"Six o'clock already? I was just in the middle of a dream."
She did it again. Please, please, PLEASE stop waking me with 80s song lyrics. It's bad enough that I have to become conscious, at all.
"Do you remember that song?" she asks, knowing full-well that I was DJ-ing at the college radio station in 1986 (and therefore was all-too familiar with that song).
"Ugh. Yes. Hit snooze."
"I love how this song brings me straight back to April of 1986 - back to my second semester in college," she said, more wide-awake than I could ever reconcile with the time on the clock. "Do you remember where you were or what you were doing when this song was everywhere?"
I grunted again. "Of course. How could I forget? I was nineteen - working the dodge-ems - sorry, bumper cars - at the amusement park in Pripyat, Ukraine. I was sharing a flat with two Ukrainians, three Russians, a Greek, an Uzbek, and a Belgian, and we were having the time of our lives. There was never much to eat, but we had more Russian, Ukrainian, and Polish vodka than we could drink, and if there were twenty good-looking young girls in town, I swear to you that nineteen of them were at our place, every night. It was heaven."
"Okay..."
"Then, as you know, on April 26th, there was an explosion at Chernobyl. They told us to stay put. On April 27th, there was panic. They told us nothing. On April 28th, an evacuation order was issued. By April 30th, everyone was gone. I missed the last bus out, because I was having drunken, end-of-the-world sex with the only Russian nurse from the hospital who was under 99 years old and thrice as many kilos."
"Um..."
"And to this day, I can see the terror in her eyes as I left her there, naked and alone, with the Central Emergency Government Ministry-issued Geiger counter buzzing away, on that mattress in the hallway, the lights having long-gone. Who knows - perhaps she was pregnant with my doomed fallout baby... I turned and ran as fast as I could, while securing my pants and such, and never looked back. I'm sorry. Listen to me, droning on and on. What about you? Where were you when that song was hot?"
"I... I was working at the movie theater, and trying to figure out how to tell my high school boyfriend that I was sleeping with this college guy, and transitioning from blue eyeshadow to, you know, more of a green..."
"Oh. Cool."
Sunday, November 23, 2014
Saturday, November 22, 2014
Siderodromophobic Billy - The Worst Hobo Ever
I never met Siderodromophobic Billy, and to be honest, I had never heard of siderodromophobia, and for three weeks, I assumed that the friend who told me about it was just having a laugh. So, ever the skeptic, I did some research.
Well, whaddaya know - he was real, and so is the condition for which he was given his hobo moniker.
Now, I know that you, gentle reader or readers, have access to something called (or a lot like) "Google," so I won't bore you and waste your valuable Insta-Crush time with a lengthy and tedious description of siderodromophobia.
So, let's focus on Billy.
My first question was, quite naturally, how can you possibly have been a hobo at all, and follow-up question - how does one even begin to think about considering developing such a disorder?
The first answer: It's hard enough to be a hobo, but being a hobo who is deathly afraid of trains is nearly impossible. "You still walk the rails from town to town," he supposedly once said, "but you can't abide the sound of a whistle, nor the sight of steam." This resulted in a lot of running perpendicular lines from train tracks, hiding in the woods, and sweating through panicked heart palpitations. The average hobo spent more time walking than riding, so in reality, having siderodromophobia didn't make that big a difference, so never mind what I said earlier about it making it nearly impossible to be a hobo.
The second answer was harder to find. I mean, what could make someone so afraid of trains? Of course, they are massive, fast-moving, and thunderously-loud - especially close-up, but lots of things are that way. Horse races are that way, strictly speaking. A large city can be that way. The ocean. A hurricane. War. I was a bit lost, but perseverance pays, and the internet is sometimes a wonderful tool.
It might not sound like much. A train killed little Billy's parents. It might not add much, the fact that a train killed them before his six-year old eyes. And it still could fail to impress, the fact that a train killed his parents - pulverized them, really - in the warm, safe comfort of their kitchen, as the complementary aromas of kielbasa and sauerkraut filled the air. These facts, these indelible sights and sounds of horror and instantaneous, permanent loss, excruciating as they are, do not fully explain a true case of siderodromophobia. There had to be a missing element.
