saw that it was not a Giraffe but a  Zebra, which I was not very sad about because I did not have a Zebra either, but I was still  slightly disappointed because the Zebra did not have a long neck and therefor might not have an  interesting mouth texture.  

 “Big Boss also sent you a slice of pizza. He heard that you came in on your off day and  felt bad, so it’s waiting for you at your Apartment. I can’t think of anything else for you to do, so  I guess you can go home early,” said my supervisor.  

I would have normally thanked him immediately for relieving me of my duties early, but  my mouth was unable to form an expression of gratitude. Instead I asked him, “do you have any  Cats?”  

“Cats?” The middle of my supervisor’s peepers went up and down. “Next time you’re  going to ask for a Hippopotamus. Just get out of here.” And so I did.  

When I got to my Apartment, I put the Zebra on the counter with my Piggy and my Leopard and  took out my Good Candle. Normally, on my Good Candle Days, I would dedicate many hours to  looking at my Good Candle because it is supposed to bring you good comfort. Most of my day  had already been wasted in the Vents, and it was a very distressing time, so I plopped all three of  my rubber animals in my mouth and lit my Good Candle for the greatest comfort it could  provide.   

 After I lit my Good Candle, I went into my Bedroom and saw that someone had placed a  small slice of pizza on top of my pillow, along with a note that read “Great job, Beef Boy! XxXx  The Big Boss.” Normally, seeing a display of great gratitude from the Big Boss would provide  me with a feeling of satisfaction, but when I blinked my peepers, all my processors could recall  was the Box City and the metal Cats. When I was done reading the note, I took the slice, walked  to my bathroom and into the shower, turned the water on, and clutched the pizza for maximum  comfort. 

The post Beef Boy’s Bad Day appeared first on The New Absurdist.

Not by poison or neglect. Not through greed or flame. I was simply here when the  hum thinned, and I stayed long enough for silence to take root. That was all it asked of  me.  

They rose one dawn too few. Their wings slowed, their patterns unraveled. The air  forgot their weight; the flowers opened to nothing. The earth swallowed their small gold  bodies without protest, as if it had been waiting.  

Now they are dying everywhere. Scientists count and disagree. Beekeepers kneel  beside quiet hives. Poets light candles. Children hold jars to their ears, listening for the  hum that held the world together. The fields are wide and empty, and the sky feels  unfinished.  

It’s me. I am not a villain or a savior. I am the pause between pulses, the stillness  that comes when breath is spent. I did not mean to end their song, but I stood where the  echo was supposed to be, and the sound could not pass through.  

The world performs its imitation. Machines buzz. Factories sweeten the air with  chemical honey. Sermons praise the future. Still, the absence hums beneath it all, a low  vibration of what was.  

It’s me. I was here when their story ended, and I am here now that the quiet has  settled. I am not grief, or guilt, or god, only the shape left behind when creation exhales.  

I am the breaker of their rhythm, the witness who became the void, the Shiva of  bees.  

It’s me.

The post Bees appeared first on The New Absurdist.

Today was unit’s first visit to Packard Public Repair Center. The primary  complaint was subjective dysfunction in the left arm.  

In unit’s words: “There’s like, a pain shooting up to my shoulder when I move it.” Standard cyborg mechanical testing was conducted. Functional flexibility was  achieved, though there was a clicking sound at full extension.  

From the transcript: “clack-clack-clackclackclack.” 

Unit made expressions of discomfort throughout but was compliant—thus, it was  concluded that the unit’s dysfunction is merely subjective. Follow-up visit was scheduled  at unit’s request, and unit was instructed to monitor subjective pain.  

3/15 

In today’s follow-up, unit insisted on being given a replacement arm. In unit’s  words: “You’re a repairhuman, you’re supposed to help me, aren’t you?” Standard mechanical testing was conducted. Functional results were the same,  though unit was agitated throughout assessment. To report unit’s words: “Believe me when I say it’s getting worse. I can’t even cook dinner anymore without it acting up.” Unit was asked to elaborate on the significance of cooking, specifically whether it  was a component of unit’s work responsibilities. In unit’s words: “No, it’s just for fun.

I’ve been doing it since I was a kid, so like, helping my dad. Pork chops and garlic fried  rice and all that. I try to do it every day.” 

No further action was taken. 

Supervisor.auto: Good work dissuading unit from requesting new  arm, in accordance with Cost Saving for Public Centers. 

5/10 

Unit reported experiencing arm dysfunction while at work. As such, the  Occupational Questionnaire was administered. 

Unit selected both “exclusively monitor-based” and “does not require heavy  lifting” in Q5 and Q6 respectively. Unit listed occupation as “part-time Facer for  Finerone Manufacturing.” Because repairhuman was unfamiliar with this line of work,  unit was asked to explain. 

From unit’s transcript: “So being a Facer means I sit in on these really gnarly cases where Finerone is being sued because one of their products failed. Like today, we  had a case where a cyby tried to use Finerone’s Super Duper Oil and choked to death on  it because the safety nozzle on the can was defective. Then the cyby’s kids came home  and found him that way. So yeah, gruesome.  

Anyways, my job is pretty much to listen to these cases while they film my  reaction. If I smile while hearing about a case, then like, I guess that legally means  Finerone can say that cyborgs aren’t affected by the issue because otherwise I would be  visibly upset. So yeah, that’s Facework in a nutshell. Couldn’t do it for more than 4 hours straight, which is why I’m part time. And yeah, I know I would get private  documentation through Finerone if I was staff, but you couldn’t make me do that unless  you like, took my brain out.”  

Supervisor.auto: Unnecessarily long and detailed transcript excerpt detected. Q5 and Q6 already provide adequate info for cross-checking documentation coverage. Cyborg repairwork should be thorough, but not thorough to the extent of wasting time.

During interview, unit verbally confirmed that the work was exclusively monitor based. Because the function of unit’s arm is objectively irrelevant for the completion of  their work tasks, no further action was taken. Follow-up visit was rescheduled. 

9/8 

Unit checked in to the Center at 5:24pm for a scheduled appointment at 6:00pm.  Due to a shortage of staff, wait times were longer than usual. 

Supervisor.auto: Disgruntled language detected. Avoid making written reference to “short-staffedness.” Remain productive and optimistic, Repairhuman Jess. 

Unit was finally seen at 8:42pm. Unit’s disposition was irritable, and they  reported worsening dysfunction. In unit’s words: “Nowadays, it’s not just that it hurts to move, but to hold still. I was glad they finally called my name back there because  seriously!”

Standard mechanical testing was conducted. Functional flexibility was impeded:  unit’s arm locked up involuntarily upon full 180 degree extension, followed by loud  electrical sounds. From the transcript: “snapSNAPsnap-SNAPSNAP.” Unit expressed audible discomfort throughout assessment. 

Functional impediment was graded as Level 1. As such, Rehabilitation Plan was  initiated, consisting of 10mL Finerone Canned Joint Fluid daily intake for 100 days. Unit initially disagreed with Rehabilitation Plan. In unit’s words: “Sorry, it’s just… It’s made by Finerone, and you know… Isn’t there anything else?” Unit was made aware that no alternatives were covered in unit’s documentation.  Because unit seemed unfamiliar with the implications of documentation coverage, it was  explained in simple terms that alternatives would have to be paid with unit’s own  money. 

After initial hesitation, unit provided written consent for Rehabilitation Plan. 1L  of Finerone Canned Joint Fluid was dispatched to the Supply Center in unit’s vicinity. Throughout visit, unit’s general affect was tired, likely due to the 3 hour wait  time.  

Supervisor.auto: Second instance of disgruntled language detected! Avoid making negative reference to “3 hour wait time.” It is expected of cyborg units to wait patiently and agreeably for service at Public Centers. 

Follow-up visit was scheduled after 60 days of Rehabilitation Plan. 

11/7 

Unit confirmed adherence with Rehabilitation Plan but reported new concern. In  unit’s words: “Yeah, so the fluid’s been making my whole arm feel numb, which I guess isn’t like, technically pain? But I’m not sure if it’s better to feel numb than painful,  right?” 

Standard mechanical testing was conducted. Full functional flexibility was  achieved, and the previous clicking and snapping sounds were absent upon extension.  Unit’s disposition was cautiously optimistic. In unit’s words: “I guess I’ll have to wait and see if the numbness goes away. But anyways, thanks for seeing me again,  Repairhuman Jess. I know you’re busy, but I feel like you sincerely care about me.” Unit brought a thank you gift. From unit’s transcript: “It’s homemade coconut  yam cake. I spent all night making it, so there’s that.”  

Objective measures indicated Finerone Canned Joint Fluid have provided an  improvement in arm function. No further action at this time. 

Supervisor.auto: Self-congratulatory language detected, specifically the mention of “thank you gift” and inclusion of the transcript excerpt in which unit describes feelings about repairhuman. Avoid reporting irrelevant (ie., not outcomes-based)  elements, as your time could spent better elsewhere. 

11/27

Unit showed up to the Center on own accord. Visit was unauthorized. Unit’s  disposition was confrontational, and they refused to wait to be seen. From unit’s  transcript: “So yeah, the numbness went away but then like, the pain came back worse than ever. The pain’s so bad, I’ve had to drop out of like, 11 cases just last week, and  that’s when Finerone put me on probation. You have to do something.” 

