Tuesday, September 22, 2009

skit #86: Zergoff the Mindmaster

Washed in spotlighting, flamboyantly attired in his trademark sapphire-sequined tuxedo, somehow Zergoff the Mindmaster appears naked when on stage during tonight's performance.

Zergoff declares monotonically:

"He should have been an obedient son.
"He should have stayed out of his mother's closet.
"He should never have searched for the shoebox of heirlooms.
"He should never have taken his grandfather's pocketwatch.
"He should have honored the dead.
"He should have returned it when mom wept.
"He should have laid awake, undone with guilt.
"He should never have stayed up all night with it.
"He should never have admired its golden shine.
"He should never have lost himself in his reflection.
"He should have believed in magic instead.
"He should have gone into rabbits and top hats and sawing lovely assistants.
"He should have stayed out of people's heads.
"He should have feared so much power.
"He should have hidden the pocketwatch for a much later age.
"He should have waited until he was old enough to appreciate it.
"He should never have watched so many cartoons.
"He should never schemed so mischievously.
"He should never have practiced on Rufus.
"He should have thought more about what it's like to be a dog.
"He should have issued his instructions in woofs and howls.
"He should have taught Rufus something benign, like a trick or two.
"He should never have put human thoughts into a dog brain.
"He should never have imposed such existential crises upon loyal Rufus.
"He should have learned how to undo it.
"He should have confessed when mom wondered why Rufus was acting so very odd.
"He should have learned from mistakes made.
"He should never have practiced on Wally.
"He should never have practiced on Samantha.
"He should never have practiced on the guy who so adamantly insisted on being called dad.
"He should never have practiced on the teacher.
"He should never have practiced on the principal.
"He should never have practiced on mom.
"He should have really learned how to undo it.
"He should have retained a few authority figures.
"He should have learned some rules before bending them, before breaking them.
"He should never have left New Orleans.
"He should have been erased by Katrina.
"He should have felt lucky.
"He should have begun again, a simple life.
"He should have learned to accomplish things the normal way.
"He should have paid for brunch-time waffles.
"He should have rented his one-bedroom studio.
"He should have met someone nice.
"He should have met Lucy.
"He should have asked where she grew up.
"He should have asked how she got that barely-noticeable scar on her wrist.
"He should have politely yet confidentely asked her for her phone number.
"He should have asked her out for gelato, her choice of flavor.
"He should never have crammed up next to her in the subway.
"He should never have swayed that pocketwatch in front of her eyes.
"He should never have left her so confused the next morning.
"He should have met Melinda.
"He should have met Else.
"He should have met Hu.
"He should have met more people.
"He should have met anybody.
"He should never have met nobody.
"He should have felt brave without his pocket watch.
"He should have been strong enough on his own.
"He should have confessed how deceptive he is.
"He should have confessed how miserable he is.
"He should have been honest all along.
"He should have hypnotized himself.
"He should have committed himself to this admission.
"He should have felt relief.
"He should have felt clean.
"He should never have learned how to do it.
"He should never have learned how to undo it.

Zergoff finishes abruptly. The mesmerized audience, his strangers, applaud in a suspiciously rigid unison. The spotlight switches off and the show concludes. Eventually, all the patrons and performers leave the venue to return to their various done and undone lives.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

skit #85: all inconspicuously

It's around afternoon, maybe even after that. Nightfall seems an impossibility. The sun holds an ominous promise like the rancid orange on my dashboard. The air conditioning exhales sticky breath drawn from the tarmac-buttered road. Traffic is stopped, or I can't tell. We commuters lurch together in inches through barren scenery devoid of the landmarks necessary to appreciate progress. Relentless tans and yellows, relentless plains: neutrality wages its effortless war of attrition. I succumb utterly. I contemplate land tortoise, the treasury bond, the graham cracker, and other matters slow and stale.

The freeway insists forward we go. Dotted lines divide the lanes, outside of which we swerve as the heat warps our senses. The traffic flows so slowly that mortal accidents are rare. Death's Buick taps my bumper and by hand I limply waive the guilt of his second offense having learned the futility of honking years ago. Commuters of this freeway strive for civility, even in this traffic and heat.

My legs fall asleep from non-use. I can't tell if my foot covers the gas or brake. The billboards are large and colorful, mercilessly legible. They are my only stimulation, otherwise I'd slip underneath the dogged weight of this dog day. I can read these words, but my fatigue yields only sun-curdled thoughts. The car dealers on the billboards don't sweat, don't look human. They grin flat grins, ignorant of the suffering they've dispensed upon the traffic. Barbara Buckleys and Red Coulters and Joey Petronis gloat from above as we slog along under their serene faces.