I had to resort to microfiche - material that has, to date, not made it to the digital domain. I found it in a Pittsburgh library, slated for demolition in 2006. The extra piece - the bit that made it all make sense - was not the fact that an eastbound train of 98 hoppers filled with a hundred tons of anthracite coal, powered by a total of four heavy locomotives (two up front, one mid-train, one on the rear) jumped the tracks and plowed into little Billy's house. Fear of ordinary objects stems from a perception of reach. Obviously, if you live 25 feet from railroad tracks, an accident can land a train in your living room.
But Billy lived over five blocks from the tracks. The lead locomotives, coal tenders, and a half-dozen loaded hoppers rolled a half-mile down Sycamore Street, from the Pennsylvania main line, past two stoplights, past the school and the fire house, over a small hill and around a 10-degree curve in the road, before slamming into the house and annihilating Billy's parents, two minutes before supper.
So, yeah. I guess I kind of get it.
Siderodromophobia. Look it up.
Well, whaddaya know - he was real, and so is the condition for which he was given his hobo moniker.
Now, I know that you, gentle reader or readers, have access to something called (or a lot like) "Google," so I won't bore you and waste your valuable Insta-Crush time with a lengthy and tedious description of siderodromophobia.
So, let's focus on Billy.
My first question was, quite naturally, how can you possibly have been a hobo at all, and follow-up question - how does one even begin to think about considering developing such a disorder?
The first answer: It's hard enough to be a hobo, but being a hobo who is deathly afraid of trains is nearly impossible. "You still walk the rails from town to town," he supposedly once said, "but you can't abide the sound of a whistle, nor the sight of steam." This resulted in a lot of running perpendicular lines from train tracks, hiding in the woods, and sweating through panicked heart palpitations. The average hobo spent more time walking than riding, so in reality, having siderodromophobia didn't make that big a difference, so never mind what I said earlier about it making it nearly impossible to be a hobo.
The second answer was harder to find. I mean, what could make someone so afraid of trains? Of course, they are massive, fast-moving, and thunderously-loud - especially close-up, but lots of things are that way. Horse races are that way, strictly speaking. A large city can be that way. The ocean. A hurricane. War. I was a bit lost, but perseverance pays, and the internet is sometimes a wonderful tool.
It might not sound like much. A train killed little Billy's parents. It might not add much, the fact that a train killed them before his six-year old eyes. And it still could fail to impress, the fact that a train killed his parents - pulverized them, really - in the warm, safe comfort of their kitchen, as the complementary aromas of kielbasa and sauerkraut filled the air. These facts, these indelible sights and sounds of horror and instantaneous, permanent loss, excruciating as they are, do not fully explain a true case of siderodromophobia. There had to be a missing element.
I had to resort to microfiche - material that has, to date, not made it to the digital domain. I found it in a Pittsburgh library, slated for demolition in 2006. The extra piece - the bit that made it all make sense - was not the fact that an eastbound train of 98 hoppers filled with a hundred tons of anthracite coal, powered by a total of four heavy locomotives (two up front, one mid-train, one on the rear) jumped the tracks and plowed into little Billy's house. Fear of ordinary objects stems from a perception of reach. Obviously, if you live 25 feet from railroad tracks, an accident can land a train in your living room.
But Billy lived over five blocks from the tracks. The lead locomotives, coal tenders, and a half-dozen loaded hoppers rolled a half-mile down Sycamore Street, from the Pennsylvania main line, past two stoplights, past the school and the fire house, over a small hill and around a 10-degree curve in the road, before slamming into the house and annihilating Billy's parents, two minutes before supper.
So, yeah. I guess I kind of get it.
Siderodromophobia. Look it up.
Thursday, November 20, 2014
That Thankfulness Thing 2014 - Part Two Of Three
Okay. Two years ago, I did the Thankfulness Thing. I should have stopped there, but no - I did it again in 2013. And now, I just can't stop. No time to lose! Herein you will find the second ten of thirty things for which I find myself thankful in November, 2014...
GO!
11. Jets. Benny or no Benny - they are bone jigglingly amazing, whether just rolling from point A to point B...
Or performing the Missing Man formation...
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...over the Daytona 500.
12. Sparkles. (for [Maris])
13. The 1st-generation Sony FM Walkman. From Rehoboth Beach, you could hear Ocean City (NJ or MD) pop stations, as well as 96-Rock, 98-Rock, and the legendary WHFS (on a clear night), and life was good. Life was, of course, already pretty good, being life at the beach, and all, but the Walkman made it just that much better.
