_ | \ | \ | | \ __ | |\ \ __ _____________ _/_/ | | \ \ _/_/ _____________ | ___________ _/_/ | | \ \ _/_/ ___________ | | | _/_/_____ | | > > _/_/_____ | | | | /________/ | | / / /________/ | | | | | | / / | | | | | |/ / | | | | | | / | | | | | / | | | | |_/ | | | | | | | | c o m m u n i c a t i o n s | | | |________________________________________________________________| | |____________________________________________________________________| ...presents... Nightcrawler by The BMC __//////\ -cDc- CULT OF THE DEAD COW -cDc- /\\\\\\__ __ Grand Imperial Dynasty __ Est. 1984 \\\\\\/ cDc paramedia: texXxt 393-07/13/2004 \////// Est. 1984 ___ _ _ ___ _ _ ___ _ _ ___ _ _ __ |___heal_the_sick___raise_the_dead___cleanse_the_lepers___cast_out_demons__| I just found somebody's dime. That's one of the benefits of living how I do. I live under a chair. I find things that people lose there, and sometimes I keep them. Looking up, I see the underside of an armchair, under which I am neatly folded, hidden from the world outside. Peering under the gap by the floor I can make out every object in the room: a couch, a coffee table, a TV. On the coffee table is a TV Guide, a bag of chips, and a set of keys. The TV is on. This room has two exits. There are people. A man and a woman. They loudly complain about work and money, and at other times they sit on the couch staring at the TV. They are looking at it right now. There is also a girl, pretty yellow hair tied in a ponytail. She is not here right now. Sometimes she sits on the armchair and I can see her ankles. These people are a family. Every once in a while the two on the couch glance in this direction, then quickly shift their eyes back to the TV screen and pretend they never looked. They are watching Wheel of Fortune. The woman is more excited than the show's actual contestants. "Taming of the Shrek," she yells, "Taming of the Shrek!" The girl walks in, stops for a moment, and stares at the two on the couch. They stare back at her. "How was school?" the man says. It is not a question but an accusation. The girl leaves the room without saying anything. The man says, "I got a call today. The school called me at work." The woman shouts at the TV screen, "Buy a K! Buy a K!" In the night when the world is different, I am a different person. I come out from under this chair and the room is mine. Everyone is asleep. I sit on the couch, look at the TV. I turn on the TV. I can watch any channel I want to. I walk through the exits, go into other rooms. There is a kitchen where I make food. There is everything in here. There are ramen noodles. That's all I want to eat. Sometimes I make three or four packages in a night. I always clean the pot afterward so nobody will know I was here. The noodles come in a plain yellow package -- a generic brand. Sometimes I eat them in broth, and sometimes I drain the broth and add butter and seasoning. Sometimes when I'm too hungry to wait, I eat them raw right out of the package. I save the extra seasoning. It tastes salty by itself. In the middle of the night I watch a cooking show, "Wok With Yan." I watch episodes from beginning to end, hoping to learn new ways to cook ramen noodles. Sometimes I laugh out loud at the slogans on his apron, like "Wok the heck?" Sometimes I see ads for other noodles. Noodles in colourful packages, noodles with name brands. Noodles that make people laugh and smile. When I turn my glance from the TV to the mirror I don't see those same smiles on my face. I wonder if there is a better life in a place where the noodles all have brand names. I watch Yan frantically, sometimes whispering to the TV, begging him to show me a better way. I can't help but think what kind of ramen I may be missing out on. When it starts to get bright outside, I hear the distant sound of music. This means the man will be in this room at any moment. I retreat to the chair, curl up underneath, and try to disappear. I hear the man stumbling around the house. Eventually he comes in and sits on the couch, holding a cup of coffee in one hand and rubbing his eyes with the other. He turns on the TV. It's the Weather Channel. He listens to reports of weather all around the world. The numbers mean nothing to me. He stands up, walks toward my chair. It is a close call -- I think he hears my heart beating. He almost looks into my eyes, then turns his head away just as I am certain that he is going to notice me. He walks straight out of the room and seconds later I hear his voice saying, "Get up." He is speaking to the girl. "Get up." And then a minute later he's raising his voice. "It's time to go. You're gonna be late for school." A tired, "No, no," comes from behind her door. "You're not going to miss another