American Fez

Tabula Rasa

My boss found the abstract image of an employee's backside in the photocopying machine. The vulgar kind of paper 'moon'. We hadn't seen one of those since the company Christmas party in 2002. This was early August so the Lord of Misrule could provide no Saturnalian excuse. The culprit was clearly not drunk but just plain disgruntled. There was a malcontent in our midst; an inchoate voice raised in protest against the daily grind.

'They changed the paper size setting from A4 to legal,' my boss said, handing me the offending article, 'Only one person works here whose ass is that wide. It's an open and shut case. It's obviously Martin's ass.'

'Unless Martin's being framed,' I explained. 'The actual perp possibly used the photocopier's zoom and enlarge functions to make their regular sized ass look as big as Martin's. Furthermore, this ass has no distinguishing features as far as I can tell and we all know Martin suffers with terrible hemorrhoids. The image resolution simply isn't good enough to pick out any individual characteristics of the ass. It's basically a contrasty black and white blur. I've been saying we should upgrade the photocopier for years. Superior reproduction quality would've provided more damning evidence. But as it is, could be anyone's ass. I don't think you'd get a conviction in a court of law.'

My boss shrugged. "Okay. This isn't Human Resources CSI. We don't need to get all forensic about a Xerox of some idiot's ass. I'll just shred it and forget it. I'm just glad I'd didn't have my intern Alice do the copying today. We could be looking at a sexual harassment lawsuit."

"Which sort of makes her a suspect." I told him. "In fact, she has two motives. One, the pay off from a potential suit. And two, she wants Martin's job so gets him fired by framing the poor guy. I think it's a good theory. Let's be honest, Alice is the only person here skinny enough to sit on the photocopier without breaking it. The entire machine would collapse under Martin's weight. Ergo, Alice framed Martin because she want his job. QED."

"Alice absolutely does not want Martin's job," my boss countered. "Nobody wants Martin job. Even Martin doesn't want Martin's job. Martin's job sucks, and he's chosen the medium of office supplies to express his dissatisfaction. It totally makes sense. And anyway, photocopying your own anus is not a cause for termination, it's only a reprimand and a sore point at his next annual review, so this fiendish plot of your imagination would've failed. Meanwhile, don't you yourself have better things to do with your time than play Sherlock Holmes?"

"I'm obviously more of a Columbo. Please add that to my personnel file. But the answer to your question is no, I don't have anything better to do at the moment. I'm waiting for Alice to come back from the sandwich shop with my lunch. Hopefully she didn't inject the mayo with a powerful soporific so I fall asleep at my desk and get fired."

My boss thumbed his nose at me. "Alice doesn't want your job either. No future in doing the crap you do."

"Too true." I replied. "So remind me again, why she is here?" And my boss shrugged for the second time that morning.

To me, Alice the intern resembled the second Mrs DeWinter in Rebecca, wandering aimlessly around an empty house, lonely and isolated, with no clue what she should be doing or saying. Indeed, there was really nothing for her to do in our office except run trivial errands; and when Alice wasn't getting lunch or making coffee she just stared out the window at the busy offices across the street. The only work experience she'd gain in our company was how to invent excuses for abject failure; an important life skill, to be sure, but mumbled self-justification and accusatory finger-pointing are not the solid foundations of a successful career in any profession. And I should know, these days I often felt like the foundation of my career was a bouncy castle slowly deflating in a deserted fun fair. 

Alice's father was an old college buddy of my boss, which was why she'd be given the internship in the first place, and partly why my boss refused to believe it was her ass printed on the photocopy paper. He'd know Alice since she was born and nobody wants to entertain vulgar thoughts about someone they've known as a babe in arms. Acceptance of her culpability would also be an admission, perhaps, of his complicity with Alice's father in forcing her down a career path she obviously did not wish to follow.

During one of the idle conversations we sometimes shared, Alice had mentioned a vague desire to work with animals. Apparently she wanted to work in a veterinarian clinic but her father insisted she "go into business" instead. Well, we're not animals as such, I'd told her, but you'll certainly learn a great deal about bovine intelligence and herd instinct here. Alice had laughed but suddenly turned serious again. "Everyone looks so bored and unhappy," she'd said.

Ultimately, I guess we'll never know who photocopied their buttocks and left the results in the machine. George Orwell famously remarked that an image of the future would be a boot stamping on a human face forever. But the future of business will no doubt be a endless stream of human ass photocopies overflowing into the machine's paper tray until the ink runs out and we are left with nothing but a blank page. Tabula rasa: that could possibly be all for the best, a fresh start for the work force of tomorrow. But I wouldn't hold my furloughed breath. Twenty years from now, I can only foresee a disgruntled cyborg leaving a hologram of their metallic ass in the company's hologram machine. That will be the actual singularity.