14. Flasks. Yes, these little life-savers have previously appeared on this list, but this year, more than ever... And no - I don't need a flask in order to survive my wife's family - or MY family - but it's always better to be prepared, right?
15. The fact that [Maris] was willing to help with this year's list. Granted, I out-drank her (for once), tonight, so she has been of VERY little help, but still. Just knowing that she's in my corner makes ALL the difference.
16. Mountain Dew (Throwback). As long as we're talking about sleepyhead over there. This stuff is like honey. But with caffeine. It's... It's just TOPS...
17. Legs. Still. Legs. Sue me.
18. Anthony Rendon and/or Asdrubal Cabrera. Yes, it's a baseball (specifically Nationals baseball) thing. If that's not your thing, no worries. Go to 19.
19. Vacations. It doesn't matter if your vacation is some six-star escape from your five-star life of utter leisure, or a one-star motel on the "cheap" side of your nearest budget/family-friendly seaside town - or something in between...
...just getting away is half the battle. Read, sleep, eat, write, play mini-golf - whatever - just get away.
20. Doctors. Mine, [Maris]'s, my mothers', my nephew's, my in-laws', and so on. Independent of everyone's individual issues and/or coverage options etc. - I'm just really glad, tonight, that they are there, doing what they do, sometimes utterly thanklessly. Here's to YOU, docs!
More on the 30th. There's just so much for which I should be thankful. Will Spridel and Chim Chim make the cut? Stay tuned...
I found a way to, lame as it may be, incorporate my own phrase/prompt, "I should have stopped," for my buds at STUDIO 30-PLUS, and I'm at peace with the results. Come back again, won't you?
GO!
11. Jets. Benny or no Benny - they are bone jigglingly amazing, whether just rolling from point A to point B...
Or performing the Missing Man formation...
...over the Daytona 500.
12. Sparkles. (for [Maris])
13. The 1st-generation Sony FM Walkman. From Rehoboth Beach, you could hear Ocean City (NJ or MD) pop stations, as well as 96-Rock, 98-Rock, and the legendary WHFS (on a clear night), and life was good. Life was, of course, already pretty good, being life at the beach, and all, but the Walkman made it just that much better.
14. Flasks. Yes, these little life-savers have previously appeared on this list, but this year, more than ever... And no - I don't need a flask in order to survive my wife's family - or MY family - but it's always better to be prepared, right?
15. The fact that [Maris] was willing to help with this year's list. Granted, I out-drank her (for once), tonight, so she has been of VERY little help, but still. Just knowing that she's in my corner makes ALL the difference.
16. Mountain Dew (Throwback). As long as we're talking about sleepyhead over there. This stuff is like honey. But with caffeine. It's... It's just TOPS...
17. Legs. Still. Legs. Sue me.
18. Anthony Rendon and/or Asdrubal Cabrera. Yes, it's a baseball (specifically Nationals baseball) thing. If that's not your thing, no worries. Go to 19.
19. Vacations. It doesn't matter if your vacation is some six-star escape from your five-star life of utter leisure, or a one-star motel on the "cheap" side of your nearest budget/family-friendly seaside town - or something in between...
...just getting away is half the battle. Read, sleep, eat, write, play mini-golf - whatever - just get away.
20. Doctors. Mine, [Maris]'s, my mothers', my nephew's, my in-laws', and so on. Independent of everyone's individual issues and/or coverage options etc. - I'm just really glad, tonight, that they are there, doing what they do, sometimes utterly thanklessly. Here's to YOU, docs!
More on the 30th. There's just so much for which I should be thankful. Will Spridel and Chim Chim make the cut? Stay tuned...
I found a way to, lame as it may be, incorporate my own phrase/prompt, "I should have stopped," for my buds at STUDIO 30-PLUS, and I'm at peace with the results. Come back again, won't you?
Wednesday, November 19, 2014
200 Bits Of Mostly Harmless Drivel
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| (200) |
For my 200th post, I wanted to do something special.
Instead, I did this. What follows is one word from each of my first 200 blog posts - the first word of the first post, the second word of the next post, and so on. Ready? Okay!
