July 27, 2005
Translocator
Okay so the first thing that I was going to write for this got about two paragraphs long when my brain hit a speed bump at about 50 mph. So now I'm swapping out parts and have done my typical thing, which is where I step back and think long and hard about it to be sure I get it right. Real long. So here's something else in the meantime.
Four months in a new town in the mid west and Dwade still didn't know anybody he wasn't paid to be around. With all the deft cunning and enthusiasm of a sedated bull moose, he maneuvered his old clunker into a parking lot somewhere out on the horizon directly opposite Wal-Mart. The long walk past legions of tightly packed vehicles went by in a haze. He was elsewhere, thinking of better things.
This wasn't just Wal-Mart. This was The Other Wal-Mart. The one he hadn't been to yet. Dwade hated going to the first one. This one was just as bad. It didn't matter, they're all the same. And every time he walked through those all-the-same doors and faced the anonymous thief-pouncer who pretended to be there to greet him, he heard the pleas of the world's poor. People working without sleep in over-heated, cramped sweatshops for pennies a day so that overfed Americans can have cheap crap. Farmers whose families had provided food from the land for generations, left helpless as the world economy tells them what they do isn't good enough. The death of the mom and pop store. Mom and pop wear blue vests and forced smiles now. They stand behind cash registers and don't say much; just enough to find out of your card is credit or debit.
The handlebar of a shopping carriage hit the palms of his hand. He was then in the vegetable isle. It matched his state of mind.
The layout of the place was oddly familiar. Dwade had a theory that there are a limited number of configurations for a place like this. Each department is a block, each with its own size and shape, sort of like a jigsaw puzzle for idiots. There's only a few ways that these blocks can fit together into the sort of giant architectural monstrosity that makes the Lords of Wal-Mart smolder with demonic glee. But dammit, there were the green bell peppers, and Dwade needed some of those.
The shopping cart took on cargo: vegetables from space and meat grown in vats for all Dwade knew. There was a tall stack of gigantic frozen salmon flanks. The world is facing a salmon shortage, he thought, so where the hell did all of that come from, anyway?
Nearby at a stack of pork, Dwade recalled reading the story about how pigs-for-food were being genetically engineered with a snippet of human DNA to make them grow and mature faster. Half man, half pig.. and 100% delicious.
There, for an instant, he considered converting to Judaism. He decided against it, of course, judging that a genuine religious objection to consuming a swine-human hybrid probably wasn't worth the required surgery. Most of them spent their time in politics instead of the slaughterhouse anyway.
At the rear of the grocery block, another familiar turn brought him around to face towards the front of the store, looking straight down a corridor walled with plastic food holding devices and hundreds of variations om a theme spun sugar.
Dizziness set through him like water through a sieve, flowing upwards into the sky and then rained back down with the consistency of tar. Disorientation. He checked his pulse. It was normal. It was like the mass-produced, soulless architecture itself had reached out to bash and squeeze on his brain like one of those stress relief toys you see in the impulse-buy racks at the front.
A Cuban family bustled by, their carriage piled high with goods; two small children bantering back and forth with their parents about who knows what in a language Dwade couldn't speak, but was probably Spanish. He had been used to that back home. They were half of Wal-Mart's customers in Florida, but not in the mid west. He didn't think too hard about it.
Forty-five minutes later, after a near-miss with an expensive purchase in the electronics section, he was first in line at the checkout. And there he was startled, shaken to his very core! For he beheld a BEAST! A horrid thing! His testicles leapt up into his abdomen for safety and one day his unborn children would have nightmares remembering this moment!
It wasn't its ugliness that absolutely scared the hell out of him, though it was certainly ugly enough to do the job. The scary part was, he knew this beast. He had faced it many times before, and apparently some dastardly fiend had set about cloning it for the ill intentions of the sinister Lords of Wal-Mart. Uneven teeth the color of a week's worth of unflushed urine were arranged helter-skelter in the dark purple blotchiness of its lower gums. They rose up into view from behind a dry cracked lower lip that hung open like either it had forgotten to shut itself or that its owner just didn't care. The upper lip curled up in a perpetual sneer. Its skin was thick shoe leather stained from centuries worth of tobacco abuse and then sealed in with a heavy lacquer finish. It wore oversize sunglasses that were fashionable only in the minds of the infirmed. Its hair looked like it had been glued-on and badly bleached after being harvested from the tail of a mad cow that had wallowed, berserk, in an oil spill and then explosively shat itself. It smacked interminably at the same wad of gum it always had. Its name was Mary. Named for the Holy Mother. And a sort of resigned hatred burned behind its dead eyes.
