Polite Fictions

The Alphabet of Regret: V is for Victory

Elementary school.  Later years.  5th, 6th grade maybe.  Some lady.  Not our regular teacher.  Talking about Native American children.

"...and when you line them up for a race and tell them to run as fast as they can, just like you run races on your own playground, they get confused,"

she said.

Our young faces.  Eyebrows showing our confusion.  Raised.  Furrowed.  Raised.  Furrowed.  What's confusing about running as fast as you can to win?

"...they don't understand winning unless it is about everyone crossing the finish line together.  They only run as fast as the slowest runner.  They run in a group.  They cross the finish line together.  That is victory."

From that day forward my best friend Kelly and I ran side by side with Bobby.

Bobby from the Special Education class. 

Bobby was huge.  And wore corduroys and dapper v-neck sweaters every day in the winter.  And he threw up a lot.  I don't know why.  And his feet were giant.  Strangely giant at the ends of his fat ankles.  And he had a spectacular afro.  Perfect in its height, shape and color.  Medium-sized, perfectly round, jet black fro on top of his fat, happy face.

Kelly and I ran on either side of Bobby all over the playground.  Wherever he wanted to go.  He was a total slow poke.  Sometimes we would have conversations about things completely unrelated to Bobby as we trotted along beside him.  He would be sweating, panting and smiling from ear to ear.  Bobby didn't care what we talked about.  He was in his bliss.  Even more so when Kelly and I became so familiar with him that we recognized the guttural sound he would start making just before he was going to barf.  We would run him to a trash can or to the edge of the playground so he could puke, then run him around the playground again.

I loved Bobby.  Throughout my lifetime I've loved the memory of Kelly, Bobby and I more than most memories I have.  Sometimes it simply pops up out of nowhere and I feel amazingly happy right in the pit of my stomach.  Other times it's almost as if I dig around for it under a pile of good and not-so-good memories so I can hug it, tender and close, and thank it for giving me such goodness and purity all these years.  Thank it for letting me see the serious and loving look on Kelly's face, and the beautiful determination on Bobby's.  Thank it for showing me the joy of knowing victory at the pace of another human being.

So many times I've leaned into a starting line, tense and blood thirsty like an animal as I feel something akin to talons or claws thrusting their way out of the ends of my fingers and into the ventricles of my heart so I can spring forth and fly to the finish line first.

It's not been so bad really - winning as much as I can.  Taking the victory lap of being recognized for being first or most or best can be nice.  It has put money into my pocket, culminated into parties being thrown to celebrate me, had me being told 'congratulations!' and 'way to go!' and 'you're awesome!'.  I can't say I feel a desire to degrade or dismiss any of those experiences.

But the truth of me knows all of those winnings together will never amount to the memory of Bobby.  The memory of running side-by-side with him and Kelly.  The result of that woman sharing about the Native American children and their version of victory.

For all I know, that woman was full of shit and Native American children run to win as individuals just as much as any other kids.

Does that really matter now?  No.  What matters is that I am, without doubt, desirous of running shoulder to shoulder with as many human beings as I can before I go down for the dirt nap.  To speed up or just trot along side so I can see as many people as I can in their own bliss; their own perfect-for-them pace.  To live the victory of 'together' and 'us' and 'we' as much as I can.

Oh sure, I run at my own pace in life all the time too.  My own pace.  My blissful, delicious, delightful pace in life.  But what I always find, and why I want to see as much of others in their own bliss as I can, is that there is always someone speeding up or slowing down for me so they can love the bliss that is mine.

V.  Victory.  A regret?  Only when I forget the true meaning of it.

Alphabet of Regret: U is for Us

Urban coffeehouse basements each have their own smell. In this case it was a combination of roasted coffee beans and mildewed books. She could tell where she was with her eyes closed, which they were. It helped her stay still, closing her eyes. This group was especially asshole-ish about her keeping still. And they got their panties in a knot when she didn't hold a 10 minute pose for the whole 10 minutes, even though they were too cheap for an egg timer and she had to count out the 10 minutes in her head. So she lost count sometimes, what's the big deal?

He never complained, of course, just the others. He barely looked up from his drawing pad and probably had no idea who she was – even though he came to every single session. Sometimes he brought her a coffee on her break, which got her hopes up a little. But what could someone like that see in someone like her, she wondered.

Nothing. Obviously nothing.

