skit #95: destination

As he waits, he futilely cycles through decorative variations like a colorblind florist. Per usual, no more preparations are necessary. Everything suffices. But when it comes to the reception of his guests, anxious Mike Williamson strives to exceed unremarkable sufficiency. Everything must be perfect, even if the guests are too crass to sense perfection. The floors are mopped. Steel surfaces are polished doubly. The setting is serene and dignified. The aimless endeavor of his guests' lives will culminate in the coming moments.

He smiles to himself, recognizing he is fidgeting in his pop's manner. When he was Little Mike, he would perch upon on Big Mike Williamson's knee up in the projection booth. Before screenings, Big Mike would sweep the aisles, air out the theater, pop the kernels, dust the organ pipes; then he would shuffle about the hallways, fidgeting incessantly. Not until the neighborhood kids poured into the aisles, mottled with smeared candy and bruises, unbridled by the school year's end, did Big Mike calm. Giddy, they waited in Big Mike's theater to be delivered from the burden of juvenile responsibilities to some fantastic island paradise or to some kingdom in the skies. That was the moment the kids and Big Mike and Little Mike awaited all year.

Just as Big Mike's name never graced the film credits, when Little Mike's guests soon arrive he will seek no recognition, only transparency. This moment belongs to them alone. All extraneous beings, experiences, and phenomena form the vehicle that transports his guests to this moment. Little Mike is only one such apparatus. His duty to his guests to usher them to their destination, as though this moment will come to be with no intervention.

The promenade begins. The cattle clatter and moo. Little Mike ceremoniously welcomes his guests with a pneumatically actuated bolt, introducing cranial apertures so their souls may find levity when their bodies fail. Cleavers grant the favor of mechanically separating their impermanent flesh. Strong men clear the dais for newcomers. Runnels of blood ferry giblets away through the sluice grates until nothing remains. The earthy smell of unbounded life fills the room.  

Little Mike will forever remain unknown to his patronage.