Saw a bus advertisement yesterday said, “Blankety Blank Investment Firm: Not Run by Robots”, and had a picture of a cartoonish, 50’s robot on it. I pinched myself. Was this real life? Had I crossed over into a 1980s Sci-Fi movie? I’m well aware that stocks and all that sort of thing are largely, mostly, ran by computers, with artificial intelligence. So I also couldn’t help but ask, would I really want to go with the people on something like that? I mean the machines had to have the edge. Right?
Summer, popped up from the grave, grabbed our collective wrists yesterday. It was over 80 degrees out. People sported shorts, grabbed another tank of propane. We have had half a dozen viewing of our house in its first month. A little slow, but we also just got it listed as FHA available so I think that should pick things up. Also got an open house tomorrow. The house has never looked so clean. So yesterday evening the whole gang went up to the park. Me in truck with Dante and Cujo. Mom driving the three boys in the Honda.
The park is idyllic. My gang and the other kids at the park incorporate effortlessly under the warm night sky. I do laps with Cujo at the park. Coen, two years old, walks next to me giggling the whole time. He loves dogs. Loves seeing the dog at the park. The park is next to a the community center. While walking, I notice someone getting out of the car with a giant Amish hat. Sort of like a pilgrim hat, but wider brim, dome on top. I love it. The anachronism, the symbol. The other-worldliness of beliefs like that. I like to imagine that person staring at a purple haired punked teenager with a can of Four Loko. Lock them in a giant garage together, feed her hospital grade amphetamines and give him endless woodworking projects. See who changes who, you know?
Driving later, windows down, fresh air mixing with hot dog slobber, and Sam Bush on the radio. I see a lady, wearing the same hat. I get a nice long look at the stout and dignified optics. The hat fills the car, it fills everything, a blackness. Her tight white mug rolls under it, squished down until she’s nothing but a mouth, dense, bone, uncracking, never hitting a Coca-Cola in her life. She’s tougher then me, could probably take me. Knows more about living and life, then I could ever know. But there’s that blackness filling the car. I heard somewhere those hats symbolize the planet Saturn. That with many the Judeo-Christian and other religious sects, it’s all one big ode to Saturn. The little black boxes on the center of the foreheads. The Kaaba itself. The Kaaba is wild. So are the hats.
8:02AM I go upstairs, look out our freshly cleaned window. Do you know how big a difference a freshly cleaned window makes? Winters coming so it was dark well into seven o clock in the morning. I look out and everything has a pink Polaroid feeling. We eat our breakfast together. At one point, Coen, does one of his new bits were he takes juice in his mouth, parades it around, building dramatic tension, and then spits it on the ground. We are working on cultivating positivism, so Mom tries to manage the situation calmly. Ultimately, she’s forced to put the cup in the fridge. Then, and note the cosmic nudge of fuckery, she knocks last night’s chocolate-milk cup out, spilling. The forces work for the children. She grunts, shakes a fist. I call to her through the deep. Don’t do it. Turn back. Stress. Remember what we said.
She sits down on the table. The fuzz clears. We start to breathe. Coen smiles. Equilibrium achieved. He continues, ornery, until we find a bit we can all get into. Enter the Man-Eating Table. More like Toddler eating table. It begins as Coen stars to slide under the table, from the big chair. I start to feign terror. “On no! The table is eating Coen! Somebody helps him!” He take the cue, continues to slide under. Britney joins in tries to save him. Chay runs around the table tries to help, but it doesn’t work. Then the next thing you know the table eats him too. Thing have reached a critical mass. We’ve been halved. Mom goes next. Kein rushes to save her, but fails. We stare at each other over the warn eatery expanse. I feel one of its tentacles grab my ankle. “On no, my boy,” I yell to him. “It’s got me too! Save your self!”
Five of us pack in under there, like Jonah in the belly of leviathan. It feels like that, dark, warm, damp. Everyone sort of scared, but happy too. We realize the only solution is for Kein to slap the belly of the whale. To for it to throw us up. Keep it simple. We spill out. Saved in the nick of time. 8:30AM