Some time after his heart resumed beating, Dwade heard the beast groan.
"Credit or debit?"
He kept his head low as he hurried out of the building, reflecting a forced smile back at a different thief-pouncer on his way out. And outside, the sky was the sort of magnificent orange, the kind that makes you forget there were other colors. The sort of magnificent sunset orange that doesn't happen in the mid-west, but in Florida. The kind of magnificent orange that flies high behind the line of palm trees he was now gawking at. To the side there was a repainted school bus, letting out two dozen Hispanics in grungy work clothes, fresh from the orange groves, making lewd jokes to each other in Spanish. Small, ridiculous looking cars painted psychiatrist-office-beige with little flashing yellow lights affixed to the top of them patrolled the parking lot. His car was definitely not there. The parking lot he'd left it in contained no foliage, and ended at the edge of a local highway. This one ended at a row of, yes, those were in fact palm trees.
Had he imagined it? Which 'it' would he have imagined?
After the sun set, the milk had gone sour, and the giant Florida mosquitoes had come to feast on him, he pulled out his cellphone. He laughed a little, remembering how important it was to him that he got a plan that had local coverage in his Floridian hometown, twelve-hundred miles away from where he now lived and worked. The phone popped open and, not even wanting to look at the buttons, he quietly asked it dial for him. It obeyed.
"Hello?"
"Hey dad."
There was a pause. "Hey! How are you?"
"Uh, well, I'm okay. Umm.."
"Yeah? What's wrong?" Scenarios had already begun to develop in Dad's head, and if it took ten thousand dollars bail money to get him out of a French-Canadian prison for homicide, after using lethal force to defend himself from an enraged Russian mafioso in an unfortunate collision of illicit arms deals and mistaken identity, well, lets just say that Dad is ready to come to the rescue. Dad's been waiting for this moment all his life.
"I.. I think I need a ride?" Dwade hadn't intended for that to sound like a question.
Dad quickly ran numbers in his head. Quebec from southwestern Florida. He could make the drive in 18 hours, he decided. "Oh... kay... what's wrong? Where are you?"
"Wal-Mart. You know.. up.. uh.. by where I went to college."
"Are you okay? Have you done drugs?" Dwade had never done drugs in his life, but Dad had secretly been ready and waiting for that event too. He'd swoop down from the clouds and rescue him like an after-school special savior, solving Dwade's problems instantly and showing him the errors of his ways. Dad wondered, briefly, if wearing a cape during the rescue would be too much.
"No. No I just went shopping. At Wal-Mart." Dwade had found that the softer you speak, the easier it is to conceal a tremble in one's voice.
"Oh.. uh. I didn't know you were coming to visit! What happened to your car?"
"It's in the parking lot. But not this one. Look, can you just come get me?"
(© Eric Chapman 2005 all rights reserved.)
Posted by Eric Chapman at 02:04 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
June 18, 2005
Statement of intention [dot][dot][dot]
The problem:
Sometimes when I want to blog, I have nothing interesting to say about myself or my world. And sometimes when I have something to say about my world, I don't want to blog. I don't want to do anything. And sometimes, when I havn't said anything for a while, it gets difficult to break out of that rut, even when I have something to say and want to blog at the same time.
The solution:
I will take a page from Warren Ellis's book. I will write short fiction. And when I do, I will do everything I can not to hold back.
I am an artist. Profesionally and personally. But I long to tell stories that can't be conveyed with a single image. People tell me I'm multitalented.
So if my writing sucks, blame those fuckers for making me think I could do it.
...