I the trains. family you Hall welcome only that I half was gently us have the your is acquisition that are huge groups previous Head Doom thinking hi! piece with By along well-intentioned camp but saw middle paper mode floor Rockville. Seven the hardest words in succumbing I wrap. It's other picture foist verb Lake corner Knotted public tell sucks to complaints an members named it names yet done who haha my main death fight start did still long happened he lot didn't Seventeen? plans historic walking might KNEW against I Perhaps Right from put spoons house accent birthday Tuesday what blocks met everything questions understandable Pennsylvania made police like for 2:09. again learned bored end or Christmas not ones minute him father dozen finale advancement sticks wretched spring this advice pointed so "Nope."
maybe Poor, poured me would be sell possession glare Achilles separated Glimpses own Bat "find." muttered. never also commerce smile hope road idea go? writer off you're illegal brick Pass! to Barb It's fiction Flowers from great this?** dream was traumatic as in rushed least "Oh, widely you right non-issue navigation about Stingo newly hate work... aspect his On Squeeze come that his room doc. commerce
There. Wasn't that monumental? If you knew how much time I spent on this, and you like me at all, you would be overwhelmed with pity for me, tonight.
Still. 200 posts - probably 50 good ones. It's been a lot of fun, for me, and I very much appreciate your visits to my silly little corner of the virtual universe. Tune in tomorrow for more of this year's Thankfulness Thing...
** this post did not have enough words, so I used "this?" because it was the last word in the post.
Tuesday, November 18, 2014
Session Number 199 - What About Hyperion?
While we're on the subject of therapists - which, technically, we are not, but which, 24 hours ago, we briefly were...
Doc: You're late, again. I have an appointment immediately after yours, so we can't run long. I'm sorry.
Joe: (standing) Well, I'm off to serenade a parking meter...
Doc: Seriously?
Joe: (sits down) No. Serenade wouldn't really make sense, anyway.
Doc: (writes on note pad) Okay. So. Last week, we left off with you feeling confident about...
Joe: About my job interview - yes.
Doc: So, how did it go?
Joe: (thought bubble: SO not hired) Not bad, actually.
Doc: Excellent. I'm encouraged. So, no trouble with the coprolalia, this time?
Joe: Well, I didn't say that, but it wasn't bad. I didn't get kicked out, and there were no cops.
Doc: So, you made it through an interview. There was never a doubt in my mind. Mazal-tov.
Joe: Um. Thanks. I didn't have half of the experience they wanted, though.
Doc: How does this whole encounter with potential authority figures leave you feeling?
Joe: This, again? 'And how do you feel about that?' Really? How do you think I feel about it? It was an interview, doc. I did better than usual, but they gave me no reason to get my hopes up, blah blah blah... Can I ask you a question, though?
Doc: And how did things go with that other issue we discussed? The guns?
Joe: (avoiding eye contact) Yeah. That. I kinda bought three more guns - two fully-automatic, and one old .38.
Doc: And?
Joe: (sighs) And nothing on me has gotten any bigger than it was before.
Doc: And how does that--
Joe: But I haven't been to the range, yet!
Doc: (writing on note pad) I see...
Joe: Listen, doc - I've been meaning to ask, and don't take this the wrong way, but...
Doc: Yes?
Joe: Well, with you over there, and me over here on this clichéed couch, we can't even see each other. We might as well do this over the phone.
Doc: No. I don't want you multitasking your way through these sessions any more than you would want me to to sit here reading, while you talk...
Joe: Wait. You're not reading, over there?
Doc: No! I'm listening, and taking notes.
Joe: Oops. Well, I'm working on my novel, on my iPad.
Doc: (turning to look) You are not!
Joe: Well, not right now, but last week, I completely rewrote chapter sixteen, about Edward meeting Callista's family at Thanksgiving...
Doc: Mr. Scott!
Joe: What? I was fully-engaged. I'm an excellent multitasker...
Doc: Understood. Okay, let's get back to an issue you brought up during our first session...
Joe: Ugh...
Doc: Tell me about Hyperion...
Joe: You mean the Dan Simmons novel?
Doc: Great book - but, no.
Joe: (repositions self several times, looks at clock) What?
Doc: Can you tell me about Hyperion?
Joe:
Doc: Are you ready to talk about Hyperion? About what happened, there?
Joe:
Doc: It's okay to say no.
Joe: No. Not yet.
Doc: That's okay.
Joe: Thank you.
Doc: Change of subject. How about the 'roid rage? How has that been, lately? You're stepping down off the prednisone, as I recall...