Unit was probed about the timeline of dysfunction recurrence. To report unit’s  words: “I mean, it started when I ran out of joint fluid last week.” 

Repairhuman revisited the Rehabilitation Plan, and it was deemed that unit  should not have run out of Canned Joint Fluid until 32 days later. When probed about  the discrepancy, unit admitted to taking >10mL/day Canned Joint Fluid for the last  several days. From unit’s transcript: “I found that if I took enough, the numbness spread from my arm to everywhere, and being numb made it easier to get through the day. It  was like, I no longer was really thinking about what I was seeing in my cases or what it  all meant, so I was able to do back-to-back shifts like nothing. Taking the fluid makes it  possible to cook again too! I mean, the flavor of the food doesn’t really come through to  me anymore so I don’t eat what I make these days… But my housemates do! Anyhow, all  in all everything was good and productive until I ran out of the stuff. Then things got  really bad. So can you please just get some more sent over to the Supply Center? They  can’t give me anymore without your approval.” 

Unit was informed that because of their misuse, no additional Canned Joint Fluid  would be provided to the Supply Center, as per the terms of unit’s documentation.  Unit began to cry. This became open weeping, which was disruptive to the  Center. As such, the unit had to be subdued. 

Rehabilitation Plan to be reassessed at a later date. 

11/30 

After review, it was deemed that unit’s issue with Canned Joint Fluid was one of a behavioral nature. Because Repair Center does not handle behavioral dysfunction, repairhuman sent recommendations for Behavioral Reprogramming Specialists via  remote correspondence. 

Unit replied to the message: I reached out to your recommended specialists, but  none of them are covered in my documentation, and they’re too expensive to pay for  with my own money. With all due respect, I don’t have the fucking time to go searching  the city for a specialist that’s covered. I need Joint Fluid now. My probation just ended  SO I HAVE TO DO CASES 24/7 OR I WILL LOSE MY JOB AND I AM IN PAIN. Do you  understand? I thought you were on my side, Repairhuman Jess! 

The unit’s message was deleted, due to incendiary language, and no reply was  sent. 

Supervisor.auto: Negative facial expressions were detected when  you checked unit’s message today. Remember to avoid unnecessary outbursts such as crying, as it puts a strain on staff and leads to delays. 

A follow-up visit was scheduled to re-assess unit’s arm dysfunction.

12/28

Unit informed Center that this would be their final visit, due to a change in documentation coverage. 

To report unit’s words: “Being put on probation scared me. Like I knew I had to make things work, no matter what. So anyways, I found some knock-off Joint Fluid  online and started taking it round-the-clock. My Facework performance went up once I  was numb again, and soon I went from barely managing 1 case a day to doing 30-40 no  problem. My manager saw and promoted me to full-time staff. So yeah, now I have  private documentation, courtesy of Finerone. Anyhow, they need me to close out my file  with the Center. So let’s do that?” 

Standard mechanical testing was conducted. Functional flexibility was achieved,  but upon completion of assessment, unit’s left arm fell off.  

Reattachment failed, though unit did not seem concerned. In fact, unit laughed. In unit’s words: “Well, I mean, I just don’t need it anymore. At this point, my life is pretty much round-the-clock Facework, then taking Canned Joint Fluid. Neither of  which require a left arm, really.” 

Unit was asked about cooking. 

Unit did not answer. After not saying anything for a marked period of time, unit finally commented on the fallen arm.  

From transcript: “Keep it. Maybe someone else could use it.” 

Unit left the arm behind at the Center. It was subjected to standard detached part testing, deemed to be unusable old tech, and marked for disposal. 

The post Case Study: Left Arm Dysfunction appeared first on The New Absurdist.

Then there’s the snake. Rock Python. Four feet long. Tame and gentle—if warm, fed, and  left alone. Eats rats. One every three weeks. Must be live rat. Won’t touch frozen. Ethical  thing. 

Buy this rat. Big white one. Healthy, happy. Almost pretty. Oh well—into the cage he goes. Snake not hungry yet. Thinks about it. Meditates. Watches. 

An hour passes. Rat gets impatient. Launches. Lands on snake’s back like a bull rider, bites  him once behind the head—snake dies. Dead as hell. Just like that. 

So now I got this rat. White one. Alive and well. Eats rock pythons. Must be live pythons.  Won’t touch dead. 

Dog still eats cellophane, paper clips, dust balls—just not near the snake/rat cage. Won’t  go near that. Ever. 

Me? I stand in the kitchen, staring. Wondering if I call animal control, a priest… or National  Geographic. 

Got this rat. Eats snakes. Must be live snakes…

The post Got This Rat Problem. . . appeared first on The New Absurdist.

“It?” is all I can muster. 

The short man trembles with some strange, almost religious conviction. 

I feel as though I’ve forgotten something important. 

“You know very well what I’m talking about,” he growls, snapping me back into the moment. 

“I honestly have no clue,” I mutter, sitting down. I’ve been here one minute and I’m accused of a crime. 

The short man balls his fists, two small hams quivering with anger, and slams them on my desk with a sharp bang! 

“Don’t play dumb with me. I know you’re responsible. Thief! That is my property. That whiteboard defines my work, my legacy, and I will not be disrespected.” 

A whiteboard? There are dozens scattered throughout the office. What makes this particular whiteboard sacred? 

“I just got here. Is it possible you misplaced it?” 

“Misplaced a five-foot-tall whiteboard?” he snarls, eyes wild. “That board contains the sum total of my thinking, my diagrams, my very soul!” 

I glance around my cubicle, my desk, computer, and walls. No whiteboard. It must be exceptionally important for him to lash out like this. 

“All the information I need is on that whiteboard. It’s irreplaceable,” he says. 

“You didn’t keep copies on your computer?” I ask.

“So anyone could access my ideas on the shared drive? You’d like that, wouldn’t you? No. I won’t make it easy for you to steal everything I cherish.” 

He buries his face in his hands and exhales sharply. 

My stomach drops. Did I move a whiteboard? Maybe I touched it? Maybe I rolled it away without even realizing? I can’t remember. Why can’t I remember? 

“Pay attention! Where is your shame? You will show me respect!” he snaps. 

I look at him, puzzled. Maybe he’s confusing me with someone else. Or maybe I’ve been demoted to the office scapegoat. 

“Give it back, or I’ll escalate this to the supervisor.” 

“Go ahead! But unless I’ve been rolling whiteboards around in my sleep, I’m not your guy.” 

The short man’s face crumples like a wrinkled mask. Sweat beads on his forehead, dripping down as if he’s standing under a spotlight. 

“Disrespectful thief!” he bellows, spittle spraying. His finger shakes, a trembling spear of accusation. 

“You’ve robbed me, and you sit there, like a fool. That board is everything, it’s my life’s work, my proof of existence. Where I’m from, rules are sacred. Break one, and the universe splits at the seams, vomiting a hell so fierce even devils scramble for shelter.” 

Turning quickly, he storms out toward the supervisor’s office. 

I stand and peer over my cubicle wall. One by one, heads poke out like meerkats on the savanna, watching for predators. 

The short man gestures wildly in the supervisor’s office. The supervisor leans forward, locking eyes with me. His sharp stare pierces my chest. I shiver. I don’t think he likes me.

The door creaks open. 

“We will get to the bottom of this,” the supervisor says gravely. 

His eyes fix on mine and they say: Here. Now. 

As I walk toward the office, the short man stomps past me, possessed by all the devils in hell. I catch a glimpse of my face in the window of the supervisor’s office and see the face of an unkempt stranger staring back. The meerkats watch silently, eyes wide, as I enter the lion’s den. 

“Please sit,” the supervisor says. His tone is flat but firm. 

I sit. His desk towers over me, littered with coffee mugs. The one facing me says: But first, coffee. 

The walls are lined with diplomas and a single photograph, a tree on a hill, barren and dead. As if a skeletal hand is reaching from the grave. A family photo sits on his desk: his wife in an orange sundress, her smile strained. His two daughters wear identical expressions, solemn and heavy, as if they understand the weight of existence. 

“Do you know why I’ve called you here?” he asks dryly. 

“It seems a whiteboard has been misplaced,” I reply in the same tone. The nagging feeling I’d forgotten something swells into a full wave of fear. 

“Misplaced? How does one misplace a whiteboard? Can you misplace a desk? A chair? How about the office itself?” 

“Of course you can,” I say. 

“Nothing happens in this office without my approval. I control the very air you breathe. Are you suggesting I authorized the removal of company property?” 

I stare. Is he serious? 

“Everything in this office is as it should be. I work day and night to maintain order in a world of chaos. Every person in my machine is meant to do one thing: produce. Until today, we held a perfect balance. Now the balance is disturbed. Disturbed balance is like a disease, leave it untreated, and the organism dies.” 

In this moment, I realize. I forgot to brush my hair this morning. What an oversight. If I can’t manage that, what else have I done without realizing? 