Posted by Eric Chapman at 12:23 AM | Comments (0)
September 06, 2004
One Crept Over The Cuckoo State: The Frances Ditty: Part 2
Previous episodes: Part 1
The Saga of Hurricane Charlie: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4
"You have reached the voice mail of Eric Chapman! If you hearing this it means that I'm outside or away from my phone. I might be in the shower. Or I might be off in a volcano somewhere dying and my service area doesn't cover being submerged in molten lava. If you would like me to get back to you, after I've returned from outside, finished soaping up, or have somehow survived my ordeal inside the volcano, please leave your name, phone number, and what your want with me after the beep, tone, whatever... thing. Y'know, so I can tell if I want to talk to you or not, which I probably do, unless you're a member of some sort of global conspiracy and are out to get me. So anyway, I will get back to you when I can, as I'm a fairly busy person, as I will be spending most of my time saving the world as I will have become a superhero named, I dunno, Volcanor, but I promise you, as long as you're not a telemarketer or an agent of a global conspiracy or a super villain calling with the intent to taunt, I will get back to you. If you leave the number. Yeah. Did I already say that? Uh. Right."
See? Marvelous. So, having checked his voice mail greeting and verifying that he is still, in fact, Eric Chapman and not Charley, he went on to check the messages currently waiting. Of which there was one. It was Frances again.
Frances: "Hello? Charley? ... uh.. I still don't understand! Why do you have this message on here?"
Shock was not the word. No, the time for shock had long since passed. Annoyance might be a better word though, and Eric caught himself waving an open hand through the air in a circular motion, like someone with a beard (he was) and a large bank account (he wasn't) trying to direct a bunch of professional on-camera pretenders to hurry up and screw the damn pie already.
Frances: I'm still waiting for you to call. It's been a little while, and I want to be sure you're okay. I'm worried that you might have hurt something.
Eric: Like my ass, maybe?
He had suddenly become acutely aware of his prescribed inflatable fanny donut, upon which he'd still have to sit for a while yet.
Frances: Well, I'll try again later. My number's 555-6346. Please call me when you get this, Charley.
What the hell? He had checked his message, and it clearly said it belonged to him, not anyone named Charley. Maybe Charley gave this number to this Frances person, saying that he'd be here if she needed to get in touch. Right?
Do hurricanes even do that?
Post-graduation life was really proving to be much more weird than life as an art student, and that should really mean something, shouldn't it?
Maybe if he went to more drunken stoner parties it would make some kind of sense now. Ah well, it was too late for that, wasn't it? But that's not important, really, because Eric's much-cherished brain had just discovered something really important whilst digging in between the grubby cushions of the Goodwill couch in the living room of his psyche. . . along with some forgotten M&Ms, that were still good. (The milk chocolate melts in your mouth, not in your brain.)
Frances. Calling for Charley. Hurricane Charley. Dumb ass, you have the phone number. All you need is the approximate location for the area code. That's what television is for. So he flipped on the Weather Channel.
There stood some poor schmuck, who was probably very well groomed by the make-up people back before they blew away over the horizon. He stood there, protected from the maelstrom winds of this hurricane by a sixteenth of an inch of school bus-yellow vinyl as aluminum roofs curled up and away from their moorings and palm trees bent over to touch their toes in the background. He looked like he had to pee. They didn't say whether that was because the wind was knocking him around or if he really was just dancing to try and keep from pissing his pants on live national television out of sheer terror while standing in the middle of a whirling storm of DOOM.
A boat washed by in the background, on its way to some other poor bastard's second floor roof.
The weatherschmuck, who was literally tied to his spot, either to protect him from blowing away or maybe prevent him from running away screaming in a bloody panic, was saying something and pointing to the black clouds of death behind him. He was pointing to the left side of the screen where lightning was flashing. His voice was easily drowned out by the roar of wind, but that wasn't the important bit.
The lightning was rhythmic. One second: Flash. Next second: Off. Third second: flash. Fourth: Off. Very odd.
The video feed went back to the smiling, well-groomed people in the comfort of their studio back in the weather channel's secret bunker. They were mentioning something about how there was a large population of elderly, and hopefully they all got to safety before the storm hit.
Frances. Who names their daughters Frances this century? Nobody. Elderly sounding woman, right? Right. Grandma Frances, in West Palm Beach, was calling him. The lightning flashed on the left side of the screen again.