Stay tuned, kiddies. Assuming that my math is correct (a generous assumption, to be sure), the next post is NUMBER TWO HUNDRED!! What can up with I come, to the occasion mark? Join me. Joinnnnnnn meeeeeeeeeeeeeee...
Doc: You're late, again. I have an appointment immediately after yours, so we can't run long. I'm sorry.
Joe: (standing) Well, I'm off to serenade a parking meter...
Doc: Seriously?
Joe: (sits down) No. Serenade wouldn't really make sense, anyway.
Doc: (writes on note pad) Okay. So. Last week, we left off with you feeling confident about...
Joe: About my job interview - yes.
Doc: So, how did it go?
Joe: (thought bubble: SO not hired) Not bad, actually.
Doc: Excellent. I'm encouraged. So, no trouble with the coprolalia, this time?
Joe: Well, I didn't say that, but it wasn't bad. I didn't get kicked out, and there were no cops.
Doc: So, you made it through an interview. There was never a doubt in my mind. Mazal-tov.
Joe: Um. Thanks. I didn't have half of the experience they wanted, though.
Doc: How does this whole encounter with potential authority figures leave you feeling?
Joe: This, again? 'And how do you feel about that?' Really? How do you think I feel about it? It was an interview, doc. I did better than usual, but they gave me no reason to get my hopes up, blah blah blah... Can I ask you a question, though?
Doc: And how did things go with that other issue we discussed? The guns?
Joe: (avoiding eye contact) Yeah. That. I kinda bought three more guns - two fully-automatic, and one old .38.
Doc: And?
Joe: (sighs) And nothing on me has gotten any bigger than it was before.
Doc: And how does that--
Joe: But I haven't been to the range, yet!
Doc: (writing on note pad) I see...
Joe: Listen, doc - I've been meaning to ask, and don't take this the wrong way, but...
Doc: Yes?
Joe: Well, with you over there, and me over here on this clichéed couch, we can't even see each other. We might as well do this over the phone.
Doc: No. I don't want you multitasking your way through these sessions any more than you would want me to to sit here reading, while you talk...
Joe: Wait. You're not reading, over there?
Doc: No! I'm listening, and taking notes.
Joe: Oops. Well, I'm working on my novel, on my iPad.
Doc: (turning to look) You are not!
Joe: Well, not right now, but last week, I completely rewrote chapter sixteen, about Edward meeting Callista's family at Thanksgiving...
Doc: Mr. Scott!
Joe: What? I was fully-engaged. I'm an excellent multitasker...
Doc: Understood. Okay, let's get back to an issue you brought up during our first session...
Joe: Ugh...
Doc: Tell me about Hyperion...
Joe: You mean the Dan Simmons novel?
Doc: Great book - but, no.
Joe: (repositions self several times, looks at clock) What?
Doc: Can you tell me about Hyperion?
Joe:
Doc: Are you ready to talk about Hyperion? About what happened, there?
Joe:
Doc: It's okay to say no.
Joe: No. Not yet.
Doc: That's okay.
Joe: Thank you.
Doc: Change of subject. How about the 'roid rage? How has that been, lately? You're stepping down off the prednisone, as I recall...
 |
| Hyperion, summer. |
Stay tuned, kiddies. Assuming that my math is correct (a generous assumption, to be sure), the next post is NUMBER TWO HUNDRED!! What can up with I come, to the occasion mark? Join me. Joinnnnnnn meeeeeeeeeeeeeee...
Monday, November 17, 2014
Out Of Order
Sometimes, I know exactly what I want to write. I'm in tune with my reader, and with my other reader, and I don't dither and watch "American Dad" until it's too late to come up with anything new or worthwhile.
Every once in a great while, I have Too Much Material, and I end up failing to write anything, simply because I couldn't pick from the myriad of great ideas.
The memories are coming fast and thick, now, and I can't stop them.
Should I write about:
The control room of the Haunted Mansion ride in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware - and the horrific crimes I witnessed there, when the power went out on the ride, and I got lost, trying to follow the glow-in-the dark emergency evacuation route signs. No one believed me at the time, so I very much doubt that anyone will take my word for it, now. I'm pretty sure even my therapists have dismissed my account of that night as some sort of paranoid delusion of imagined ultraviolence. So, never mind.