What The Conch Shell Says

Many years ago, while pondering my future after college graduation, I found a temporary summer job posed like Rodin's The Thinker atop a lifeguard's chair on the shore of an unpopular Massachusetts coastal resort. When not perched at my post on the seaweed strewn beach, or perambulating around the headland in search of peace and quiet, I spent my free time rummaging around the so-called attractions at the local marina. Essentially a parking lot for half-sunk and unseaworthy yachts, this mile of waterfront also served as the town's high street. Everyone eventually wound up at the marina. There was nowhere else to go and the people watching was fantastic for students of abnormal anthropology. 

Despite my palate's firm conviction that Guinness stout does not pair well with bouillabaisse, I often found myself at the Green Lobster; an infamous dockside Irish pub featuring an extensive seafood menu and a drunken fiddle player from seven pm until whenever he passed-out. It was the largest but least popular restaurant in the marina, mostly due to "Catch of the Day" clearly being from the deep freezer rather than the deep sea. Some cynics even suggested the eponymous green lobster was not that color because it was Irish but thanks to unsanitary conditions in the kitchen. Needless to say, the only things fresh off the boat were the inexperienced staff, all of whom came from unpronounceable towns in Ireland and spoke with incomprehensible accents. Nevertheless, I loved the place, and spent many evenings sitting at the bar, drinking Bushmills while nibbling on a basket of onion rings, watching disgruntled patrons nervously come and furiously go.

One particular evening, three morbidly obese tourists wearing brightly colored elasticated shirts and shorts hauled themselves up the steeply narrow restaurant staircase. They progressed slowly, one ungainly foot at a time, one bellowing breath at a time, their bulbous pink fists grasping the metal banister for support so fiercely I thought it might be torn away from the wall. It was like watching a group of novice mountaineers struggling to scale Everest in the face of gale-force winds. Eventually the three men reached the summit, peering into the dimly lit dining room in search of a section expansive enough to accommodate their collective, still wheezing bulk. No easy task as the Green Lobster prioritized customer capacity over customer comfort, so the trio were forced to wriggle on tiptoe through an obstacle course of occupied and empty tables to reach their corner booth. Once seated, a performance not dissimilar to circus clowns cramming themselves into a tiny car, the men began discussing the menu loudly amongst themselves, ostentatiously agreeing they would each order the Captain's Platter, as if that were the obvious and only choice for any self-respecting seafood connoisseur. 

The Captain's Platter, I knew from experience, was a pile of anonymous fish incinerated in grease, combined with whatever else the chef found in the back of the fridge that could be fried to a crisp and described as calamari. I'd witnessed vinegar instantly evaporate on contact with the Captain's Platter. Steel cutlery would break and snap trying to saw the turd brown husks of battered scrod into edible chunks. If an inmate on death row demanded the Captain's Platter as his last meal, the executioner need not bother lethally injecting his prisoner since salmonella and e-coli would eventually do his work for him. Nobody in their right mind got the Captain's Platter at the Green Lobster. After rip currents, red tide, and great white sharks, it was number four on the local guidebook's lists of seaside dangers to be avoided. Dehydration and skin cancer from sun exposure were fifth and sixth. Meanwhile, a pitcher of pale lager and three glasses was delivered to the mens' table. They should lace that with a powerful antacid, I thought, otherwise Irritable Bowel Syndrome will surely kill all three of them before they can consider the options for dessert. I didn't want to be included in the coroner's inquest so swallowed my last onion ring and left for home.

My worst fears were not realized, however, and I saw two of the morbidly obese men again the following day. They were slumped precariously on a little bench outside Long Neck Lighthouse, a two-mile, dirt-road hike from the marina. They both were exhausted, repeatedly mopping their sweaty brows with what for most people would be a lifetime's supply of wet-wipes. Their friend was presumably inside the nearby public restroom, locked in combat with last night's still undigested feast. It didn't bear thinking about. Nevertheless, the men deserved credit for walking this far, although their only reward was catching their breath and relieving themselves at New England's least picturesque lighthouse. The building was short and squat and derelict, situated atop a grey cliff overlooking s listless tide below, and Long Neck peninsular itself was neither noticeably lengthy nor much of a neck. In fact, 'No Neck' would have been a more accurate name, as even all three morbidly obese men had more clearly defined necks than the ground beneath them. Local rumor claimed Edward Hopper once visited the Lighthouse but hadn't bothered to unpack his easel. It was certainly a tourist attraction not worth writing home about, especially not on the back of a boring postcard, available at the lighthouse's gift store, where the restrooms were also located.

