If Tommy isn't wearing a baseball cap, he must be doing one of the following things: taking a shower, sleeping or otherwise in bed, or getting a haircut. There are three or four hats in his arsenal, but usually, it's the black NASCAR logo cap. He says he doesn't root for any particular driver. He doesn't like the competition, just the rush of the cars and their raw power. He's probably lying, so he doesn't have to hurt anyone's feelings by not liking their favorite driver. But you can never know.
Every weekday morning, Tommy goes to work in a office building in the old part of town. He works for Hyperforce. The name means nothing to anyone. That's the point. He answers customer service calls for a bank in Virginia someplace. He knows all the towns that the bank has branches in, because they're all in his computerized script, places like Poquoson, Hampton and Virginia Beach. He is never to reveal to the customer that he doesn't work directly for the bank and that is actually hundreds of miles away in a non-descript building in Florida.
Nobody asks, really. The bank is sensitive after their last outsourcing adventure. The customers never could get over the Indian accents. Tommy is clearly not from Hyperbad. They don't say "y'all" over there, and they're never "fixin'"to do anything. All in all, Tommy's bosses think his accent is reassuring.
Friday, November 2, 2007
Thursday, November 1, 2007
El and the Count
Only his mother still calls him Lester. He'd been "El" since his first live performance fifteen years ago. One Tuesday night, he walked onto the stage at the Tiki Idol. He changed into his jumpsuit in the manager's office among the cheap torches and fake palm fronds.
The tricks started out simple then. Mostly card tricks. Nothing special. That's not true. The absurdity of Fat Elvis made it special.
-OK, little mama, pick a card, any card. Don't show it to me. Show it to the people out there.
The tipsy woman from Jacksonville showed the audience the three of clubs with a wide sweep and then placed it back in the battered deck of cards. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle.
-Is this your card, little momma? The seven of diamonds?
-Um. No?
-Hold on there, baby. Look in your right front pocket.
-Oh shit!
She produced the 3 of clubs from her jeans to the amusement of the 28 people in the club that night. And right on cue,
-Thank you. Thank you very much.
He entered the club as Lester and left as Elvis Presto, the world's first and only Elvis impersonator/magician.
The oldest guy in the club was El's grandfather Lester Senior. Nobody called him that either. Magic ran in the family. His stage name was Count Tobias Sharpe. But everyone just called him "The Count." The Count thought this was the funniest show that he'd seen in a long time. The magic was lousy. All shit that an 8 year old with a Christmas present magic set could do, but if the Elvis gimmick didn't push it over the top. Goddamn, Elvis makes magic funny. Who knew?
El and the Count had really bonded over the new act.
-Great show, El. Ninety percent Elvis, ten percent magic.
-Thanks, Gramps. I couldn't have done it without your help. Barkeep, Mic for the old man and Red Stripe for me.
-Hey, you're a magician now, El. Call me "The Count."
-You got it, Count. I'm glad you talked me out of "Elvis Prestidigitation"
-Shit, that doesn't fit on a marquee. It's common fucking sense. I gotta teach you some more tricks. One day, you'll be more magic than Elvis.
Back in the office on Wednesday, the legend of Elvis Presto spread through the entire staff.
The tricks started out simple then. Mostly card tricks. Nothing special. That's not true. The absurdity of Fat Elvis made it special.
-OK, little mama, pick a card, any card. Don't show it to me. Show it to the people out there.
The tipsy woman from Jacksonville showed the audience the three of clubs with a wide sweep and then placed it back in the battered deck of cards. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle.
-Is this your card, little momma? The seven of diamonds?
-Um. No?
-Hold on there, baby. Look in your right front pocket.
-Oh shit!
She produced the 3 of clubs from her jeans to the amusement of the 28 people in the club that night. And right on cue,
-Thank you. Thank you very much.
He entered the club as Lester and left as Elvis Presto, the world's first and only Elvis impersonator/magician.
The oldest guy in the club was El's grandfather Lester Senior. Nobody called him that either. Magic ran in the family. His stage name was Count Tobias Sharpe. But everyone just called him "The Count." The Count thought this was the funniest show that he'd seen in a long time. The magic was lousy. All shit that an 8 year old with a Christmas present magic set could do, but if the Elvis gimmick didn't push it over the top. Goddamn, Elvis makes magic funny. Who knew?