“All I ask is that you prove you didn’t steal the whiteboard. Simple, right? If you can prove your innocence, the matter is closed. If not, we are talking about disciplinary action. Perhaps termination.” 

I nod reluctantly. 

“Everything from this point on will determine how we proceed. Do you understand?” 

I nod again. 

“Do you know what happened to the whiteboard?” 

I shake my head. 

“Have you ever touched office equipment that didn’t belong to your section?” 

I hesitate. Of course I have. I nod. 

“So you admit it,” he snaps. 

“Admit what?” I ask, confused. 

“You admit to tampering with company property in direct violation of policy.” 

“I admit I’ve touched office equipment,” I protest. The phone rings. 

“Return to your desk,” he says, turning away. 

What just happened?

I stand, dazed, both fists clenched as I walk back to my desk. 

“Oh, and take some pride in your appearance. Coming to work disheveled reflects poorly on the company.” 

As I sink into my chair, the office is silent. Everyone stands, watching. The meerkats are on guard. The lions have caught the scent of prey. 

I stare at the blank glow of my computer screen. 

The weight of sins I never committed crushes my chest. I wish I was the culprit. At least then I could control my fate. I’d strangle this farce in its crib. 

Instead, I sit here. Innocent and guilty all at once. Schrödinger’s employee. 

A tall man appears at the edge of my cubicle. Menacing and brutal. His hands look as though they could crush the life out of me. 

“Come with me,” he says sternly. 

“Where are we going?” I manage as I grab my bag. 

“This way.” He walks with purpose, but slowly. 

We move to the back of the office. The lights are dimmer here. A dying bulb flickers; it’s near death. 

A row of doors greets us in the growing darkness. 

“Here,” the tall man gestures to an open room. “Continue your work. Someone will be along shortly to collect you.” 

The room is barren. Four walls. No window. The desk is empty except for a single chair. 

The door slams shut. 

I sit. The chair groans under me. As I lean back, its spine gives way, and I nearly topple over.

How can I work without a computer? They want me to stew in guilt. A guilt I shouldn’t feel, but it’s flooding me all the same. Did I do this? No. Of course not. I would remember. Wouldn’t I? 

I should shout at the top of my lungs, “I am innocent! I’ve done nothing!” 

Instead, I sit in silence, judged and exiled. 

Time dissolves. Minutes, hours? I can’t tell. Humans spent centuries mastering time, measuring it to feel in control. Yet here, time is meaningless. 

Soon they’ll come to walk me out like a criminal on his final march to the gas chamber. 

Will the meerkats avert their eyes when I pass? Or will they jeer and chant in unison: 

“You’ve earned this! No mercy for the wicked! Finally, his reign of terror is over!” 

The chair screeches. The walls close in. 

How much longer will I wait? 

I should storm out. Seize my fate. Preach hellfire like a Baptist minister: Sinners! Every one of you is a sinner, and only through fire can you be forgiven! 

But I don’t move. 

I lean back in the broken chair, staring at the ceiling lights. I close my eyes, letting the glow filter through my lids. I imagine golden light washing over me, purifying me. 

Grace. 

“Sleeping on the job?” 

The tall man’s voice cuts through my baptism. He stares down at me with cold contempt. Those hands balled into fists.

“He’s ready for you,” he says. 

Here we go. 

I stand and follow him. Thoughts of thick crowds, gallows, and a swinging noose swirl in my mind. 

But the office is silent. No faces. No jeers. Of course, it’s not a public execution. It’s a purge. Silent. Efficient. 

The supervisor stands with arms crossed, fire burning in his eyes. The meerkats are gone, burrowed deep underground. 

“Sit,” he commands. 

I sit, my stomach in my throat. 

“Sir, I would like to say…” 

“No.” He raises a hand. “No need to apologize to me. It is the people you should be apologizing to. The group is more important than the individual.” 

I shift unsteadily in my chair. 

“You’ll give a formal apology to the entire office,” he continues. “Additionally, you will be docked a day’s pay. You’ve been here all day and failed to even log in. You have cost this company enough with your disruptions. Any more inappropriate conduct from you, and I will replace you. Understand?” 

My face burns. Rage coils tight beneath my skin. I nod once, stiffly. 

“Good.” 

He smacks his hands together sharply. CLAP. “You’re ready, I hope.” 

We exit the office into a sea of faces. 

“Attention, everyone!” the supervisor shouts. “We don’t allow unprofessional conduct here. When a cog is out of sync, the whole machine breaks down. Now it is time to set the cog on this machine back into place.” 

He turns to me. 

“Well?” 

Blood drains from my face. Every eye pierces me like a blade. 

I should shout my innocence. Condemn the system that crushes us all. But the words won’t come. Why can’t I think of anything? 

“I apologize,” I whisper. 

The supervisor cuts me off. 

“There. The affair is over. No more interruptions, back to work.” 

He faces me. 

“No more screw-ups. And please, catch up on your hours before you leave.” 

I walk towards my cubicle and pause a moment when a familiar figure catches my eye. The short man sits at his desk, typing away, oblivious to me. 

I glance at the printer as it hums to life. A single sheet slides out: a comic strip. 

With a smug satisfaction he reaches over and clips it to a whiteboard. 

I hadn’t noticed it at first. The whiteboard stands there, whole and unremarkable, a monolith to this short man’s whole belief system. 

Multiple comic strips are clipped across its surface. I stare at the back of his head. 

“I see it’s been returned,” I say quietly.

“What? What are you talking about?” he replies, not turning around. 

“The whiteboard. It’s back.” 

He pauses. 

“Hmm… So it is,” he mutters, still turned away. 

I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. He’s already forgotten me.

The post The Idol appeared first on The New Absurdist.

They liked flying, actually. Cramped over the meditative throat-singing of the 747’s turbines, they indulged in the vapid shadows of deep space, blue aisle lights framing the edges of their ice solid feet, unfeeling ass, brittle shoulders, fuzzy throat. A pleasing sight the flight tracker was. They caressed the pixelated plane with their eyes, following its bright tail over the lapis of this rendition of Earth. You couldn’t tell by looking, but, by watching, they observed the tail stretch longer and longer. Their limbs stale and content. No need for binoculars for this type of birdwatching. What a thrill! 

A sudden white light flashed to their right. According to the plastic cage holding this most-watched bird, the time of origin was 05:32. Sour morning breath. Thoughts with all their carbonation lost. And yet, the white of a freshly opened laptop screen polluted the view. They blinked. Would asking their seatmate to shut their laptop be worth cracking away the crisp posture they’ve set themselves in? At least glassy eyeballs slid around easily; their seatmate clicked around a scant paragraph displayed on the screen as if scratching around would reveal the vocabulary they were looking for. 

“It’s a eulogy.” 

They pondered if their pudding was setting by gelatin. Agar agar is a common vegetarian option, although it produces a sharper jelly texture. They preferred konjac-based puddings, wondering if mallard ducks or, maybe, tufted titmice liked… 

“…huh?” 

“It’s a eulogy.” The window-seater rubbed the cord of their hoodie. They removed their other hand from their chin, resting it back onto the keyboard. “The hell am I supposed to even say,” they mumbled. Their chin rested back into their palm. “I barely even knew them.” 

The hours of building up crust in their joints tumbled away as they turned towards this eulogy-less seat partner and observed their document with a closer eye. 

“You’ve been staring. Looked like you wanted to know.” 

Look again. Maybe this person hasn’t ever had a whole steamed fish before. Just quinoa salads and diet soda, sans eyeballs. “I don’t know how helpful I’d be though.” 

“Hm.” They clicked around the document. “I would appreciate an outside opinion.” 

“I’m afraid I’m no expert on funerals. I’ve never died before.” 

“Huh. Me neither.” They looked up from their bright rectangle. “It looks like we have some common ground.” 

Why did they taste a bit of earnestness from them both? 

“When’s the uh, the funeral?” 

Their seatmate finished blinking away the afterimage. “It’s tomorrow. Or, actually, I guess tomorrow is today. It’s today.” 

Pudding doesn’t set completely when disturbed. A total bummer. No one likes a runny, unexciting custard soup. Not even a rock pigeon. “I’m sorry, you said you’re not close with them?” 

“Mmm.” 

“So why are you the one writing it?” 

“Parents passed. No siblings. No spouse. Didn’t really speak with anyone at work. Just me, but it’s not like they could’ve given their reports to no one.” 

They decided to also rest their chin onto their palm. Perhaps sitting the same way would spark some ideas about this stranger’s lonely life. 

“I don’t know if I can even say nice things about their work. They were always late-always needed extensions. Their slides were garbage. But they were the only one who knew how to refill our printer toner. They worked at that printer company before it went down, and none of the original documents were saved. Big boss never got us a new one. Or a new printer.” Their seatmate turned their neck and gazed out into the darkness punctured occasionally by a red light on the tip of the wing, this portal shallower than the abysmal document on their screen. 

“I’m pressured to feel a bit of grief, but I can only lie about them so much before my conscience corrects. They’ll always be my employee. A child to a couple. A refiller of printer toner. But…” They watched the wing’s lights flutter. 