The charming, safe, suede-suited weather people commented about how the hurricane had come to a dead stop in West Palm Beach and didn't seem to know where it was going. The lightning flashed again.
Everything clicked, and finally he had the opportunity to do what he'd wanted to do every time he got stuck behind somebody's ancestor-to-be at an intersection. He jumped to his feet, grabbed his cellphone, dialed West Palm Beach's area code and Frances' phone number.
Frances: He-hello?
Eric: TURN YOUR GODDAMN BLINKER OFF, GRANDMA! It's been on for 6 hours! If you're going to turn, TURN ALREADY!!! **click**
The lightning flicker on the left hand side of the television screen suddenly stopped. Fifteen minutes later, the people in the comfy studio reported that the hurricane was finally moving again, and had turned northwest.. which would've been 'right' from the viewpoint of the broadcast, but hey, she's old.
The weatherschmuck looked relaxed, too. Smiling, even. He was still being pelted by rain traveling parallel to the ground, debris, and the occaisional 30-foot storm surge, but that was okay. He was drenched from head to toe. If his dance was a peepee dance, now the world would never know.
He looked satisfied.
Posted by Eric Chapman at 12:02 AM | Comments (0)
September 05, 2004
One Crept Over The Cuckoo State: The Frances Ditty: part 1
The phone rang. Eric stood up off his inflatable donut (which his doctor mandated he use whenever he had need to sit untill things got back to normal) and carefully eased his way over to the phone. Unfortunately, thanks to Charlie, this was a difficult task and our brave hero had to tangle with his voice mail system instead.
Voice: He-hellO? Uh.. wow, that was such a strange message!
Eric thought this was a little odd. His voicemail wasn't strange at all. He had spent about four minutes recording it (to do it right, of course) and was very much of the opinion that it was marvelous.
A mental note was made to check to make sure that his oratory masterpeice outgoing voicemail message was working properly after he was done listening to the feeble-sounding lady.
Voice: ... Charley?
Crap.
Voice: It's Frances. I don't really understand what's going on. Why havn't ... you called? It's been so long since we've talked and I was just hoping this phone number still worked and well I just wanted to say hi and find out how you were doing and if you're still in the area and... well I just don't know! Your message is very strange!
Clearly this was not happening. It had to be a dream, right? Gotta be a dream. One phonecall from an aproaching storm about your impending buggering (er, metaphorically speaking of course) in the stretch of (let's say) one lifetime is already pushing the law of averages, isn't it? How many people get this? Was Eric really that strong a weirdness magnet? How can this sort of thing be verified, he wondered. What.. what do the people on TV do to test the most-obvious dream theory?
... Ouch! Not a dream. Who came up with this stupid test, anyway?
Francis: Well... call me. My number is 555-6346. *click*
AHA!
.... wait, no area code. Poop.
Posted by Eric Chapman at 03:57 AM | Comments (0)
August 13, 2004
Blowing off steam: The Saga of Hurricane Charley, part 4 (finale)
There was a knock at the door. Eric got out of bed (he was napping) and went to see who it was. Being someone that has the IQ of a fudgesicle when he first wakes up, he did not look out the window to see who it was first.
A big, violent-evil looking man stood there with a hunk of arcing power conduit in his hand. Charley was there.
Eric: What the!? What is this, Vietnam??
Charley: Good morning, sunshine! I found this outside. It was attached to your house.
Eric: UH!
Charley dropped the power conduit on the ground.
Charley: Bend over. I'm coming in.
(The time for joking is over. This hurricane is serious.)
Posted by Eric Chapman at 04:01 PM | Comments (0)
Blowing off steam: The Saga of Hurricane Charley, part 3
The phone rang. Against his better judgment, Eric picked up the receiver.
Eric: Hi.
Charley: Heelloman.. I juss.. I juss wan'ed ta say hii...
Eric: Okay, now what the hell is your problem?
Charley: S'no problem ociffer. I ain't been drinkin.
Eric: ... okay this is just ridiculous.
Charley: Dude! Buddy! Whassall thish.. hoshtilit-EE fer?
Eric: ... well for starters, there's a drunken hurricane giving me harassing phone calls.
