Paralells

The car crashed, the fender buckled, our heads slumped forward. The force of the impact carried my head forward until it met the windshield. It was a fucked up situation. But it wasn't my fucked up situation, it was Arnold's. It was Arnold's because it was his car, because he had drank all that wine, and because he'd been driving. So he did what was perfectly natural, he drove off. Or what was perfectly natural in our situation. Before we had hit the other car, Arnold had been telling me about the dream he'd had last night. In it he had seen a Golem, and had followed it into town. He followed the golem into a McDonalds, followed the Golem into a hotel watched from some obscure hiding spot while the Golem fucked a whore. Then he looked in the mirror and saw that he was the golem. He told me it was very moving, that he had wept and dedicated himself to change. I told him the symbolism was lazy, then we hit the car in front of us. I don't recall the make or color of it. I only remember that it was there, the impact and that we left. Then we met Ivan. Ivan was very tall. Arnold asked if he played professional basketball. Ivan called him an asshole. Ivan had been standing on the side of the road. Smoking a cigarette and half-heartedly looking for a ride. When we asked if he needed a ride, he looked skyward, as if contemplating some far off anguish; then slowly picked up his backpack and crawled into the backseat. His knees were scrunched up to his chest. He looked ridiculous. He had such wayward eyes and such a crooked smile, I fell in love immediately. I was already in love with Arnold. But I figured I could love both at once. And we did, in the motel we rented that night. It took some persuading for Arnold. He said he was greedy, that he didn't want to share me. But eventually he relented and, I think, enjoyed himself. In the morning we found a briefcase in the lobby. If it had been left there for days or for minutes didn't matter to us. We took it. We found that it was filled with money. Or rather, it had a lot of money in it. It wasn't entirely filled, it had some stray papers and folders strewn about. But there was still a lot of money in there. We stopped at a park to count it and drink beer. Ivan started arguing with Arnold about who was more deserving of the money, who had had the greatest trials in their lives. Soon they began fighting, punching each other, rolling around on the ground. Ivan picked up a large rock and smashed Arnold's face with it. I didn't need to look to know he was dead. Ivan sat down, holding his head in his hands. He looked at me. I could see the profound sadness in his eyes. Before I could say anything, he reached into his backpack, pulled out a gun and shot himself. I kissed them both on the forehead before closing the briefcase and driving away.

The car crashed, the fender buckled, our heads slumped forward. But it looked like the car in front of us had sustained more damage than ours. It was a fucked up situation. But it wasn't my fucked up situation, it was Arnold's. It was Arnold's because it was his car, because he had drank all that wine, and because he'd been driving. He tried to do what was perfectly natural for him, which was drive off. I persuaded him to stop and see if who'd ever been in that car was still alive, and maybe call an ambulance. Arnold wanted to leave. He was drunk, he didn't want to go to jail. I told him that this was probably the lesson he should have gleaned from the golem dream he had just been telling me about. He told me that was bullshit and to shut up. We looked in the car we'd just hit. The drives door was open, but there was no one inside. All we could see was a briefcase sitting on the driver's seat. Arnold wanted to take it, I tried to tell him that stealing from a crime scene would only get him in more trouble, but he had his mind set on it. And I couldn't talk him out of something when he set his mind to it. So we drove away. We stopped at a Denny's to see what was inside. We found a lot of hundred dollar bills scattered amongst the papers and other detritus that had been stuffed inside it. Arnold could barely contain his glee. He ordered the Moons-Over-My-Hammy, I had a strawberry milkshake. We tipped the waitress generously. Perhaps too generously, as she followed us into the parking lot to make sure we hadn't put the wrong bill on the table by mistake. We assured her we hadn't. She was so grateful she could have kissed us. She was an attractive young girl, tall, red-hair, breasts you could imagine being lovely if they weren't obscured by the boxy Denny's uniform. Arnold started flirting with her, and eventually persuaded her to come out with us. We waited until she got off, then left to get some beer to take back to our hotel room. We must have attracted someone else's attention because another car followed us out of the Denny's parking lot. In our motel room we got drunk with Caren (her nametag informed us that it was spelled with a "C"). One thing led to another and Arnold started fucking her. I didn't love him, but watching them, I kind of felt jealous. I went outside to smoke a cigarette and clear my head. I must not have him enter the room. I just heard the screams and the sick sound of something breaking. I went to the room, inside a large heavyset man was choking Caren. She was gasping, struggling, trying to wrest herself from the grip of the mammoth of a man. I could see that Arnold was dead. The Tv had been smashed over his head. The sheets were covered with blood. I figured the jagged shards had cut his throat. I couldn't go anything, I was frozen in my tracks. I wished I could have, but I just watched the giant of a man kill that poor, sweet girl. The man picked up the briefcase and brushed past me, as though I wasn't even there. I felt like I wasn't there. Like I didn't even exist. The only thing I could do was cry.