During the 1993 Storm of The Century, I sold urine to a desperate George W. Bush for $700,000, in the rest room of a Petro truck stop near "South of The Border," on I-95 in South Carolina. Say what you will about the guy, but he seemed really cool, that morning. Check bounced to hell and back. Lesson learned. Wanna hear about that? No? I'm not surprised.
How about my Spring Break 1988 hook-up with MTV's Tabitha Soren? My back starts to hurt when I think about that night. I called it a life-altering, near-death experience. Apparently, she called it "Thursday." [Note: I didn't know who she was until much later, but somehow, she knew all about me.] No - I don't have pictures or video. Oh, I see how it is. Fine.
There was the mystery of the poop in the hall, and the 3rd floor of residence tower "D" at Towson State, following the 1988-1989 Christmas break - a mystery, I might add, that was never solved. Yeah - I don't have a whole lot of interest in rehashing that crap, either.
Maybe I should tell you about The One Who Got Away. [Maris] is asleep, so I'm pretty sure she'd never know. It was the stuff of epic romance, of rom-coms, of Ross & Rachel, Ren & Stimpy, and Heathcliff and whats-her-face. Ha ha ha I'm kidding; she didn't get away! It's [Maris]! Duh!
Okay that's enough good night.
Every once in a great while, I have Too Much Material, and I end up failing to write anything, simply because I couldn't pick from the myriad of great ideas.
The memories are coming fast and thick, now, and I can't stop them.
Should I write about:
The control room of the Haunted Mansion ride in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware - and the horrific crimes I witnessed there, when the power went out on the ride, and I got lost, trying to follow the glow-in-the dark emergency evacuation route signs. No one believed me at the time, so I very much doubt that anyone will take my word for it, now. I'm pretty sure even my therapists have dismissed my account of that night as some sort of paranoid delusion of imagined ultraviolence. So, never mind.
During the 1993 Storm of The Century, I sold urine to a desperate George W. Bush for $700,000, in the rest room of a Petro truck stop near "South of The Border," on I-95 in South Carolina. Say what you will about the guy, but he seemed really cool, that morning. Check bounced to hell and back. Lesson learned. Wanna hear about that? No? I'm not surprised.
How about my Spring Break 1988 hook-up with MTV's Tabitha Soren? My back starts to hurt when I think about that night. I called it a life-altering, near-death experience. Apparently, she called it "Thursday." [Note: I didn't know who she was until much later, but somehow, she knew all about me.] No - I don't have pictures or video. Oh, I see how it is. Fine.
There was the mystery of the poop in the hall, and the 3rd floor of residence tower "D" at Towson State, following the 1988-1989 Christmas break - a mystery, I might add, that was never solved. Yeah - I don't have a whole lot of interest in rehashing that crap, either.
Maybe I should tell you about The One Who Got Away. [Maris] is asleep, so I'm pretty sure she'd never know. It was the stuff of epic romance, of rom-coms, of Ross & Rachel, Ren & Stimpy, and Heathcliff and whats-her-face. Ha ha ha I'm kidding; she didn't get away! It's [Maris]! Duh!
Okay that's enough good night.
Sunday, November 16, 2014
Wormy Glenn and Nootka the Flatworm
Nootka regarded his master blankly, unable to speak.
"You're wondering where we're going, I bet," Wormy Glenn said.
Nootka remained expressionless, and said nothing.
"Winter's coming, buddy. We're heading south."
Nootka opened and closed his mouth twice, which Glenn interpreted as a kind of "Whatever."
"Trust me, Noot. It's getting cold - definitely time to get to California." Glenn returned the tiny flatworm to the mulch- and dirt-filled canvas sack that served as his home and carry case. The empty livestock car in which they were stowed away had been cleaned, but there was still some manure in the stalls, so Nootka would be well-fed, all the way to Fresno.
Glenn and Nootka met near Nanaimo, on British Columbia's Vancouver Island, and had been traveling the roads and rails of the Pacific Northwest together for almost a year. Glenn was already a seasoned, weary veteran of the hobo life by then, but it was all very new to Nootka. This is primarily because Nootka was a flatworm.
They never made Fresno. In Eugene, Oregon, the train stopped. It stayed stopped. After almost 24 hours stopped, it showed now signs of un-stopping. Glenn gathered his gear and his sack of Nootka-sustaining gunk, and ventured out. There were other hoboes in the area, and although none of them knew exactly where, it was established that there was at least one bridge out, south of Eugene, on the Northern Pacific mainline.