From here the third of the morbidly obese men finally emerged, not only having successfully emptied his bowels but apparently his wallet too, as he cradled a large, ceramic souvenir diorama of the lighthouse that was also a working table lamp. He staggered towards his horrified friends like a proud father presenting his new-born son to the world. 'I have no idea where I'm going to put this,' he gasped, a doubt I thought he should also have raised regarding his portion of the Green Lobster's Captain's Platter. 'But I couldn't resist.' Clearly he was a man who acted on impulse and without discretion or any sort of plan. How, for instance, did he intend to haul his purchase back to wherever they were staying? The sheer weight and unwieldiness of the diorama would make it difficult to carry, especially along the dirt road. His best bet would be for all three men to take turns balancing it on their heads all the way back. But his friends were unamused by his kitschy purchase and refused to help. Then, out of nowhere, a horse-drawn carriage arrived on the scene. A tourist trap, literally, but nevertheless I'd never seen one that far out of town before. They usually just circled around the marina, catering to couples scraping the barrel of holiday romance in a very unromantic destination. The man's fairy Godmother must have waved her magic wand and transformed the remains of his Captain's Platter into a magical mode of transport, because for twenty bucks plus tax the man could ride back to the marina like an overweight Cinderella. Meanwhile, his ugly sisters still slumped on their little bench, mentally preparing themselves for the more arduous, less glamorous return trip to their motel. 

And that was the last I saw of the morbidly obese men, but not of the ugly Long Neck Lighthouse. Many years later, I encountered the diorama again, prominently displayed in the window of Boston charity shop. There was no mistake. It was the same stumpy ceramic tower supporting a sixty-watt bulb, stuck on the same base of papier-mache rocks and lumpy green felt. Surely two such handicraft monstrosities could not exist in the same space-time continuum without bringing our ever-expanding universe to a shuddering halt. I wondered how long it had been in the storefront window. Had the lighthouse bulb provided illumination in the morbidly obese man's house until now, a domestic beacon guiding his thoughts away from the hidden hazards of his gluttonous appetite, saving him from potential heart-attack and diabetes? One could only hope so. Prompted by these nostalgic conjectures, I went inside and explained to the clerk how I had been present when the lighthouse was first purchased. Perhaps he could add to the story; knew who had donated it to the store and when? But the clerk wasn't that interested. 'It's ten bucks,"' he said. 'We're trying to get rid of it. The bulb still works. I can find someone to help you carry it out to your car.'

Only ten bucks? It wasn't much money, even for a second-hand souvenir of New England's least picturesque lighthouse, bought on a whim from an unpopular coastal resort, where I'd been a lifeguard never called upon to save anyone's life. My only mementos of that summer were vague recollections of painful sunburns and terrible hangovers courtesy of the Green Lobster. I'd spent my time making unkind judgments about other people's poor decisions instead of concentrating on my own. If only I'd been more serious about considering my future back then perhaps I wouldn't be standing in a charity shop now. But at least I could afford the ten bucks to buy this ceramic testament to foolish life choices from the past. Who knows, it might even remind me to take a drive up north one of these days, to see if the Green Lobster had survived Covid and the attentions of the food inspector. 'I'm parked over there, I told the clerk, handing him the cash. 'The dark blue Honda Civic.'

Shakespeare At The End Of Summer Vacation

Scene: A cold, deserted beach at high tide. Enter a shivering woman wrapped in a terry-cloth robe.

Alas, poor sun-bather! I knew her Horatio: a girl of infinite tan, of most itsy-bitsy teenie-weenie yellow polka-dot bikini; she has lain on the dunes a thousand times; and now, how nostalgic I am. The lifeguard blows his whistle at the sight of her. Here are those shoulders I slathered with SPF40 I know not how oft. Where be your novelty unicorn-shaped flotation tube now? Your waterproof transistor radio playing Kiss FM? Your fluorescent pink water shoes with non-slip rubber soles? Your beach volleyball games that were wont to set the sands on a roar? Not one now to mock your own sunburn? Pink nose peeling? Now get you to my lady's Air BnB, and tell her, let her pack up her suitcase, it's time to go home, let her cry about that.

"Summer's lease hath all too short a date."

Twang!

Using an old beer bottle cap as a plectrum, I raked the steel strings of my Laser Banjo back and forth. Ear-lacerating feedback is the usual trick to focus attention on the stage at the Moon Saloon, but tonight I had chosen stomach-churning power chords instead. It was that sort of crowd: lonely lunar pioneers, boozing like gloomy Russian cosmonauts, as fat as Jove and already murderously bored after the evening's first act, an unfunny Martian comedian who delivered a series of nonsensical knock-knock jokes through a faulty voice translation box. I stepped up to the mic, best Elvis sneer on my lips, still violently slashing at the banjo strings like Jimi Hendrix looking for a fight. "This one's called I Lost My Heart In Zero Gravity," I growled. "It's about a little lady I left behind on Alpha Centauri and goes something like this ..."