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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Davey Morrison, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, and William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden. This week's theme: 'Alternate Realities'.

Coordinated Ventriloquism

At the end of a long boozy tirade about nothing in particular, Tasha said, “We should have a séance!” and everyone said, “We should.” Merrill didn’t say anything, not because he objected to séances but because he wasn’t the kind of person who said the things that everyone said. Tasha said, “Merrill! Don’t you want to have a séance?” And Merrill shrugged and said, “Sure.” And Tasha said, “You’ll host it, won’t you?” And Merrill shrugged, and blushed, and said, “Sure.”

They settled on next Saturday.

Merrill hadn’t hosted many parties, let alone a séance, and he wanted everyone to have a good time. He bought a Ouiji board at the local toy store (pausing over, but eventually passing up, the Hannah Montana special edition. He knew that the séance was a joke, but not the same kind as a blonde-wigged teenager—could it be?).

He exhumed his table from junk mail and old pizza boxes and set up the board. He planned where the snacks would go. He thought about the questions Tasha would ask and the other guys and the other girls and how he couldn’t guess what Tasha would ask or begin to guess. He practiced rapping once for yes and twice for no. Then he practiced rapping twice for yes and once for no.

In the wandering half-asleep waking of that Saturday morning, Merrill saw (or rather heard-and-saw as in a vision) the perfect final touch: a ghostly voice rising from the table, seeming to emanate from the wood somewhere between the Ouiji board and a splash of carelessly dripped salsa. So on the way back from getting snacks, he stopped by the bookstore and picked up Ventriloquism for Dummies.

Once home, Merrill thumbed through the book, not under the misapprehension that he could master ventriloquism in a day, but hoping to acquire a sufficient smattering for a half-assed, laughing attempt, which would be perfect in its own way. For this séance. Which was a laughing, half-assed thing.

He hadn’t read far when he realized the book was actually Ventriloquism for Dummies. It said that the world was full of ventriloquists, mouths tight shut, casting out their voices like fishing lines. To the dummy, fell the delicate art of hooking a line. The book instructed Merrill to feel the line hook his lips like a thought. It warned that the mistake most dummies make is not moving their mouths. A dummy should move his mouth but not his lips. His lips should resemble carved wood or a hard and shiny slab of lipstick.

The book said that the first ventriloquists were ghosts, and the first dummies were shamans. The Sumerians conducted fertility rites in which the priestess was the dummy and the ventriloquist was god, and everyone's orgasms were in everyone else’s mouths. The Egyptians took up ventriloquism next and called it mummification. The word dummy actually came from mummy.

A mummy is waiting to become a dummy for the ventriloquist of itself.

The book said that modern religions teach that everyone lives forever, but most scientists now believe that only certain professions can. The embalmers, the zorasters (the pronunciation guide indicated this rhymed with “choristers”), the electricians, the toll-takers, the zorasters (the pronunciation guide indicated this rhymed with “pastors”), the dummy/ventriloquists.

Merrill had just wanted to know how to make a voice rise out of the table, making everyone gasp like a laughing sigh and say, “This is a good party. We’re having such a good time”

Someone knocked at the door. “Come in,” Merrill called. They knocked again. Rap twice for no. Merrill opened the door, and Gary said, “Am I the first here?” Merrill said, “Yes,” but then Tasha arrived and then everyone else.

They said, “Wow,” when they saw the Ouiji board. They said, “You really went all out.” Merrill said, “There was a Hannah Montana one too, but I stuck with the classic.” Tasha said, “Oh wow,” and everyone laughed. “I stuck with the classic,” Merrill repeated.

They asked the Ouiji board more political questions than Merrill had expected and more about who would win what Oscars. He had envisioned this séance remaining in the realm of the personal. When they had enough pushing the wedge around, they turned out the lights and wiggled the table. For one moment, the table seemed to hover, while everyone’s knees knocked against their neighbors’, and Merrill almost heard a voice being squeezed out of the table, and it almost felt like it belonged to him.

When they had enough of that, they turned on the lights and talked and ate to the end of the party, their mouths in constant chewing motion like fish.

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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, and William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden. This week's theme: 'Ventriloquism'.