El and the Count had really bonded over the new act.
-Great show, El. Ninety percent Elvis, ten percent magic.
-Thanks, Gramps. I couldn't have done it without your help. Barkeep, Mic for the old man and Red Stripe for me.
-Hey, you're a magician now, El. Call me "The Count."
-You got it, Count. I'm glad you talked me out of "Elvis Prestidigitation"
-Shit, that doesn't fit on a marquee. It's common fucking sense. I gotta teach you some more tricks. One day, you'll be more magic than Elvis.
Back in the office on Wednesday, the legend of Elvis Presto spread through the entire staff.
Flag on the play
OK, that was horrible. False start. 5 yards, still first down.
This morning on the drive to work, I had a much better idea for a story. And it starts tonight. For real and for true.
How the hell was I going to write 50,000 words about a guy on in island? One character. That'll make for fun dialog. The best part though was going to be when he found the Reverend's grave and dug it up to use the coffin to build a boat. Of course, he gets in the water and realizes he has no plan for where he's going, and now has no food or water. How's that for entertainment. OK. Let us never mention it again.
This morning on the drive to work, I had a much better idea for a story. And it starts tonight. For real and for true.
How the hell was I going to write 50,000 words about a guy on in island? One character. That'll make for fun dialog. The best part though was going to be when he found the Reverend's grave and dug it up to use the coffin to build a boat. Of course, he gets in the water and realizes he has no plan for where he's going, and now has no food or water. How's that for entertainment. OK. Let us never mention it again.
The Mission
It has been 10 days? Two weeks? I simply do not know.
You know how people send you emails and ask you to choose the five books or albums you'd want if you were stranded on a desert island? Let me tell you, pick the books. There are no stereos on a desert island. Sometimes, I just start singing out loud so I don't forget what language sounds like. I am a single voice among the rocks and dusty red crabs singing "Alison, you know this world is killing you."
Right now, it is too hot to be outside. I spent all morning gathering crabs in the tidal pools and carrying them around in my clattering duffel bag that washed up right along side me. The tag on the bag says "Terrence Morris, 35 Red Deer Way, Muskie OK" He must have been a tourist on the ship. Thanks for the bag, Terry. I'd be a lot hungrier with out your unknowing assistance.
I found this trailer home up on the dunes yesterday. I have no idea how I'd missed it. I wondered if this meant salvation for me. If there was someone there with a phone. If there was someone there with a voice. I yelled, "Hello?" No answer. Was I delirious? Why the fuck would there be a trailer home on an island in the middle of the ocean. I walked closer, fully expecting it to disappear like a mirage in an old Bugs Bunny cartoon.
It's really here. I'm writing this from inside right now. It smells moldy. There are squishy spots in the brown industrial carpet. And I'm sure there are leaks in the roof, but I couldn't care less right now. I can lay down in the shade and rest.
The trailer is two rooms. One is a bedroom, with a small cot, a small wooden TV tray and a dresser full of men's clothes. There is no way to identify the man who once lived here. I can tell you that he favored cargo shorts and old Banana Republic shirts from the late 80's. A single outfit for this guy must have had 10-15 pockets between the shirt and shorts. I'm not sure what he was carrying around in all of them.
The second room is a classroom. An old fashioned blackboard at the front, three chalk erasers. The board reads "Rev. Dale Hale". (Who does that to a kid? There isn't a long form of Dale that I'm forgetting is there? I want to make sure that Mother and Father Hale were morons.) At the back is a low shelf running the length of the wall, with 6 copies of the Gideons Bible, a stack of reading primers and a crank metal Bostitch pencil sharpener. Remember the one from our childhoods with 8 different holes? What the hell are the other 7 holes for? I may die never knowing. They should label them. 1. Regular 2. Golf/Ikea pencil 3. Fat pencil for little kids 4. Giant novelty pencil, perhaps for writing giant novelty checks for charity 5. Eyebrow pencil. I am too tired to imagine three more types.
There is a kitchenette in the back right corner of the classroom. One of the overhead cabinets is filled with office supplies. Let us take inventory:
144 pencils. A full gross of Dixon Ticonderoga #2s. Just like when I was a kid, taking those Scantron tests.
