Bday wishes

Philips went onto Facebook and looked at his friends list. Looked for a name he could say something like, “I will fuck your brains and eat your ass” to. He thought about how anyone might react. Anyone would either be offended or joke about it in a semi-trashy way, or just think something was wrong with him. He decided to masturbate to status updates. He was proud of himself for not messaging someone and offending them. He wanted to be less weird in his own eyes. He came to the status update, “Thanks for the bday wishes”.

Real Life

Scene I

Roarke:

Have you heard of Tsai Loo?

Francis:

No.

Roarke:

He’s like, really big somewhere.

Francis:

An author?

Roarke:

Well, yea.

Francis:

Have you read him?

Roarke:

No. I’ve just read about him online. He’s big into like, gimmicks and stuff.

Francis:

What kinds?

Roarke:

Well he did a reading in Brooklyn last week and he read the same sentence like 1,000 times. 

Francis:

Which sentence?

Roarke:

It was that thing that the chimpanzee says in “The Lion King” when he holds Simba up after being born, or whatever. It’s in like Swahili or something.

Francis:

Ahhhhh sabenya, baba hee bee abow?

Roarke:

Yea, that one.

Francis:

Interesting. What else does he do?

Roarke:

He hired like two hundred people to follow him around one Friday night to go from restaurant to restaurant saying ‘table for two hundred’ and just get rejected over and over again. That ended up in like a tabloid or something. He’s pretty good at getting his name out there. It’s weird you haven’t heard of him.

Francis:

You seem to forget my policy: I only read dead authors; live authors are glib, mundane, and have nothing of consequence to say—after all, what could there be to say in this sea of vapidity? This world is awash with tweets and blurbs and…whatever. Why would I pay attention to today’s literati?

Roarke:

Want to get another cappuccino? I’m falling asleep. Maybe an espresso.

Francis:

You know, I drank so much espresso in Europe that I simply can’t stomach American coffee anymore. When I got into JFK from Dusseldorf I ordered a Starbucks grande, black, and nearly vomited all over my Versace. It’s just…Guatemala flavored water.  

Roarke (stifling a yawn):

How was Europe anyway? I saw you Checked In at a restaurant in Prague last month and felt jealous. Or something.

Francis:

Oh, you know. Europe.

Roarke:

Quite. Let’s?

Francis:

Let’s. 

Elevator man

The elevator man says every job has its ups and downs.  He looks ahead, he sees through the buttons on the metal, his blazer holds flat against his body.

Bed

            I walked into my room today and thought, "Is this my room?" Smells like something I read about once.  Maybe Burroughs. Is this my room? I walked over to the bed and sat. The bed sits lows, and creaks slightly sometimes. It didn’t creak, but instead I got to listen to the churning of the fan, and wondered what its velocity was. Is it a high velocity, is it not so high, unimpressive even? Am I thinking about an unimpressive fan? I sat on the bed, and my stomach hurt, then my foot hurt, and then most of my body was in extreme pain. I thought, “Am I not supposed to think about the fan?” and the pain persisted until I was crying, and I thought about those people with Irukandji disease, those poor goddamn people. They are in such great pain, such excruciating, unbearable pain, but then the pain isn’t so bad, and the disease makes them think that they should die. That the only way to get rid of the ominous pain that will come back, just when they’re least expecting it, is to die. Intensely suicidal. 
              People keep knives away from them.  I didn’t have people with me, and I did have a knife next to my bed. I really had no one there. No one there to push the sharp objects out of reach as I writhed in pain. My eyes were closed and I couldn’t see, but it felt like I was Cyclops and my vision was red and I thought I could see the dresser and the drawer with the knife in it. I grabbed the knife and didn’t look at it; it was red. It shook in my hand, and I thought, I have Irukandji disease. Was I stung by a jellyfish? Have I been stung by a jellyfish under my bed? Maybe my roommates are playing another trick on me, waiting to come out from under the bed with jellyfish, saying, “Aha! Surprise! We got you. Happy half birthday.” I always forget when my half birthday is, and my arms have blood on them now, but the pain has begun to subside. My body was playing the trick. There is no one under the bed. My body has been trying to surprise me. Why did you do that body, I think. I don't have Irukandji disease. I think I'm just fine, actually. My body doesn't answer "why did you do that," instead there's just blood on my sheets, and no more coins to do laundry. I sighed, deep sigh, long sigh, quiet crying sigh, and walked to the door. Is this my room?