**

Underwear on the floor next to his feet was not what he needed or wanted, yet there it was. The model had dropped her robe on the corner of the stand, and her cerise lace thong had fallen to the floor next to his chair. It was as if his mother was saying “look! A pretty girl's underwear! At your feet! Lucky you!” He didn't feel lucky. He felt like the shoe before it drops.

Bored with the model, he drew the thong.

**

Umeboshi plums are the most disgusting things ever, but knowing what they are is a good way to pick up women. Women like men who have library cards and know about things like umeboshi plums. Women like men who have an artistic side and are nonchalant about things like naked women. Drawing groups are good places to meet women.

If only he hadn't skipped high school art pretty much every day, the girl next to him wouldn't be glaring at him in that “I know you're just here to see a naked woman, you pathetic piece of shit” kind of way.

**

Umber. Her hair was the color of burnt umber. He wanted to touch it but a) he'd never be allowed back and b) he couldn't actually reach her from where he was sitting. It's possible she had noticed that he came to all her sessions but it's also possible she didn't know he stayed home on the nights she wasn't working.

He wanted to talk to her but it's hard enough talking to girls, let alone when the girl you want to talk to is only wearing a bathrobe (if that). How is it that the person with no clothes on is the one with the power? How do you talk to someone you've only seen naked, when you're just another guy with $10 and a drawing pad?

**

Unfinished drawings, unfinished relationships – everything she touched turned out not quite good enough to keep, but was too much of an investment to let go.

She envied the way the others flipped the page when there was nothing more to be done. The moving on without regret. She liked watching artists lose themselves in the work until, swoosh! Clean page.

She wished she could do that trick with the clean page. Some day she would do that.

**

Uninsured. That's all he could think as the girl changed poses, stepped a little too close to the edge of the shoddy stand, and tipped the whole thing up like a cheap-rug-covered tsunami. Uninsured. The model was okay but it was just another reminder that life was held together by the thinnest of threads. One false move and it all spins away.

When everything was going great, it was just exactly the life he wanted. He made his own rules and worked his own hours - free from corporate overlords. A little of this. A little of that. Always enough to get by and sometimes a little to spare. He didn't really need anything. Personal property is theft; as long as you have what you need, why desire more?

His mind drifted over all the friends who had moved on. As far as he could figure, he was the only one left with any ideals. Were those ideals just fantasies meant to be outgrown? Had he missed a memo?

He found substance and solace drawing the lines of the model. This was exactly where he needed to be. He drew. She sat, and...

“Dammit. That was not ten minutes.”

Alphabet of Regret - T is for Time

Professor Ezekiel Alphonse Horatio McFlurryphontos gazed out upon the world and found it ... meh. He decided it would do. Since it had to. Thanks to his own machinations, in fact. It had happened like this:

The Professor ran after Gargantua, once a boy known as Jebediah Sucrose Klienschtop and now a rampaging giant monster. Yes, technically the transformation had been the Professor's fault but why place blame? The truth of the moment was that the Professor intended to stop the monster.

And he did. A neural stabilizer here, a blast from the Imagi-fire helmet there and soon enough little Jebediah Sucrose Klienschtop, also recently known as Gargantua, ceased to be a problem. Which was one problem down. However, the resulting collateral damage became an issue. Professor Ezekiel Alphonse Horatio McFlurryphontos found himself hunted.

And so he ran. Well, he wouldn't have called it running, per se. It was more akin to a gentle absconding into the night. A retreat, if you would. Yes, retreats are wonderful things full of spas and meetings and coffee. Now, the Professor's retreat, it is admitted, mostly consisted of trees and sleeping out doors and avoiding dogs - but the idea stands.

After a week or so, the Professor grew tired of running. So, armed with only: his wits, a laser pistol, the Imagi-fire helmet, twelve stun capsules, one miniature Brontosaurus named Sal, and a mostly bullet proof lab coat (never tested), the Professor made his way back to his lab.

The police were, of course, surrounding it, but that would not daunt one such as Professor Ezekiel Alphonse Horatio McFlurryphontos! Much. And so, after allowing Sal, the miniature brontosaurus, to confuse and confound the Police, the Professor found himself back in his lab, wondering what to do. Clearly everything had gone too far, but it was no time for regret. It was time for action!

And so the Professor acted. He fired up his experimental Intra-quantum trans-spatial time bassoon and blew a C-Sharp. The note interfered with local space-time and the Professor found himself in the past. Thankfully not too far in the past, nor too close. This would be, he smiled, perfect.