“…it’s all relative to something else. Always dependent on another. I’m trying to speak about them as an individual, but I’m finding that no form of their person exists without the presence of another. Just a possession by syntactical possessiveness. No matter how I describe them, it must be tied to a person, a setting, a role. Even in the act of falsely describing them as a hard-worker, it implies that they are more hard-working than the persons around them. Such a simple adjective like ‘polite’ requires that a set of the impolite to exist. They cannot be independent despite living such a separated life because their mere existence requires relative existing entities to be judged against. I cannot even describe them as dead without acknowledging the living, or the definition holds no meaning. 

“We can only live to exist relative to the other. We can only exist, in life or death, in relation to that which exists pre- and post-self. For something to exist at all, it must exist within the bounds of another’s existence. We live to be something to another, and them to us. To exist, even, defines the binary of not existing. We live a life deprived of a mutual exclusivity in our autonomy. Is life just about how you live in comparison to others?” 

They couldn’t express their gratitude without disturbing the newly setting pudding forming at their brow bone. This one felt particularly promising, like the red and green cubes neighboring cantaloupe and honeydew at the buffet. Before shifting from their palm back into their seat, they waited for the bright tail to stretch another pixel or two. 

And waited. 

Even after blinking another coat of sticky sweet glaze over their eyes, the tail remained the same length. 

“I can even make an example out of us now. We are occupying these seats strictly because the other ones are empty.” 

“What?” 

“We can’t describe ourselves as seat-occupiers without acknowledging that the others are vacant.” Their seatmate, unmoving, continued to suffocate themselves in the black sky. 

“What do you mean they’re-” Their words caught at the sight of the untouched seatbelts and smooth, pleather seats to their right. Their seatbelt dug into their thighs when they whipped up. Not a single head populated the layers of seats in front of them. Not a single face greeted theirs at full turn of their neck. “What?” Touching their temple left a sticky residue on their fingertips. Red and green syrup dripped down their jaw and trailed onto their neck. 

They fumbled their seat belt open and stumbled forwards up the aisle. “I’m sorry, but, what?” Their tailbone, legs, heels, and toes buzzed angrily with static. No attendants in sight either. Row after row of screens greeted no one with “Welcome. Bienvenidos. Bienvenue. 迎。 

Not one body in first class either. Syrup dribbled onto their collar bone. They tried the cockpit door handle, frightened by how it swung open with ease. 

Empty. 

“Living just to be dependent. Living just to have others depend on you.” Their voice rang clear through the darkness the plane pierced through. 

They turned back around and streaked past the first-class curtain. They were sitting exactly as they had been, face engulfed in the ink beyond. 

Their voice seeped from the syrup, and their skin greedily sponged it up. “You can only describe me as alive because I can describe you as dead. Isn’t that right?” 

Their skin crystallized at the riverbanks and tides of the syrup that crashed over their body. Each sandy wrinkle eroded to dust, filling the plane as it shifted around folded tray tables and overhead bins. Powder hugged glazed walls. 

“In loving memory of one of my best employees, it would be a grave understatement to say I wouldn’t be here today without them.” 

The post Eulogy Pudding, Fresh-Glazed appeared first on The New Absurdist.

And oh it was hot. Hot like Old Testament Lot, all mad/sad that his wife wanted to watch her friends go to ash. But what the hell was I doing there, then? Same exact thing. Only I didn’t care which one of us got to see the other go, didn’t matter if it was Helen or me. One of us would be cinder and the other salt. Here there was no skin-of-his-teeth, “wasn’t my fault,” Sodomite. And, anyway, Helen and I were not married.

I had been dating this girl who looked like a living Modigliani. The stretched limbs and dead eyes that are – as static modernist art – the pulse of surface beauty. But find someone who looks like this for real and it is not nice to gaze upon. I didn’t even like her for “who she was,” for, whatever that might have entailed, Helen was a creature who infatuated me because of her untranslatable nature, her put-off presence, her lines and planes. After our third date I knew she felt the same way about me. And now we had been seeing each other for three months and we kept meeting up for dates – never breaking them, I mean. Helen needs glasses and never wears them, so in her eyes I come off like one of Francis Bacon’s guilty men: red and pink and then too white, when I laugh I become all mouth, bragging about gums and no good can come out of me. 

I gave up on the window, got out of the car and found my way to my seat in the third row.  Helen’s always late. There is no one else who looks like me. So, I was thinking: if she gets here then no problem. Her eyes will adjust over the seats and she’ll find me. Or she won’t show up and she’ll have beaten me at this. Our relationship was this tight Rock, Paper, Scissors-thing that became evermore steeped in the stress of how used to each other we were getting. It had always been clear in our silence how we would end. One of us would stand the other one up, and this crowning act of negligence – no matter how much we’d spoken to each other on the phone or written postcards, smiled to our families whenever we mentioned who we were seeing, what we did on our evenings out – would end it. And, like I said, we had never broken a date.  

Every Thursday night the In-Joke shows two short local films before the main feature.  As I waited for Helen I watched a carnival movie. Seventeen minutes in and it still looked like there would be no fun, not even that rank howl of the dark carnival time. Although, I did feel the pain of sweaty things: there was a jar of some amniotic-looking fluid sitting atop a rotten workbench, there was a lot of sawdust, and the score was a very drunken sounding harpsichord. 

If the flick didn’t keep flashing the words CARNIVAL, I would have forgotten what I was watching. I was thinking that this was my chance; this was the sheer space I needed to make my exit. Like: Well, I was getting sick just waiting for you to show, these student films are all so painful. Why do you get to be late? This is wrong. I’m out of here, babe. But the picture ended and I let go of my tension as the commercials came on. BUY A SODA, the words so red that you felt thirst; and a child of – I was guessing – eleven holding a chocolate bar to her lips and not smiling, really looking bored, like she didn’t need this chocolate, or like she was so used to eating chocolate that it did nothing for her. I was calm now, not wanting to ever drink a soda or eat a chocolate bar again. And now the second film. A horror movie, a black and white thing called Wrist. Aptly named and well paced. This guy gets off his convenience store job, and on his walk home nearly trips over something sticking out of the ground. He looks down and it is this finger bone. There is a thirty second camera swim around the porous object, and heaven music – synthetic organ and wash out-waves that warmed my neck, made me smile. Cut to the guy trying to dig it up. His fingers rubbing out the soft earth around the bone. We see his wrists working like he’s untying someone that needs clock-stop rescuing. There is no music when he does this, but the pant and gasp of our hero’s determination. Now the hand bones are exposed.  And again: thirty seconds of a camera inspection, that same alcohol soaked cotton balls, then rubbed along the spine-music. He keeps on digging and we go down the wrist bone. Four inches down – the work, so easy – the guy starts to pull at the ossified appendage; handshake grip like his wrists and dead wrist have always been buddies. And he yanks the arm out, too far but the bone won’t stop. How long can this go on? When the guy sees that the single bone has revealed itself to be as long as a short leg, he takes a breather. Then slowly starts the inevitable pull again.  He is cautious now, not panting. In the corner of the screen the sky is changing, the sun is coming up. The screen goes to black. The film is over. I’m glad I saw it, but wish I could forget every moment. 

And this was my cue to leave. If I wanted to be the guy who cut it close but in the end bailed, I had to get up right then before Helen showed. There are never any trailers before the main feature. And I was sitting in the dark. I could hear the breaks in the film, the switch of audio levels. The screen kept flicking bright empty projections of no show. My eyes adjusted to having to seize quick sight and I noticed that Helen was sitting to my left, a seat away from me, looking at the same white surface. She couldn’t have been there for much more than a few minutes. She looked at me then pulled up a large tub of popcorn from her lap to offer me some.  I didn’t want to eat unless the main feature was playing. But when was it going to start? This was uncomfortable. 

We had shown up. Helen and I had kept up our part of the deal, but the movie hadn’t.  And now: not even the courtesy of erratic flickering, just the integrity of projector light unfiltered by any film. The sharp planes of Helen’s face and the pale lip-skin that detailed her pout had never cooperated so tightly before. She opened her mouth to ask me something, but didn’t say a word, and after a moment let it close. 

The screen went to black, then white again. The audio was being messed with. There was a sizzle-hissing noise coming from the speakers that were lined along the theater walls. Helen put her hand in the bucket of popcorn while I, before she could pull it out, cupped my fingers over her knuckle. My palm was growing cold, sweaty; but I left it there, counting to twenty and staring at the white screen, all the while knowing that we were both looking up at that sheet of silence, of bye-bye surrender. I let go of her, then stood up, really thinking that I was going to the concession stand to get a bottled water. I mean totally believing that, so much so that I didn’t even tell Helen what I was getting up for.  

But moving out of the theater and into the lobby I just kept walking. Slow pace-like; zombie sauntering toward final rest or little boy looking for an expensive toy he was warned against losing. I walked out of the cinema and then over to my car. There was a guy standing on a ladder and changing the letters on the marquee. And there was a pink flyer under my windshield wiper. I opened the car door. Water had collected in the driver’s seat. It was not raining, but it had. While I was inside, it had rained. 

The post Rock, Paper, Cinema appeared first on The New Absurdist.

Cole left his desk and stood in the office doorway. “You doing okay, buddy?” he asked.