Charley: Hokay!! HOO-kay-ee.. buddy.. I haff been drinkin a liddle. S'what makes me so strong, y'no.
Eric: Where the hell have you been drinking??
Charley: Out inna Gulf of Mexico. Tequila.
Eric: Yeah, great. I'm hanging up now.
Charley: NO! No you cann'go till I tell yuu whadd I called to tellyu.
Eric: I can't understand a word coming out of your mouth. Do you even have a mouth? How are you making these phone calls??
Charley: Shhhhhh shhh shhhh.. SHHH, DAMMIT!!
Eric just stared into the telephone out of disbelief.
Charley: Whadd I called to tell you, man.. is thad I love you man. Yer da greatesht. Yer my beshtest friend... inna whole worl'. I wan' you to know that. TAKE ME SERIOUSHLEE, DAMMIT! I LOVE YOU, MAN! An' I'll be getting there a liddle later tonight. We gonna have a blast!
*click*
Posted by Eric Chapman at 11:31 AM | Comments (0)
Blowing off steam: The Saga of Hurricane Charley, part 2
The phone rang.
Eric: Hello?
Voice: Hello again, peaches!
Eric: (unintelligible)
Voice: Yeah yeah, glad to hear it. How you holding up?
Eric: Er, well, the thunder and lightning is a nice touch, but
Voice: I'm not there yet.
Eric: I know. I've got the Weather Channel on television. I'm watching the poor overnight weather woman talk herself hoarse about you.
Voice: They're talking about me?
Eric: Yeah, they can't shut up about you.
Voice: Oh! Well it's nice to be noticed!
Eric: . . .
Voice: Did she sound like she liked me? Was she cute?
Eric: Er, well, she did say she had her eye on you.
Voice: Yes!
Eric: and that you were expected to intensify.
Voice: Dude! That is so right! I.. uh.. I'm intensifying a little right now. Was she blond?
Eric: Yep.
Voice: Oooh yeah..
Eric: Alright, that's enough.
Voice: Huh?
Eric: Why me? Early in my life I didn't appreciate the great outdoors but I've grown into a person who reveres nature as something sacred. I pay attention to environmental issues, I'm careful about how I dispose of my solvents when I paint so they don't get into the water supply, and I vote Democratic in most elections despite considering myself an independent.
Voice: Like that matters.
Eric: So why me?
Voice: When was the last time you turned off your computer, fucko? That power has to come from somewhere.
Eric: Er.
Voice: Right. Now, back to the blond. Was she hot?
Eric: Alright, That's it. I'm done with this. I refuse to sit here talking on the phone to a horny personification of a major weather event that's approaching my area. Especially one that got its name from the mascot of a can of tuna fish.
Charley: ARRRRRGH!!! You are SO getting it! *click*
Posted by Eric Chapman at 04:26 AM | Comments (0)
August 12, 2004
Blowing off steam: The Saga of Hurricane Charley, part 1
*ring*
Eric: Hello?
Voice: Yeah, hi bitch. How ya doin'?
Eric: . . . . uhhhh
Voice: Careful, don't want to blow a neuron. You're so proud of those.
Eric: Who the hell is this?
Voice: You know who it is bitch. Look out the window.
Eric: Yeah right.
Voice: Oh?
Eric: Yeah right, man, I'm not falling for this.
Voice: This isn't a joke, meatball. Look outside.
Eric: Heh. Whatever. Okay. Fine. Going to look.
Eric checks first to make sure there are no sniper laser-sight dots hitting the window first, of course.
Eric: Yeah, see? Nothing out there but clouds and sky. You're full of--
Voice: Do not mock me. You've been asking for this for a while.
Eric: Who is this?
Voice: Is it windy outside?
Eric: ... a little..
Voice: Yeah, bitch. 'Cause I'm not there yet.
Eric: *silence*
Voice: Still don't get it, huh?
Eric: No...
Voice: Go out and look at your car, moron. *click*
Eric went outside, stared at the back of his car, not sure what he was supposed to see. Something about the fictional Cape Cod Tunnel he had an exclusive permit for? No.. that can't be it.. wait. There it is.
Posted by Eric Chapman at 06:56 PM | Comments (0)