That Thing

“Thanks for bringing me up here, man. I needed to get out and do something.”

“Dude, no problem. I’m glad you came.”

“So, wait, all this time, he’d been walking around like this?”

“Yeah, man. I mean, no fucking wonder, right? Could you imagine? When was the last time you saw him?”

“I don’t know, Christmas? Maybe even longer. I can’t believe he was like shooting modeling jobs and shit like that.”

“I know, it’s crazy. Poor dude.”

“What about his wife? I heard they’re having another kid.”

“I know, man. I don’t know WHAT the hell they’re gonna do.”

“Jesus, it’s fucking grim, man.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty fucked... HOLY SHIT! DID YOU SEE THAT?”

“What?”

“Wait! Wait! There it is, through the trees! You see it?”

“Oh yeah. Holy fuck!”

“Man, look at that thing! I didn’t know we had those around here.”

“It’s fucking beautiful, man.”

“It’s a sign, man. Don't you think?”

“Look at those colors!”

    

“I’m tellin’ ya, it’s a sign.”

“Look how it moves. Watch how it moves, man, it’s incredible.”

“It’s perfect. You know, it’s like ancient or something... Hey, whaddya think? You think we could catch it?

“What? What are you doing?”

“I don’t know, I was gonna hit it with a rock or something.”

“Dude, don’t do that!”

“Really?”

He Remained

He still went up the mountain. At least he still did that. He was halfway up when he looked down at the leaves again as he had done many times before and he began to think there might be something he could write about them if he were to ever write again and so he took out his phone and typed something that would at least bring him back to the thought if he were to ever decide to try to write something about the leaves. He wrote: “It was spring and the snow had melted and the leaves which fell in the fall were now exposed and over time he noticed how they had become broken down along the trail to where in places they were so ground from the traffic that they were no longer distinguishable from the dirt. Though this seemed to be of great meaning to him, he no longer possessed the energy to ponder it any further, but he did, in fact, type it as a note into his Blackberry for he still valued such thought and hoped that the act of doing so would be enough to please whatever it was that had allowed it so that it would hopefully come again.” 

Only the day before he had come to the realization that perhaps he was not a writer at all. He realized looking back that other than the dialog, he simply hated his writing. This terrifying conclusion had struck him nearly at the same point where he now was on the mountain. He panicked and thought maybe he could save himself by writing something about deciding that he was no longer a writer. You know, something like that, He thought. You just turn the shit over on its head. There’s always a way. Or maybe there’s a way to write it with just dialog? Like a play, you know. Like you invent a conversation and you do it that way. He decided to text his friend, the artist, and feel out his take on the whole situation: “Hey, brother. I’m going through the hardest time of my life. I keep thinking, once I get it, it’ll come easily. But it never comes. I think I’m gonna duck out for a while and not even bother with the writing. Too dangerous right now. I’ve realized lately that I can only stomach my writing when it’s done entirely through dialog. Everything else feels false and full of tricks which require talent which has become completely meaningless to me. So where the hell does that leave me?”    

He sent it but then he felt foolish sending it because his friend was a real artist and any real artist knows that these were things you had to work out on your own. His friend never responded. 

He stopped at the spot where the trees opened up and he turned and looked out across the valley where the town he lived in sat nestled between the mountain and the river. The traffic ran across the bridge over the water and he followed it out to where the highway snaked across the land until he could no longer see it. There were no thoughts at this point, only a vague sense of worry. The sun felt warm upon his face and arms. He knew in a moment he would continue on. But for now he remained.   

Stop Doing That!

‎"Stop doing that! There's something wrong with you."

"You have no idea. I saw this bus crash on there last night. Oh my God. I'll never recover. It was in like Mexico or Columbia or somewhere."

"You're an idiot."

"I know, I can't stop. Remember when I was on my beheading kick?"

"You're sick. You have a child now."

"You don't understand. I have to. What do you think I'm looking at when you're watching Good Morning America? It's the only way I can stomach this shit. It's incredible though. Until you see it, you can't imagine what actually happens to the human body."

"But then your sister liking Target, THAT'S what disgusts you!?"

"Oh my GOD! That is just so fucked! I can not accept that. I saw three people like Target today! How the fuck do you LIKE Target? Why do you NEED to like Target? What exactly is it you like about Target? Do you like their clothes? Their kitchen items? Do you like their lighting? The staff? Their carts? Well, they do have the best carts. But I mean, think about it. Seriously, you'd have to decide, yeah, ya know, I DO, I DO like Target, and then you'd have to drag your cursor over there and click on it. That is just so fucked up!"

"And that offends you more than a beheading?"

"Yeah, it does." 

"There's gotta be a reason. You know, Like us on Facebook and you'll get a 15% discount."

"Oh, really?"

"I don't know. Probably."

"Oh."