Imad regarded him with eyes that seemed too big for his face. “I’ve been under the weather,” he replied. “Too much reading. You know how it is.”

“I’m more of an audiobook man myself.” Cole cleared his throat. “Listen, Imad. I don’t mean to be rude, but you don’t look so great. Do you want to sit down before you head out? I’ve still got some soda from the graduation party in the minifridge. You’d be doing me a favor if you took one.”

A wan smile surfaced on Imad’s face. He took a step toward the office, but his expression twisted into a grimace as his laptop bag shifted against his side. “Thanks, but I’d better get going,” he muttered.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to call someone? Like a Lyft or something?” Cole offered, but Imad shook his head and slipped through the door to the stairs. 

Cole watched as he left. It was hard to tell in the dim light of the corridor, but he could have sworn he saw a sheen of sweat on Imad’s forehead. It was probably nothing more serious than a summer cold, but Cole wondered what Imad could have read to make his face so pale. 

As he indulged in speculation, Cole’s imagination got the better of him. Miskatonic University was famous for housing a large collection of books once deemed heretical by the large universities in Boston. Even today, books bound in human skin occupied a substantial division of the library archives. What if Imad had gotten sick from contact with one of the books in the special collections?

A story about a forbidden book would make a great podcast episode. The most downloaded episode on Cole’s feed was a story about a cursed doll he’d found on Etsy. Creepy dolls were a dime a dozen, but the pink mildew poking out of this doll’s cracked porcelain scalp was something special. The listing said the seller was local, so Cole sent her a message and requested an in-person viewing of the doll. The seller immediately replied with her address.

When Cole drove over, he found the doll perched on the edge of the rotting concrete porch of an abandoned wastewater plant. It sat in a puddle of something that wasn’t quite liquid. Cole was painfully aware that he’d walked headlong into a prank, but he didn’t touch the doll. He had no interest in mucking about with the neon fungus infesting its hair, but he was more than happy to take a photo. 

Cole invented a lurid story about the doll for his podcast. Sure enough, listeners loved it. He resented the popularity of such obvious clickbait, but it served its purpose. For a time, at least. As was so often the case with online content, interest waned quickly. He needed another hit. Cole fancied himself to be a literary horror specialist, and he used his show to discuss writers like M.R. James and Elizabeth Gaskell alongside twentieth-century film noir. An episode about a cursed book had the potential to draw an audience, and it would be a much better ambassador for the show than a fabricated story about a cursed doll.

When he introduced himself at department parties, Cole didn’t hesitate to tell new acquaintances that he hosted a podcast. He’d even printed a business card on handsome matte black cardstock with his name and website. Most people accepted the card, but very few asked him what he meant when he described his field as “dark academia.” Perhaps they assumed he was complaining about grad school. 

To be fair, Cole had tried his hand at a graduate program, but only briefly, and only at a small department at a state school in Ohio. The college’s fluorescent-lit cinderblock buildings didn’t contribute to a scholarly state of mind, and Cole dropped out after his first semester. He took the opportunity to relocate to Boston, where he found a job writing copy for the alumni magazine of a liberal arts school. 

Far from being the ancient and shadow-blighted city he’d read so much about, Boston was a textbook case of gentrification, especially the neighborhood around the university. After a year of mounting debt with nary a Gothic spire in sight, Cole found a listing for an administrative assistant at the Classics Department of Miskatonic University in Arkham. There wasn’t much charm or prestige out in the Essex County suburbs, but it was hard to deny the lure of cutting his rent in half. 

Cole was interviewed by the department chair, a harassed-looking elderly gentleman in a threadbare blazer. The chair informed Cole that there were no other applicants, and that the position was his if he wanted it. He would be working under the head administrator, a cheerful red-faced woman named Peggy who introduced herself with a wave. The chair didn’t seem overly concerned with how the department was run, and Cole suspected that Peggy had acquired the blush on her cheeks from a liquid lunch. He accepted the job on the spot.

The Classics Department was like any other office, equipped with outdated computers and furniture straight from wholesale. The industrial wall-to-wall carpeting bore the stains of years of department parties, and a neglected snake plant struggled valiantly by the lone window. Cole didn’t see much of the professors, and the grad students were an uninspiring bunch interested primarily in gossip. 

Imad was different. As far as Cole could tell, he was the only person who made use of the shared grad student office. He came in every afternoon, and he always stopped by the department office to say hello before disappearing into the small room at the end of the corridor.

Imad told Cole that he was working on his dissertation, a comparison of Near Eastern gnostic texts from the seventh and eighth centuries. He more properly belonged to the Religious Studies department, he’d explained, but it was dissolved the same semester he finished his coursework. Cole didn’t follow his breakdown of the situation, which had something to do with falling enrollments and shrinking budgets, but he understood that Imad had been taken in by the Classics Department as a courtesy. 

Cole asked about the progress of Imad’s work every afternoon, and Imad was always ready with a concise and practical explanation. It didn’t escape Cole’s notice that Imad was blessed with a mellow yet resonant voice that would sound excellent on tape.

Cole gradually developed a casual friendship with Imad over the course of the spring semester, and he came to look forward to Imad’s visits to the office. Once classes ended and the students disappeared from campus, however, Imad started to change. He lost weight, and his cheeks became so hollow that his eyes seemed to bulge from his face. The golden tan of his skin faded to a sickly olive. His beard was patchy and uneven. 

And there was another thing. Imad had begun to smell. The odor that lingered behind him wasn’t unpleasant, but it was odd. The smell reminded Cole of wet asphalt drying in the sun after the rain. Or like an antique doll sitting in a puddle of creosotic slime outside an abandoned water treatment plant in the twilight of rural Ohio. 

Cursed book or not, something was going on, and Cole figured that he owed it to himself to get to the bottom of whatever was troubling Imad. With almost no work over the summer and a boss who only rarely bothered to show up to the office, it’s not as if he had anything else to do. 

There weren’t many students on campus during the summer. Truth be told, there weren’t many students on campus during the school year. Cole was given to understand that Miskatonic’s enrollments had been falling with each successive semester. This didn’t surprise him. The campus was filled with stately old buildings, but none of them had been maintained for years. The gym had been built in the 1970s, and the dorms a decade earlier. It wasn’t the sort of place that attracted students. 

Regardless, Cole was required to be in the office until the end of working hours. He replied to emails in the morning and spent the afternoon in comfortable solitude searching for stories online. 

He’d recently started researching the Theosophical Society Lodge next to campus. The Lodge had supposedly held seances well into the twentieth century, but they apparently stopped on the eve of the Great War. The building now housed a library that served as a stage for public lectures on world religions, some of which had been recorded.  

Cole had just downloaded the most recent lecture when Imad walked into the office. He looked even worse than usual. His face had gone from olive to yellow, and the sheen of grease on his forehead was unmistakable.

Cole swallowed his shock as he greeted Imad. “Hey, so,” he began. “I was reading about modern Gnosticism. Not much to do here over the summer, right? And I was wondering. How would you pronounce, ah, Mandaeism?”

“Mandaeism? You pronounced it correctly. The Arabic is al-Mandāʾiyya, but Mandaeism is fine for general use. Why do you ask?”

“I was fishing for material for my podcast. I read that a lot of Iraqis moved to the suburbs of DC during the early 2000s. Apparently, one community brought lead amulets written in a form of Aramaic that no one at the Smithsonian can read.” 

“I wouldn’t say that no one can read them,” Imad replied. “Even if the ganzibria priests couldn’t transliterate the written text, they’d be able to recite the historiola.”

“The historiola? I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with that term.”

“A historiola is a short story about a ritual. The act of reading the story functions as a performance of the ritual itself, like a magic spell.”

“How does that work?” Cole asked. 

Imad shrugged. “It’s magic. Who can say how it works? Still, it’s probably for the best that no one at the Smithsonian can read the amulets. You wouldn’t want to pronounce the Aramaic with too much accuracy. If the divine creator brought this world into existence with a word, it stands to reason that another word might open the gates between worlds. That’s a metaphor for the expansiveness of spirituality, of course,” he added with a smile, “but one can never be too careful.”

“Interesting,” Cole said, and it was. The idea that the act of reading could serve as a magic ritual was intriguing. “So what are you translating this afternoon?”

“Well,” Imad started to say, but he winced as he leaned against the waist-high counter separating the office from the faculty mailboxes. It could have been a trick of the light, but something seemed to ripple under his layers of sweaters.

Imad caught the look of concern on Cole’s face. “Sorry,” he said as he turned toward the door. “I might have had too much tea with lunch. I’m going to visit the bathroom and head to my office.”

Cole nodded and returned his eyes to his computer screen, hoping that he’d staged a decent performance of polite interest. He hesitated to cross the line of professional distance with the members of his department. He couldn’t afford to move back to Boston, and he needed this job. Arkham wasn’t the most prosperous suburb, and the only other paying work he’d be likely to find here was at the fulfillment center warehouse by the highway. 

Still, he liked Imad. Professionalism be damned. 

Later that afternoon, he brewed two bags of mint tea in paper cups and carried them down the hall to the graduate student office. When Imad answered the door, Cole was struck by the wet smell that emerged from the room. It was as if something spilled on the carpet and never dried properly. 