"Change of plans, buddy," Wormy Glenn said to his miniature friend as they sat in the raw November Oregon rain, near the passenger station. "Don't give me any guff! There was too a plan. I just didn't tell you."
The flatworm said nothing, as per usual.
"I don't have to tell you everything, Nootka! You're just a worm. You eat and poop through the same hole!"
Nootka was speechless at his friend's cruelty - both the suddenness and severity of it. It was more than he could process. He squirmed.
Glenn looked at Nootka - at where he had long imagined that the worm's eyes would be, if he had any. He was quickly overwhelmed with guilt. "I'm sorry, buddy. I can't believe I said that. I'm so sorry. I'm just frustrated, is all."
Nootka remained silent, and drooped a little.
"I couldn't tell you the plan, Nootka, my friend. My plan was to get to southern California - or maybe Mexico - turn you loose in a nice pig pen, and find a palm tree, where I would sit and drink myself to death."
Nootka opened his mouth and held it that way for several seconds, which Glenn had always assumed meant "Oh my God!"
"Don't act so surprised, buddy. I can't do this, anymore. This world is going to kill me, anyway - and soon. I won't let it. I'm going out on my own terms. Hence, the change of plans." He reached into Nootka's mulch bag and grabbed the worm, shook off some of the dirt, held the wriggling little parasite up high, and dropped it into his mouth, swallowing it whole.
"Don't be sad, Nootka," he sighed. "It's gonna be okay. You'll have plenty to eat."
"You're wondering where we're going, I bet," Wormy Glenn said.
Nootka remained expressionless, and said nothing.
"Winter's coming, buddy. We're heading south."
Nootka opened and closed his mouth twice, which Glenn interpreted as a kind of "Whatever."
"Trust me, Noot. It's getting cold - definitely time to get to California." Glenn returned the tiny flatworm to the mulch- and dirt-filled canvas sack that served as his home and carry case. The empty livestock car in which they were stowed away had been cleaned, but there was still some manure in the stalls, so Nootka would be well-fed, all the way to Fresno.
Glenn and Nootka met near Nanaimo, on British Columbia's Vancouver Island, and had been traveling the roads and rails of the Pacific Northwest together for almost a year. Glenn was already a seasoned, weary veteran of the hobo life by then, but it was all very new to Nootka. This is primarily because Nootka was a flatworm.
They never made Fresno. In Eugene, Oregon, the train stopped. It stayed stopped. After almost 24 hours stopped, it showed now signs of un-stopping. Glenn gathered his gear and his sack of Nootka-sustaining gunk, and ventured out. There were other hoboes in the area, and although none of them knew exactly where, it was established that there was at least one bridge out, south of Eugene, on the Northern Pacific mainline.
"Change of plans, buddy," Wormy Glenn said to his miniature friend as they sat in the raw November Oregon rain, near the passenger station. "Don't give me any guff! There was too a plan. I just didn't tell you."
The flatworm said nothing, as per usual.
"I don't have to tell you everything, Nootka! You're just a worm. You eat and poop through the same hole!"
Nootka was speechless at his friend's cruelty - both the suddenness and severity of it. It was more than he could process. He squirmed.
Glenn looked at Nootka - at where he had long imagined that the worm's eyes would be, if he had any. He was quickly overwhelmed with guilt. "I'm sorry, buddy. I can't believe I said that. I'm so sorry. I'm just frustrated, is all."
Nootka remained silent, and drooped a little.
"I couldn't tell you the plan, Nootka, my friend. My plan was to get to southern California - or maybe Mexico - turn you loose in a nice pig pen, and find a palm tree, where I would sit and drink myself to death."
Nootka opened his mouth and held it that way for several seconds, which Glenn had always assumed meant "Oh my God!"
"Don't act so surprised, buddy. I can't do this, anymore. This world is going to kill me, anyway - and soon. I won't let it. I'm going out on my own terms. Hence, the change of plans." He reached into Nootka's mulch bag and grabbed the worm, shook off some of the dirt, held the wriggling little parasite up high, and dropped it into his mouth, swallowing it whole.
"Don't be sad, Nootka," he sighed. "It's gonna be okay. You'll have plenty to eat."
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