Quickly he rushed outside to deal with a few problems. If he could stop some disasters before they occurred then he could become a hero instead of a reviled ... he did hate the fact he was reviled. Why should be he reviled? Minorly disliked perhaps but... it didn't matter now! He could fix it! He could fix it all!

Over days and weeks and months, the Professor tried all sorts of things, but none of them worked. He would try and stop an event and the world would shift as if rubber and realign so that the event still happened and his work was for nothing. Cursing, the Professor kicked a can across the street and went inside his newly hidden lab.

The can skittered gently into the road. The car that ran over the can popped a small hole in a tire. The tire gave out as a flat twenty miles outside of town. The man driving the car tried to walk to the next town so that he might find a mechanic. The snake that bit that man had no clue why the man was there, and didn't really care either way. Still, free of intent, the universe decided to play dice with itself. Non-causal space-time quark-masturbation is a lesser known habit of the universe, but like many things it has been assumed by certain higher-species to simply be embarrassed. Regardless, the effects were wide ranging and anything but subtle.

Professor Ezekiel Alphonse Horatio McFlurryphontos continued about his days but started to notice changes. He couldn't place why, at first, but more and more people looked at him in a new light. They consulted him, asked for his help and thanked him when he was finished.

Respect! Power! Fame! These were the things that the Professor wanted and now found himself possessing! Along with a 6 year old badger. The Professor possessed it, trying to convince the badger that the it was a ferret. He could not be sure the possession worked, but he felt hopeful. Still! That had nothing to do with this sudden, and glorious, rise to prominence!

Except. Well. The things we wish for, and all of that. The Professor found himself staying up late, forgetting to shave and generally having no time to plan his experiments properly. Instead people came to him to fix their woes and solve the the equations of humanity itself. It was world-changing work, to be sure, but it wasn't the work the Professor wanted to do. No, he wanted to work on a new lightning collector, a self-referential dog replicator and perhaps a new style of sneaker. He had no time.

Though he had everything he thought he had once wanted the Professor came to regret it all. He sunk into a deep depression and lashed out at both Sal, the miniature Brontosaurus and the badger that still had no name (though the Professor leaned toward naming it Harry).

He considered trying to return to his proper moment in time and to see what would happen then, but he could not. The links to that time stream had been broken and there was no going back, once you've gone back, as he now knew. No. Stuck in a time event-horizon that he himself had created, the Professor grew despondent.

And then it occurred to him.

Yes! Of course!

He could use his new-found power and fame to fool the world and take over Zimbabwe. Once he had Zimbabwe he could ensure no one bothered him. This plan seemed foolproof and much simpler than letting annoying phone calls go to voicemail. Pfah! Voicemail! Who needed it when you had Zimbabwe? Exactly, so!

Grabbing up his essential tools, and Sal, but leaving Harry the badger behind, the Professor went out into the night to take over Zimbabwe, knowing that if he failed, the world would probably thank him for something, or congratulate him on his cunning and invite him to tea where they would serve cucumber sandwiches.

Professor Ezekiel Alphonse Horatio McFlurryphontos hated cucumber sandwiches. And so, on the back of such rushed desires the fate of a country, a man, and possibly the rest of the world, was written. All would come to regret giving the Professor what he had wanted.

How dare they? Indeed!

The Alphabet of Regret: S is for Security

You could have left a million times before the alarm shattered another glowering suburban morning. Instead, you lie with comfort, your left hand lifeless upon the snooze button while outside the heat, the light, the wind rise beyond the horizon.

Your body twitches. The frayed threads of abandoned desire intertwine in your subconscious.

The offer in a vague Northwestern state you didn't take.

The saxophonist from the bar band you didn't call back.

The converted cold water flat peeking from behind the streetlight starscape you never entered.

You let them all evaporate to trade Malbec-and-Marlboro-Light breath with the American Dream.

So you believed.

So, you believed.

You spring up, a loose plank stepped on for the last time.

The trappings of your life lie before you: the overflowing closet of clothes that match unscuffed shoes, the TV that feeds you nightly, the exhaling lump of covers on your right. So much to fill one's world and empty the soul.

Morning leaks through a blind. You think about chasing it down, running half-naked through the Rain Bird ballet along the manicured sidewalks that this time will lead you rightly.

Downstairs you empty yesterday's coffee grounds into the bin. There are no clean spoons to be found. Tomorrow, there won't be any either.