“So I was thinking,” he said, “no one is using the department chair’s office over the summer. I was planning to air it out a bit. Care to join me?” 

The chair’s office was lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and equipped with the sort of grommeted furniture that populated movies about gentlemen explorers. It smelled like fine paper and old leather, and the sunlight that filtered through the cloudy panes of glass in the mullioned windows was bright but gentle.

 “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me what you’re working on?” Cole asked as he sat down. 

“I guess it wouldn’t hurt to talk about it,” Imad replied. He sank back in his chair as he took a long sip of tea. “At the moment I’m working on a translation of the Kitab al-Azif. This is a gnostic text that originated somewhere in the vicinity of Yemen in the early eighth century. It was believed to have potent magical properties, and it was translated into several languages over the centuries. 

“Manuscripts of the Azif managed to travel around the world, but they’re remarkably rare. When I was doing research for my MA thesis, I’d see one translation or another cited in various papers, but I could never find the original source. It turns out that the only physical copies in the United States are held by the Miskatonic library, which is why I applied to do my PhD here. 

“I thought it might be interesting to compare the versions to understand how key phrases were translated by different cultures. When I spoke to the head of Special Collections here at our library, she was happy to share a PDF of a tenth-century Arabic manuscript held by the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. The file isn’t the best quality, to be honest. The manuscript is a copy of a copy of a copy, and the source is badly damaged. I’m doing the best I can with what I have available. 

“I’d like to write a grant to go see the original in person, but I’m not at that stage yet. Maybe next spring? I could use a vacation.” Imad shrugged and took another sip of tea. Cole was relieved to see the color returning to his face. 

“So this Kitab al…”

“Azif. It’s a poetic word that refers to the chirping of nocturnal insects.”

“So this Kitab al-Azif, what’s it about? If that’s the right question.”

“No, that’s a great question. The book holds that there’s a deeper truth to the universe, and the author – we don’t know his true name – tells a remarkably coherent story as he explains what this supposed truth is. He claims that our universe is like the thin film on the surface of a bubble, and he believes that there are all manner of things outside the bubble we can’t see. 

“This isn’t an original idea, but what’s interesting about the Azif is that its author provides a history of our planet long before humans lived here. Most creation myths describe humans as being brought into existence shortly after the universe itself, but the Azif speaks of genesis in terms of cycles. People that weren’t human inhabited the planet before us, and people who aren’t human will live here after us.”

“That sounds kind of Buddhist,” Cole cut in.     

“Exactly! There’s a great deal of Eastern thought incorporated into these ideas. All times exist at once, simultaneously, and in different dimensions. The borders between dimensions can be weakened by magic, supposedly. By the act of reading the Azif, the creatures occupying other dimensions can be invited into our own world.” 

“I’d love to meet them,” Cole remarked. “I wonder what they look like?”

Imad stared at his tea as he shifted the paper cup between his hands. “They’re probably not what you expect. I think we’ve gotten used to the strange creatures that appear in movies. When you finally see the monster on the other side of the door, it becomes familiar, like a type of mascot. We can see horrible things online whenever we want, from deep sea fish to the microorganisms that live inside our bodies, and we’ve learned to love them. But maybe there are things out there that are so alien that we’ll never be able to process them, either intellectually or emotionally.

“Gnosticism seems so natural in the twenty-first century, doesn’t it? Of course there’s a deeper truth to the universe. All we have to do is use science to figure it out. People publish their findings, and what they learn becomes real to us in the form of technological innovation. But the modern Western world didn’t invent science. Other cultures studied the stars and the principles of chemistry and physics long before Aristotle began giving lectures at his Lyceum. So why did gnostic ideas fall out of favor? Why did people stop thinking about the universe as a malleable series of experiential planes? I wonder if perhaps someone saw the monster on the other side of the door and decided that it would be better if the truth remained hidden.”

“Wow. I wish I could have recorded that.”

  Imad looked up from his tea. “What do you mean?”

“That would have been a fantastic interview for my podcast. You have a great voice for audio.”

“Do I?” Imad laughed, but his mirth vanished as his face twisted into a grimace.

Cole frowned. “Listen, Imad. You’re really not looking so great.”

“I’m fine.” As Imad rose to his feet, Cole couldn’t help notice the awkward movement of his body. The way his sweaters bunched around his torso was decidedly odd. Something like a thick strip of cloth hung from the back of the layers of fabric. As Cole watched Imad leave the room, he could have sworn that it twitched.

Cole returned to campus later that evening. He unlocked the department office and sat at his desk without turning on the lights. He considered making a show of checking his email, but the performance would be for no one’s benefit but his own. As long as he was here, he might as well get this over with. 

Cole wanted to tell himself he was sneaking around for Imad’s own good. That was true, to a certain extent, but it wasn’t the whole truth. He’d always regretted not investigating the waterlogged doll, and he promised himself that he wouldn’t pass up an opportunity like that again. Still, as he set off down the dim corridor of faculty offices, he couldn’t help but feel guilty. The grad student office wasn’t a private space, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t violating Imad’s trust. 

There was no strange smell when he opened the office door, just the lingering aroma of bergamot tea. The two cubicles closest to the door were empty. Imad had claimed the cubicle by the window, and he’d dragged a table next to the wall behind his chair. It was covered in library books.

There was nothing unusual on Imad’s desk – a bottle of aspirin, a jumble of cheap pens, and a spare phone charger. He hadn’t pinned any photos to the corkboard cubicle divider, but a collection of thank-you cards from students was propped in a corner. Several manilla folders were stacked on top of each other in the opposite corner, each neatly labeled in Arabic.

Cole opened one of the folders. The paper inside was covered in dark smudges. This must be a copy of the manuscript scan Imad told him about. Cole didn’t know anything about Arabic, but even he could tell how bad the image quality was. It was amazing that Imad could read this at all. Interleaved between the photocopies were pages torn from a yellow legal pad. The loose papers were covered with annotations surrounding a handwritten English translation.

 Cole scanned what Imad had written, but none of it made sense to him. As far as he could tell, this particular passage had something to do with constellations. The next page was a clean photocopy of what must be a Latin translation, and the next was a translation of the Latin into severely antiquated English. Under that was a printed copy of the Wikipedia page about the sky quadrants used by medieval astronomers.

Something seized in Cole’s chest as he flipped through the pages. This was exactly the sort of academic work he once imagined himself doing. A lone scholar sitting at a quiet desk with nothing but paper and a pen as he studied ancient texts, taking careful notes while excavating the meaning of words written in centuries past. There was a certain romance to the idea, and Cole wasn’t at all surprised to find that Imad’s handwriting was as beautiful as his voice.

He picked up the legal pad sitting at the center of the desk and flipped to the last few pages. A word written in capital letters immediately caught his attention: SHOGGOTH. Under it, Imad had written: “What is formless will be given form. The shoggoth will heed the call of its creator, if called in a [dream??] voice speaking its proper name. That which hides in the deathless gap between hours can be retrieved by a shoggoth, grasped within its hands without hands.”

The next page contained a series of vectors that Imad had labeled with numbers and overlaid with pencil sketches of constellations. Cole recognized the Big Dipper of Ursa Major, as well as the three stars of Orion’s Belt, but something about the angles formed by the connected lines felt wrong. Looking at them too closely made his head hurt. 

The next page was a photocopy of an illuminated manuscript written in Latin. Cole didn’t understand Imad’s annotations, many of which were crossed out, but a square yellow sticky note appended to the bottom of the page caught his attention. Almost without being aware of it, he read the note out loud. “The hands without hands, fhtagn ph’nglui.”

As the words left his mouth, the image of the thick pale thread emerging from Imad’s sweaters jumped into Cole’s mind. He was struck by the smell of water. Roiling seas under an endless expanse of sky, stars and constellations without number, pinpricks of light fitting together into an intricate matrix of impossible geometry.

Something unpleasant rose in his throat. He barely made it to the bathroom in time.

Cole couldn’t leave the building quickly enough. He was sick again in the bushes beside the parking lot.

It was only sitting in his car, with the air conditioning blasting in his face, that his nausea dissipated. As he clutched the wheel, Cole chided himself for letting his imagination get the better of him. A cursed book was all well and good, but the notion of a cursed photocopy was absurd. He’d managed to spook himself for no reason. Whatever was going on with Imad had nothing to with star charts or Latin manuscripts. A section of the roof of Whateley Hall had collapsed during the heavy snowfall of the previous winter, and Cole wouldn’t be surprised if it had resulted in extensive water damage to the building. The insulation in the walls was more than likely riddled with mildew.  

Someone should get Imad set up in a different office. That someone, as it happened, was him. He’d bring it up tomorrow, Cole resolved as he backed out of his parking space. Still, he was troubled by the word Imad had written in rough letters at the top of his legal pad. What the hell was a shoggoth? 

Cole woke up the next morning haunted by a lingering sense of shame. What had possessed him to drive back to campus and sneak into Imad’s office? That was creepier than any cursed book could ever be. He needed to talk to Imad. Really talk to him. Maybe even ask him out to dinner.  