I watch the cars, unending processions, cars, cars, cars. We drive forward. Forward, going. Behind, coming. The rear view mirror frames the Buick, still tailgating me. Draped over the steering wheel, I see Death subdued by the same malaise afflicting all us commuters. He looks peacefully still when he slouches, as though he is a spring unsprung. I too wish to be unsprung so. For a moment, we share our misery. But Death taps my bumper a third time, startling him from his laze. He raises his hand in flustered apology. My patience spent, I whip my head around, and glare darkly at Death's ineptitude.

Ahead, tail lights wink. My windshield allows a brief sense of freedom, shattering completely.

An inadequate dose of anesthesia renders me mute and numb as I watch my surgeon earn her paycheck. Her paper mask nullifies her identity, but I know who is in her body, still recklessly tailgating me.

I heal over some years and resume life as normal. Both my accident and brush with Death, mostly forgotten.

Pickles are half off, so I buy two jars. A clumsy skeletal hand reaches for the kalamatas, elbowing my rib during the grab. In that flustered apologetic way, Death's open palms beg a forgiveness, presumptuously accepting that which I do not grant. He rattles my shopping cart as he tries to scoot by, sending my vitamin-enriched Wonderbread to the polished floor. Nonchalant and unaware, he continues to nix collected items from his shopping list in other aisles.

I doubt he even recognizes me, though we've met before.
Even Death hates to wait; I position myself two patrons behind him in the Express Line. I count the items in his basket: 14, counting dubious multiples as singles. He remains oblivious as I cleverly spy from behind a tabloid. I notice my two fellow patrons also spying. Dozens of patrons, most of the cashiers, and two managers also spy. Perhaps Death adopted his oblivion so not to face all those he's acquainted professionally.

I hastily load my groceries into my car and manage to follow Death's Buick as he exits the parking lot. I trail him by a full city-block of space; I congratulate my inconspicuousness. I notice the entire grocery store, the entire neighborhood, the entire city trails him; all inconspicuously.


Death drives home in the traffic we once created. Ahead of him, drivers nervously watch their rear view mirrors, congesting matters in their wake, resulting in this elegantly necessary traffic.
The dog days chase their tails and summer persists.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

skit #84: Wriggly Hookins

No, nuh uh. No fishes today. But look what else I got. In the old farmers pond out back I found him. Right there mixed in with the rest of the bait. Fattest one of em all. Knew he was lucky. See, look at all his luck oozing right out.

I wash the dishes. My son's rambling bothers me.

Mama, yer not listening. Wh--

Today is a weekday. Why did he not attend school?

W, w, well, I was fishing for all day long with Drew instead. School dont miss me. Social studies dont miss me. See, you could look it in the book! Presidents ago still got elect if I were there or werent. Nothing changed. Heck, you barely miss me.

He caught insufficient fish. His excursion was of no use.

But there werent barely no fishes, mama. That aint my fault. I did get this fattyfatty, by the grace of Wriggly Hookins. Fry him, mama. Im hungry.

He holds up a small box. His puny fish shall not satisfy me. He has a worm left. He must explain.

Used up all the other worms, because they don't mean nothing. I told you, Wriggly Hookin's lucky. You can't waste lucky worms. Dont you know nothing, mama? Haw, you probably never had a lucky worm in your whole life. I bet daddy had a million.

My son is foolish. Worms do not posses luck. Roy left us long ago. I mother poorly.

No, no, no. No. I used up all the littler worms and caught nothing but wet. Those littler worms are a penny a piece, nothing. Wriggly Hookins got us this fish. He caught the one all the other boys were after. Pete, Johnny, Tommy, all the rest, and even Drew tried. But they only had little worms too.

I had Wriggly Hookins. I cast him way deep in the pond. And sure enough my line tugs like I caught a mutt with pork chops. The boys all started hooting and clapping, yelling how I caught the fish, I caught the fish, I caught gnarly old Bubbubb! Some big old evil fish from back from before whenever, they gossip. Well, he aint all that big. But big for pond fodder. For dinner.

The boys kept cheering. But I didnt want some ugly fish. I wanted my lucky worm. And right when I get blue, when I reckon what trade Id just made, I see Wriggly Hookins squirming out of Bubbubb's gills. See, lucky as he is fat. And look at the bounty he brung.

The fish is absent. I wash more dishes.

Wait. Whered the fish go? It
was right there, right in the box. Dont move. We have to find Bubbubb. He probably snuck back into the pond through the toilet tubes.

His nonsense must end. My son will attend school tomorrow.

No, mama! I have to catch it again! You dont have no sense. You cant let no wicked fish swim around your own backyard! Doubt youd martyr for hump diddlysquat.
Wriggly Hookins wou--

I wallop the insolent boy. He sobs and flees to the fishing hole. He never attends school again.

Behold: Wriggly Hookins. He died for our dinner. Up on the hook. He unlocks the badness in Bubbubb like a key, sets it free. Well I can't remember all of it, but it's something like that.

My son and his make-believers look solemn by the pond shore at sunrise:
Pete, Johnny, Tommy, all the rest, and even Drew. I sense they secretly hope never to catch their wicked fish.