class on my watch, that's for sure." A few minutes later the shower is on, then off again. The man is back in front of the TV. I hear the patter of the girl's feet on carpet. The man looks at his watch, grumbles. "You ready yet?" he finally asks. "Come on, you're making me late. I've gotta get to work, you know." A door opens, slams. The room is empty. Everyone is gone. In the next few minutes I calm myself down and close my eyes. The woman won't be up for hours yet. Sometimes when I sleep I imagine that people from TV shows become my friends and take me out into the world where we do things like go to coffee shops and restaurants. These are the people and places I know best, the ones I have seen on the screen in the middle of the night. Joey and Rachel take me to a little Italian restaurant where they have nothing but pasta. When my food arrives I pretend not to be hungry and get everything packaged to go. We spend the evening talking about life's little absurdities and drink coffee from large cups. When Rachel takes me home, she hugs me goodnight. I go into the house, take the food, put it in the garbage, and make myself a feast of noodles. This makes me laugh to myself. I have fooled them all. The noodles in my dreams are not generic, but brand name. Sapporo Ichiban, just like on TV. I try not to wake up. I crawl out from under the chair and run to the cupboard. There is nothing here that delights me. It is two o'clock. The streets are dark. A store called 7-11 is open all night. I have heard the people in this room talk about walking there to buy things. I shuffle through the coins that I have found under the chair and crammed in beside the cushion. I lay them out on the table, stacking them. Two hundred and forty-four cents. I stuff them all into my pocket, take a deep breath, and step out the front door. Outside there is no air conditioning. It is warm, the air moves. Wind: a breeze. It rustles through my hair. I zip up my sweater and head across the yard. If I was a centimetre tall this grass would be a forest, cool and moist. But I cross the entire forest in five steps and reach the concrete. There is a smell in the air. Fresh air, I think, the breath of grass and trees. There is also a hint of cars and exhaust. I turn the direction in which I think I will find the 7-11. I go right at random and start walking, pulling this grey track of sidewalk under my feet. It is not bright in the outside world, save for the light cast by streetlamps. The streetlamps are real; I see this as I look back at my shadow, long, distorted, shifting, finally catching up to me, surpassing me, and then reappearing with the next electric step. It is a gentle summer night. I never gave thought to what this would feel like, but now I know I like it. When I hear about weather now, it will excite me. When I get back, I will look at the Weather Channel, find that it was seventeen degrees, northeast wind, six kilometres per hour. There are cars parked on the side of the road. I touch them. There are houses, some like my own, some that are different. The night is so wide that I can move wherever I please. A distant noise becomes louder, closer. Bright lights race toward me and I take cover behind some bushes. The car drives past without spotting me. Before continuing on, I touch the leaves of the bush and rub the tiny branches between my fingers. There is an unpaved dirt road, an alley. If I walk down that way it will take me from the streetlights and I can go unseen in the night. All the way down at the end there is a tri-coloured light, orange white and green. Just as my attention is drawn down the path, a vicious barking sound assails my ears. I jump. I begin to run with fear until I'm wheezing. Looking back, I see no dog following me. It must be chained up behind one of the fences. I reach the end of the alleyway. In front of me stands a glowing store, my destination. All roads lead to 7-11. I behold it for a moment before I enter. The lights are glaring, I am disoriented. There is a counter in the middle of the store with a guy in a green shirt standing behind it. His nametag says "Steve." I walk around the store. On one wall of the store there are fridges with bottles and cans of all kinds. I can't count all of them, so I keep moving, looking. There is a wall with machines, cups. They are called Slurpees. Icy liquids spin around in circles until people consume them. There are machines that you put cards into and press buttons and money comes out. On another wall there is nothing but magazines with pictures of almost naked people. The other wall, that's where I came in. That wall is all glass. In the middle of the store I finally notice the rows with food, all the food money can buy. I