96 yellow legal pads. I am writing this on one of the pads, so I guess that leaves 95 pads. Oh, and 143 pencils.
In the kitchen there is a microwave, but I have no idea why. How did he power the thing? Did it run on faith? Why is there no food in the trailer? A microwave and no bags of popcorn? What's the point? There's a button on the thing clearly labelled, "Popcorn" C'mon, Rev, throw me a bone.
Fortunately, there was a small saucepan here that I've been using to cook the crabs over a fire at night.
A Freeplay Model 7 radio/flashlight. This is one of those crank powered deals. The AM and FM band are completely useless. It does have 8 different shortwave bands. I spent my first night indoors just scanning the dial for news of what happened to my ship. I might have heard a report on it, but I don't speak Mandarin or what I am guessing is Tagalog. I really don't know. I am hoping to find the BBC one of these nights.
You know how people send you emails and ask you to choose the five books or albums you'd want if you were stranded on a desert island? Let me tell you, pick the books. There are no stereos on a desert island. Sometimes, I just start singing out loud so I don't forget what language sounds like. I am a single voice among the rocks and dusty red crabs singing "Alison, you know this world is killing you."
Right now, it is too hot to be outside. I spent all morning gathering crabs in the tidal pools and carrying them around in my clattering duffel bag that washed up right along side me. The tag on the bag says "Terrence Morris, 35 Red Deer Way, Muskie OK" He must have been a tourist on the ship. Thanks for the bag, Terry. I'd be a lot hungrier with out your unknowing assistance.
I found this trailer home up on the dunes yesterday. I have no idea how I'd missed it. I wondered if this meant salvation for me. If there was someone there with a phone. If there was someone there with a voice. I yelled, "Hello?" No answer. Was I delirious? Why the fuck would there be a trailer home on an island in the middle of the ocean. I walked closer, fully expecting it to disappear like a mirage in an old Bugs Bunny cartoon.
It's really here. I'm writing this from inside right now. It smells moldy. There are squishy spots in the brown industrial carpet. And I'm sure there are leaks in the roof, but I couldn't care less right now. I can lay down in the shade and rest.
The trailer is two rooms. One is a bedroom, with a small cot, a small wooden TV tray and a dresser full of men's clothes. There is no way to identify the man who once lived here. I can tell you that he favored cargo shorts and old Banana Republic shirts from the late 80's. A single outfit for this guy must have had 10-15 pockets between the shirt and shorts. I'm not sure what he was carrying around in all of them.
The second room is a classroom. An old fashioned blackboard at the front, three chalk erasers. The board reads "Rev. Dale Hale". (Who does that to a kid? There isn't a long form of Dale that I'm forgetting is there? I want to make sure that Mother and Father Hale were morons.) At the back is a low shelf running the length of the wall, with 6 copies of the Gideons Bible, a stack of reading primers and a crank metal Bostitch pencil sharpener. Remember the one from our childhoods with 8 different holes? What the hell are the other 7 holes for? I may die never knowing. They should label them. 1. Regular 2. Golf/Ikea pencil 3. Fat pencil for little kids 4. Giant novelty pencil, perhaps for writing giant novelty checks for charity 5. Eyebrow pencil. I am too tired to imagine three more types.
There is a kitchenette in the back right corner of the classroom. One of the overhead cabinets is filled with office supplies. Let us take inventory:
144 pencils. A full gross of Dixon Ticonderoga #2s. Just like when I was a kid, taking those Scantron tests.
96 yellow legal pads. I am writing this on one of the pads, so I guess that leaves 95 pads. Oh, and 143 pencils.
In the kitchen there is a microwave, but I have no idea why. How did he power the thing? Did it run on faith? Why is there no food in the trailer? A microwave and no bags of popcorn? What's the point? There's a button on the thing clearly labelled, "Popcorn" C'mon, Rev, throw me a bone.
Fortunately, there was a small saucepan here that I've been using to cook the crabs over a fire at night.
A Freeplay Model 7 radio/flashlight. This is one of those crank powered deals. The AM and FM band are completely useless. It does have 8 different shortwave bands. I spent my first night indoors just scanning the dial for news of what happened to my ship. I might have heard a report on it, but I don't speak Mandarin or what I am guessing is Tagalog. I really don't know. I am hoping to find the BBC one of these nights.
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