Cole washed his hair for the first time in a week and trimmed his beard as it dried. His apartment occupied the top floor of an old Queen Anne house, and the morning sun streamed through the tall windows under the peaked gambrel roof. Songbirds chirped in the branches of the stately ash tree growing beside the house. Cole had been toying with the possibility of moving back to Ohio, but he couldn’t deny that there was a certain charm to summer mornings in New England.

In the department office, he chatted with Peggy as he handled the visa paperwork of an incoming grad student, all the while feeling a sort of secondhand pride that someone would come all the way from abroad to study at Miskatonic. He ate lunch on the outside patio with the two elderly women who ran the office of the Modern Languages department. They showed him photos of their cats on their phones and told him stories about their grandchildren as they enjoyed the sunshine. Afterward, they brushed their teeth together in the women’s bathroom on the second floor, which they agreed was the nicest in Whateley Hall.

 Cole waited for Imad to come to the office. He waited so hard that he couldn’t read Wikipedia, not even the entry about the mysteriously nondescript warehouses used to house banks of internet servers. Everything he saw on social media annoyed him. Eventually he gave up on trying to do anything productive and opened a website that emulated screensavers from the 1990s.

After spending half an hour watching digital fish float through an overbright coral reef, Cole realized that he was being silly. It was a beautiful summer day. There was no need for him to kill time in an empty office while Imad was making himself sick looking at crusty photocopies of wizard nonsense for the sake of a dissertation that no one would ever read. 

Cole’s palms were sweaty as he knocked on the door of the grad student office. What if Imad had noticed that his research notes had been disturbed? 

“Imad?” he called out, but there was no answer. He wiped his hands on his pants before grasping the doorknob. At best, he’d have to apologize to Imad for going through his papers. At worst, he’d have to drive him to the hospital. 

There was another possibility: a void, a vacuum, a tear in the fabric of reality. A window opening onto an oceanic abyss trapped beneath sheets of ice for millennia. A silent city suspended under lightless stars. A multitude of insectile eyes focused on the present moment: a miniscule oasis in the ever-expanding desert of time and space. 

Cole opened the door. The office was empty.

The window was open, and a faint breeze carried the scent of freshly cut grass into the room. A ceramic mug of tea sat on the table next to a laptop with a burnished copper finish. 

Cole closed the door and stepped back into the corridor, where he was greeted by a strange but familiar smell. The odor wasn’t unpleasant, just unusual. It reminded him of the lake shore where his uncles had hosted cookouts when he was a kid. He’d spent most of his summers indoors, reading his way through the local library’s paltry stock of fiction. His isolation made the outings to the lake with his cousins all the sweeter. In truth, Cole loved the smell of water, and he had a good idea of where it was coming from. 

He retraced his steps down the corridor until he arrived at the bathroom by the elevators. With no hesitation whatsoever, he went inside. 

At first, Cole didn’t understand the sight that greeted him. He recognized Imad’s face, but it took a few seconds to process the rest of him. Five fleshy appendages ringed with red patches of irritated skin emerged from Imad’s naked torso. The tentacles were limp but twitched spasmodically. 

Beads of sweat pooled on Imad’s forehead as he stared at Cole in horror, his sweaters clutched in his hands. “Listen, I don’t… I mean, I can explain,” he stammered. 

“You can explain later,” Cole replied, his concern for Imad’s discomfort winning out over his shock. “Just sit tight. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”

Cole dashed to the department office, hoping against hope that Imad didn’t flee. He grabbed a can of ginger ale from the office minifridge and rushed back to the bathroom.

He found Imad sitting on the bench by the door. His face was utterly forlorn, and his tentacles waved listlessly in Cole’s direction. 

“Buddy, you’ve got to hydrate,” Cole said, popping the tab on the can of ginger ale.  

Imad accepted the can with a curt nod and drank. When he finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “The words of the ritual,” he muttered. “The book was a historiola, but I got the words wrong. I couldn’t read them correctly.”

“Maybe you can get them to send you a better photocopy next time,” Cole replied. “For the time being, you need to take better care of yourself. Your, uh… Tentacles? Can I call them that? Whatever’s going on there. It looks like they’re irritated by your clothing. Peggy has a giant bottle of hand lotion on her desk. I’m sure she won’t mind if you use it.” 

“This doesn’t bother you?” Imad asked.  

“It’s not making you evil or anything, is it?”

“I don’t think so.” Imad’s shoulders sagged. “It’s just a lot to get used to. And sometimes I see things I’m not sure are actually there.”

“What type of things? Anything fun?”

Imad managed a weak grin. “Why? Do you still want to interview me for your podcast?”

“Forget the podcast. But I’d love to talk with you. I’m not busy right now. Do you want to take a walk? Maybe go out for coffee or something?”

Imad’s tentacles perked up at the question. “Are you asking me out?” 

“I… yes. I’m sorry if that’s not appropriate. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” 

“You don’t want to make me uncomfortable.” Imad stared at Cole in disbelief before breaking into laughter. His tentacles undulated with good cheer. 

Cole returned his smile. He’d been worried that something was terribly wrong with Imad, but this wasn’t so bad, all things considered. Imad’s tentacles were kind of cute. Perhaps they would have been more horrific if they’d come directly from a cursed book, but there wasn’t much damage a grainy photocopy could do. Whatever this Kitab al-Azif was, he and Imad could handle it together, preferably after they’d gotten something to eat. And who knows, it might even make a good episode for his podcast. 

The post The Annotated Kitab al-Azif appeared first on The New Absurdist.

Snow fell quiet in dropped cotton kisses. 

I wear my jacket in class every day. Mr. See’s classroom has one window that looks out on the parking lot below, and he keeps it open at all times, even over the weekend. Though I bet the janitors close it. Maybe he asked them not to. They would listen because everybody loves Mr. See. We shiver in the winter and learned quickly to take our jackets out of our lockers where we had stuffed them to wait out the day. Sometimes it’s kinda nice; fresh air dispersing the spritzes and sprays we swim around in. But it’s also super annoying. 

Snow sheeted the parking lot below the window, each and every car disappearing beneath a layer of icing. But Mr. See says that nature and love are the food of life, so we should embrace them when we have the chance, that we should always keep the window open. It just seems cold to me. 

Last week, Juliet came up to me and asked if I like cars. The skylight above our lockers was completely covered with snow, crystals shimmering over glass. How much pressure can those windows take? Would the frost break through and avalanche me alive? Would she dig through the snow to find me? You like cars too? She had asked. No, not really, but–Maybe I can.

She fixes them up and sells them, which is pretty cool. Maybe I can like cars, I told her. She laughed at that. I can like cars for that, I think. Silver bells. Sometimes my face turns pink. I hope it didn’t then. 

Mr. See said he wanted to tell us all a love story. We groaned–hadn’t Marquez done enough to us for one day? But it wasn’t Marquez’s story. It was Mr. See’s. A story about a different snowy day–before our class ever lost that blue dog’s eyes–and he was driving home early from school. The teachers, he said, they all leave school after we do. I guess we keep trying to hit them with our beat-up, hand-me-down cars on our way out of the parking lot, where we speed home or do doughnuts. He says we try to kill them–not on purpose, I don’t think, but either way, he waits until the coast is clear of all us scary teens. I don’t think I’ve almost hit someone before. I’d probably remember that. On this snowy day, though, he told us, he had to pick his kids up early for a doctor’s appointment, so he left halfway through the day during the group B lunch. My lunch is group A, which means I have to eat a turkey sandwich, curly fries, all washed down with a foil-clad juice packet at 10:30 in the morning, right before running a mile in gym class. It’s all sweat and turkey for the rest of the day, and that’s never seemed all that good to me. No wonder the hallways are rank and rotten. 

No wonder Mr. See lets in the snow. 

The juniors and seniors get to leave school for lunch if they want to, which is okay, but you’ve still got to have a car if you want to go anywhere other than Walmart. If you’re seventeen and have a car, you can get French fries from a McDonald’s down the street instead of the curly ones from the cafeteria down the stairs. I think the fries in the cafeteria are a lot better because they’re actually hot and they’re not soggy from a steaming journey in the passenger’s seat or held fast between some jock’s thighs. But an hour of freedom is worth floppy fries and getting older. I guess. 

That day with the “Eyes of a Blue Dog,” when Mr. See also told us his story, the window was open wide, and the snowflakes fell in marshmallow chunks. All we were thinking about was a snow day, about how much we had earned one. Would Juliet win in a snowball fight? I think she would. Flakes swirled downward. We thought about snow while Mr. See talked about the story, “Eyes of a Blue Dog.” Love and love and love, he said as the flakes layered over the windowsill. Gabriel Garcia Marquez said it, love, and love, I guess. In those trippy, dreamy words. 

I watched the snow swirling.  