The above is the opening paragraph of a science fiction novel I was writing about a washed-up – aren't they all? – Country and Western singer, who makes a living gigging around the rundown planets of the known universe. I say "was writing" because I've recently decided to set my story in Ancient Rome instead of outer space. Nevertheless, I'll still keep the C&W singer character. He will now be a time-traveling unreliable narrator; unreliable because I'm far too lazy to do any actual research about Ancient Rome. This way, if the story contains glaring historical inaccuracies, as it undoubtedly will, I can claim such errors are character-driven and thematic. Furthermore, I know absolutely nothing about Country and Western music beyond the infamously corny song titles. And I'm definitely not doing any research into stetson hats, cowboy boots, or elaborate line dancing steps. I'd rather turn my hero into a reggae artiste and embark upon a week long fact finding mission to Kingston, Jamaica. Although I'd probably be accused of cultural appropriation if I went that route.

Still, come to think of it, the idea of a Rastafarian time-traveler joining forces with Julius Caesar is tempting. But it would surely work better as a movie than a novel. Imagine the epic sweep of Caesar crossing the Rubicon in widescreen while his dreadlocked friend belts out Many Rivers To Cross on the soundtrack. I can see myself accepting the Oscar for best screenplay as I type. But I need to learn to walk to the bookstore before I can run down the Hollywood red carpet. So for now I'll concentrate on the Honky Tonk gladiator from the twenty-first century who loves a Vestal Virgin from the first. I just need a title corny enough to appeal to the kind of people who sign-up for ghost tours of Nashville recording studios. Then I can make my C&W Sci-Fi Fantasy pitch to the publishers. I Left My Hearth In The Temple of Vesta? No, perhaps not. I'll have to put my ten gallon thinking cap on.  

Safe Space

Should I find myself aboard an interstellar HMS Endurance of the future, irrevocably swallowed into the gravitational pull of the blackest of black holes, I'd think I'd prefer to be vaporized in the void rather than shoehorn myself into one of those claustrophobic escape pods I've seen in science-fiction films.

Although never actually professionally diagnosed with a fear of confined spaces, I doubt I'd last more than twenty anxious minutes in a little capsule without pounding on the aluminum alloy walls, demanding to be let out. This is also true of ocean-going mini-submersibles or just any conveyance smaller than the buffet car of the Orient Express when traveling through a tunnel. As such, until some boffin develops an aircraft carrier-sized research vehicle, I will not be setting foot in any final frontiers anytime soon, which is unfortunate as I've always wanted to spearhead a voyage of discovery. 

And this psychosomatic disorder is obviously scientific exploration's loss. I'd refuse to "boldly go where no man has gone before" unless my starship had sufficient room for at least sixty other men and featured an observation deck as big as a football field. Captain Nemo must forever remain a stranger to me. "It's not that I don't want to fight the giant squid. It's just that I don't want to do it while squashed into that itty-bitty bathysphere."

Ah, what an adventurous spirit the world has lost with me. Imagine if Lewis and Clark suffered from raging cabin fever so never even made it halfway up the Missouri river; or if Marco Polo, in his cramped caravan, complained it was "getting too hot in here to go any further," so never met Kublai Khan, having returned post-haste to Venice with a cold sweat upon his formerly noble brow.  Such is the disastrous consequence of my debilitating mental Achilles heel. 

And I really think I would have been superb at cataloguing unknown deep sea worms in the Mariana Trench or, better yet, rescuing Dale Arden from the Emperor Ming. I can see myself as a sort of Flash and Dr Zarkov combination character. Brains and brawn in one irresistible but potentially very anxious package. Those firework powered rockets from the fifties television show did not look comfortably capacious to me. 

Perhaps I should limit my ambitions to shouting "that planet over there looks nice!," while staring out the window of a Space Ark's reconnaissance probe when the human race is finally forced to find another galaxy to colonize. I'd just need a good nose for life-supporting atmosphere and a large packet of terraforming seeds. I could do that easily. Provided I wouldn't be required to spend the rest of the trip in an alarmingly narrow suspended animation tube. 

It's awful to think the future of mankind might be jeopardized by my petty nervous disorder. But along such trivial fault lines does the fate of worlds depend. For instance, the three hundred Spartans at Thermopylae were all afraid of spiders. Had the Persians unleashed a single tarantula onto the battlefield then Western civilization would look very different today. That's not true, of course, but I always find consolation allowing irreverent thoughts to wander freely through my mind until they come to rest in the safe space between my ears.