Leonard

By now his anxiety was such that Leonard began to slow his sipping of his beer for he feared not only the interaction that would surely take place if the ditzy young bartender were to see his empty bottle upon the bar but even more unimaginable than that would be the simple act of standing up and having to walk himself over to the door. The bartender came near him and began pouring a draft and after stealing a quick glance at her magnificent tits, he looked down and picked at the wet paper label of his beer as he cringed inside at the thought of having to suffer again hearing the sound his own voice if she were to ask him if he needed another. Just then the door opened and he heard her say: “Hey, Mike, did you get me some gum?” and he looked over and saw the hipster kid with the beard waltzing in as he peeled away the transparent wrapper off of his new pack of American Spirits. It was only then that Leonard realized the kid had even been gone and the sight of him alone was enough to bring back the anger which had earlier kept the anxiety at bay. Anger was good, he had only recently decided, at least for him. He had a curious mind and had gone through life trying always to understand rather than blame. But, of course, when it came to people, there were too many variables to ever come close to an understanding. People had secrets, secrets you could never know, and over time he had begun to realize that more often than not it was these secrets which fueled the very behavior he had been trying to understand. Much of this realization had to do with the falling out he had had with his best friend, Ron. Some issue had arisen between Ron’s wife, Susie, and another wife which in turn engulfed Leonard’s wife along with many others and by the time Leonard began to realize that his wife had been right, that the situation would inevitably affect his friendship with Ron, when he finally asked Ron to get together for beers to discuss the matter, it became stunningly apparent to Leonard that though they dismissed the whole fiasco as a ridiculous misunderstanding and for the most part talked about other things, something unimaginable had happened, for reasons he would never fully understand, his friend sitting across from him was no longer his friend and never would be again. It was towards the end of their conversation when the full reality of this hit him, when Ron regurgitated a statement which had obviously been programmed into his mind by Susie. It had to do with Leonard’s overall character, about how he had always tried to understand rather than blame. Ron said: “You know, Leonard, I always thought you were so strong, the way you are always able to forgive. But I don’t think that anymore. I don’t mean to offend you, but now, I actually think you’re pretty weak. Susie’s right, man, you’re always playing the victim.” Leonard simply nodded his head as he thought about the words and the many painful instances in the past which Ron was obviously referring to. Even when Leonard responded, he responded in kindness and understanding. He said, “Well, I can sort of see how you would think that.” But as time went on, Leonard found himself thinking more and more about those words, and for the first time in his life, he began to get angry, truly angry. Leonard’s eyes followed the kid as he tossed the pack of gum on the bar. “Thank you, sweety,” the bartender said. “No problem,” said the kid. And then the kid began slapping the pack of cigarettes against the palm of his hand. Leonard used to do this too when he used to smoke. He felt it did make a slight difference in the way they smoked. But the kid just kept doing it, over and over again- SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK... Finally, the kid stopped. But then he turned the pack over and started doing it some more. Leonard had to look away. He chugged down the remainder of his beer and placed the empty bottle in front of him upon the bar.       

John Mayer May Very Well

‎"Are you fucking serious?" 

"It's fucking crazy, man, I know." 

"I mean, this is like Andy Kaufman shit! But better, WAY better!" 

"I know, I'm telling you, he's a fucking genius." 

"How'd you guys meet?"

"Um, well, I had this studio on 18th near the West Side Highway. He just walked in one day. He was the first person to buy one of my 911 pieces. He bought this one where I close in one of the windows on the north tower, you know, just before it collapses. You really had to get right up close to see it, but through the smoke and flames you can make out this person, this sort of ghost like figure walking by, eating a bagel or a doughnut maybe."

"I remember that one. So who's the person, the ghost?"

"People used to ask me that all the time. I'm really not sure. I painted John Wayne in there at first. But he didn't really work out. I painted him over with Elvis and then I painted over Elvis with James Dean. I put Ronald Reagan in there, Big Foot, fuckin’ Bugs Bunny. Nothing worked. I probably painted a hundred different images in there. The whole thing just seemed stupid and obvious."

"So who is it then?"

"Well, I was just about to say fuck it and toss the painting out, but then I went out to get coffee one day and as I’m walking, I see this homeless man with this big white Santa Clause beard. He had the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. I mean, just piercing blue eyes. He was living in a box by that big building on 8th ave."

"You went all the way over to 8th for coffee?"

"Yeah, I liked that place over there, that muffin shop place."

"Oh, yeah, I know that place. Paradise Muffin or something?"

"Yeah, that’s it. There was this girl that used to work there. I would go all the way over there for coffee just to look at her. Anyway, this homeless man... I mean, you should've seen this guy. I walked by him just as he lifted his head and looked up at the sky. I had never in my life seen a face like that. I mean, it was like he was from another planet. I’m telling you, his eyes, they were fucking incredible, man. He looked possessed, like he was seeing God.”

“The person in that painting didn’t have a beard though.”

“No, he’s not the person in the painting. But I started talking to this guy. He was really nice. It turned out he was this college professor who just went nuts one day. He lost everything, his wife, his home, his job, his kids.”

“What happened? Did he tell you what happened, what it was?”

“He said he didn’t know. He just woke up one day and everything felt meaningless. He had no desire to do anything ever again. He just took off and never looked back. He didn’t even take his wallet.”

“So who’s the person in the painting?”

“Well, we were talking and he asked me what I did and I told him and then I told him about the problem I was having with my painting and he said he knew exactly who it should be in the painting. But he said he couldn’t tell me who it was and that he would have to be the one that painted it.”

“No way! He painted it? You let him paint it?”

“Yeah. He did a good job too, don’t ya think? I have no idea who it is. I tried to pay him but he wouldn’t take it. I never saw him again.”

“That’s fucking awesome! Holy shit! Oh, man. Okay, so back to John Mayer. Are you fucking serious? You’re telling me the whole thing, his whole career is just one big sham?”

“Yeah, man. He worked the whole thing. He’s actually a really cool guy.”

“So like all his songs, they’re just like...”

“His whole thing is to see how disgusted he can make himself feel about himself.”

“But he has a good voice, he’s pretty talented.”

“I know. It’s just fucking brilliant, right? I’ve never met a more committed nihilist.”

“Man, that is just crazy.”