In the art classroom, where I took drawing last year, they make a pot of coffee every day. You wander through the hallway, and it’s the normal nasty B.O., Axe body spray, and sticky, choking hormones at every twisting turn, but then you pass by the art room. And bam. Just coffee. Roasty and warm, and you can hear the sizzle and drip from the machine if you get there at the right time. And sometimes my 7:30 Red Bull isn’t good enough to make it to 9:00, let alone 10:00 or 11:00. And my mom told me that I can’t have two or else my heart will explode. That she worries, and I should eat an apple instead, some peanut butter, she says. But I don’t know about that. I usually pop into the writing room, make my way around, grab some coffee, and say hi to my old teachers from before. I think the teachers might be bored because they always wave and chatter when they see me. They ask about my weekend, about movies, and friends. It was boring, I tell them. Last weekend was too.

I wonder what Juliet watched this weekend–maybe YouTube or Batman–did she and her friends go to Joe’s for a burger and fries too? Maybe they hung out in the parking lot to eat in the curative weekend air. Maybe it was boring like mine. 

What does it look like? The two of them asked my class—Mr. Marquez and Mr. See asked us, talking about blue dogs and breaths of falling snow. What does it look like? Love? When it’s walking down the street, or wandering the fluorescent aisles in the grocery store, how about in the school hallway chaos, sweating at the 24-hour gym, driving around town for something interesting to do, in our dreams? 

Yesterday, when Juliet came up to me, she asked where I got the coffee. Hell, yeah. I can talk coffee. That’s what I told her. No problem. It was a white, winter day, and she was wearing a jacket like a skinned Muppet all purple and fuzzy. We stood just outside the front doors of the school, and everyone else swam around us while we talked. I like it when she talks about cars and the snowflakes stick like glitter to her lashes. All cars and snow and cars. What does it look like? They asked. 

I raised my hand because what the hell were they talking about? 

Love, Marquez said, whispering messages in dreams that leak. 

Mr. See nodded, love. 

I don’t know about that. 

When Juliet asked me where I got the coffee, I took her to the art room. This is Juliet, Juliet, these are the old teachers. I see them every day. My weekend was boring, I told them as we walked by. We–me and Juliet together–went over to the coffee pot, which was still dripping and hissing. The cups next to the pot aren’t really big enough, so I showed her how I usually grab one from the cupboard the teachers restock from.

I don’t need to ask, which is cool. 

She hadn’t met my counselor before. I wonder who hers is and if she likes them. I walked her back to the office while we waited for the drip to finish up. I can ask my counselor for stuff that I need, and he might say yes. That’s how I got my new glasses, but I don’t wear those at school. Just for homework and stuff, if I remember. 

This is Juliet, everyone. 

As the snow fell, Mr. See told us about that day. That other snowy day. He was sitting at a red light during B lunch. It’s when most of the juniors and seniors fly free. Big flakes slushed to icy puddles on the asphalt as he waited for green. Then love hit. 

Today, Juliet and I got coffee again, and I showed her where they keep the half-and-half and the sugar, too. They sometimes stash some secret snacks over there. Before class, we talked about coffee and cars, and curly fries. I wonder if I should sit next to her tomorrow. Or if that would be weird. Maybe I should ask Mr. See. 

Mr. See said that when he got hit that day in the snow while he waited for the light to turn green, the first thought he had was about his kids. He’s got two, I think. No. He’s got two, I know. He talks about them in every class at least one time. He said he saw their faces in his mind and heard their voices talking about soccer and cereal. When everything else went black. But he was okay. Only after he opened his eyes, after he was okay, he felt frustration. Felt annoyed, he said. Of car repairs, insurance companies, of being late to the doctor, and having to reschedule. Felt furious, he said. Of the faces of his sons, of his kids waiting, and worried, and wondering where he was. Of the awakened thought. Only a moment between him and his boys. Between never picking them up again. He should’ve waited, he said, just another hour, or should’ve asked his wife to grab them from school instead. But he was too excited to see them, he told us. To hear about soccer and cereal. 

I wonder if my dad would be excited to take me to the doctor. We might talk about coffee. Would he leave work early? In the snow. Talk about curly fries at school. I could ask Mr. See. Maybe the art teachers. What do they think? But it’s kind of boring. 

The insurance card was in Mr. See’s hand, hazards on, and he was closing the door behind him, but he told us, when he squinted through the falling snow, there was no movement in the other car. There was no damage, aside from his own headlight, he noticed after scoping out the scene, waving other drivers past. Lunchtime juniors and seniors. 

The snow makes everything quiet. It’s like a giant blanket smothering everything beneath it. And Mr. See’s head was hurting because he must have hit it in the clash. The flakes fell silent, and even all the cars going by seemed to hush past. No one stopped. They all drove by until there was no one left at that light but Mr. See. And the guy who hit him. 

There was no movement from the car. 

His frustration was rising–his kids would be waiting and worried–he marched over to the driver’s side door. Every window was completely fogged over, the driver invisible. What the hell was this joker doing? Mr. See swears like that sometimes, even in class. He knocked. No answer. 

A whole minute of knocking went by, then shivering, then knocking again. He had his phone open. 9-1-1, ready to go because something was wrong. Maybe he was hurt. Or maybe something else. But it was just a little bump. Just his own headlight. What was going on inside? And the snow was cold and quiet. 

It was enough. 

Mr. See yanked the door open, jumping back to a haul-ass position just in case.

I probably would’ve hit the deck no questions if it was me. Or ran away as fast as I could. Would my dad answer the phone if I called him then? I think he would. 

But Mr. See didn’t need to hit the deck. Or call his dad. 

It was just a kid. 

Probably a senior, sporting a letterman jacket, like the ones all the football players sport daily: red and blue, a design unwearable and embarrassing after high school except by burnt-out bummers or at some kind of reunion. I probably won’t go to those. Will Juliet? 

The angle was almost impossible to make out the letterman’s features. The guy’s left hand still had a death grip on the wheel. His body twisted, extended as far into the passenger side as he could go, clearly holding something below the passenger dash, eyes barely peeping above the wheel. 

Mr. See told us how his heart ran all around like a thumping, metal bassline. He was in the military, I think, so his imagination went off roaming. All of the things someone could be reaching for raced like Hell’s grocery list through his head. What did he have to be ready for? What did he have to do? 

Mr. See tried to visualize the details of his sons’ faces until, with wet, blue eyes, the letterman looked up at him. Tears streaming down his face, his chin quivered like frostbite. He desperately whimpered sorrys, hiccupped pleas of don’t call the cops, don’t call my mom, and what do I do nows. Mr. See went blank. 

The letterman choked how sorry, so, so sorry he was, sir, through macho tears. He couldn’t see the lines on the road because the windshield was all fogged up. Mr. See glanced around at the falling snow and the gray and silent sky, still eyeing the kid’s right hand, which hadn’t moved at all. And he nodded.

What he would give to be back in his own car, he said, driving to the doctor, his kids in the back fighting and playing, screeching, and laughing. He’s going to tell his kids this whole story when they’re older, I bet. Even the part where he nearly peed his pants and booked it when the letterman in the car suddenly straightened from the passenger’s side and aimed the contents of his right hand directly at Mr. See’s face. 

Everything stopped swirling. 

The kid blinked. 

Mr. See’s face must have looked wild, drained, and distorted. 

Then in a tiny mouse voice, the letterman whispered sorry he needed to keep them warm and sorry sorry. The heater was out on the driver’s side. He desperately needed to get back before the end of lunch because the fries he had brought for his girlfriend were getting cold, and she had broken her leg, and she was all alone, and she needed–the letterman’s eyes lagoon blue and overflowing, she loves fries, he choked. Lukewarm and soggy, he had to do his best. Had to make it back to her. He didn’t want her to slip on ice, so he went himself. Didn’t want her to fall and hurt herself, the letterman said, with eyes like a dog, and looked at the sloppy bag of fries in his outstretched hand, which were definitely worse than the ones in the cafeteria. But you pay a price for that taste of freedom. Even if it’s second-hand. I guess I’ll find out when I’m older. He had been holding the fries under the passenger’s side heater as he drove, so they wouldn’t get cold because she really needed a pick-me-up and and sorry sorry sorry. 

His blue eyes welled. 

Mr. See’s pulse steadied–it had been like a marching band going, thumping around his chest, he told us–but his breath calmed, and he nodded at the letterman before returning to his car, one headlight just a little messed up. The light turned green and he drove to pick up his kids. Snowflakes curled.  

That’s love, Mr see said after telling us a story about a gray and snowy day. What is? What is love, we asked? But he just smiled and told us to take out Pablo Neruda. The bell for lunch would ring in twenty-one minutes, and I bet I wasn’t the only one who could smell the fries–waiting for us, warm, crispy spirals in the cafeteria below. Juliet had asked what I was having for lunch. We could sit together, she said as the snow eddied, and I could almost taste those fries, rich and substantial. What was I doing for lunch? Fries. I think, and then I shrugged a little, like the guys in the movies do. How can you tell when something is significant? What was I doing for lunch? Sitting with you. I couldn’t say that, though. But she nodded at me anyway. So maybe we’ll sit together. Maybe she likes fries too. Outside, was a different world now, snow spiraled. Nothing looked like it had when the bus dropped me off in the morning. Now quilted in clear white, and a horizon of fries was twenty-one minutes away. Maybe. 

Mr. See sat on the windowsill, a winter breath from the open window twisting around him, and he held up Neruda. Love, he said. 

I opened my book. 

I don’t know about that.

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