walk up and down the aisles, my eyes confronted by colours and words. This is not the generic world, this is the real world. One row is nothing but candy. Another row is plastic bags of chips and other things. Halfway down the next aisle I see them. The packages are blue and white. They have pictures of bowls on them. They have bright orange letters on them. They say "Japanese broad noodles with fried bean curd." They say "Sapporo Ichiban." I grab it, notice a price tag. It says one-dot-nine-nine. Now I have to pay for it. I have to talk to Steve. Steve says hello to me and I drop all of my money onto the counter. He gives some of it back, along with a small white piece of paper. I grab it all and head for the door. But I am stopped dead in my tracks. Steve is speaking to me. "Have a good one," he says. I try to make sense of what he is saying. Have a good what? Have a good walk home? Have a good bowl of noodles? Have a good evening? I cannot make sense of it. Have a good one. Steve is indiscriminate. He does not judge me. Steve wants me to have a good time. Steve wants me to have a good life. Steve wants me to do whatever I want to do, so long as it is good. As I stumble backward through the store's door, eyes blinking rapidly and head shifting in all directions, I cannot believe the generosity of this stranger's words, to wish a good one upon me. This must be the true meaning of friendship. I walk home from the store in an amatory daze. After 19 years I have finally experienced love. "Have a good one." I have a good walk home. I keep a good pace, maintain a good state of mind. How could I not? I have received an instruction from Steve. I walk back through the alley, eventually emerging onto the sidewalk. I take long, deep breaths, savouring my surroundings. Steve is my new best friend. Nobody has ever told me to have a good one before. Where does he come up with such wonderful things to say? I think everything is going to be a good one from now on. I see the door of the house swinging open a few metres away. I must have forgotten to close it when I left. I shut it behind me when I enter. In the kitchen, I pull out the medium-sized pot and measure two cups of water, taking time to observe the meniscus before I pour. The water trickles in slowly and carefully, not a drop clinging to the pot's edge. I place it on the stove as I set the burner to medium heat. While waiting for the water to boil, I peel the package open. My nose is close enough to inhale the first waft of scent from the noodles. I rip the foil flavour package and sprinkle it into the water, then stir it in with a large spoon. The aroma is evidence of a better world. There is a square of bean curd, a crisp and spongy substance that I have never seen before. I fold it, crack it into smaller flakes, and drop them into the translucent water, tiny bubbles starting to form at the bottom. The noodles make contact with the water the instant it starts to boil. As they merge, the entire concoction froths with delight. Instead of eating straight from the pot this time, I take a bowl from the cupboard, really enjoying myself. I sip the broth. The bean curd has now changed in texture to a delicious sort of foam. The broad noodles curl around my fork, boiled to perfection, steam from them clinging to my skin. I have never had such a good one. I hear a key in the front door and run into the other room, sliding in under the armchair. The girl sneaks in silently. I listen for minutes and hear nothing. Sound comes from the kitchen. I didn't have time to clean up - she must be seeing everything now. She must know everything now. I hear a crinkling of plastic, the pouring of faucets. I clench my teeth together hard, my face in my hands. She spends minutes in there. She comes into this room, looks at the armchair, and smiles for a moment before heading off somewhere. I think she's gone to bed. The kitchen is clean. The pot and bowl and fork have been washed by hand and put away, and the wrapper and foil packet are nowhere to be seen, not even in the garbage under the sink. I yearn to speak to the store clerk again. I must get some money, enough to buy more Sapporo Ichiban. In the meantime, I will dwell on the thought of Steve. Lately I have been spending nights under the chair. Ever since she discovered my secret, the girl has been coming here when it is dark. Sometimes when the others have gone to bed, she re-enters the room, dressed in a purple satin housecoat, her yellow hair unbound. She turns the TV on and lies on her back, watching anything. Within the past few weeks things have changed and the man no longer asks her to get up in the morning. I never see them in this room at the same time. When she is in this room I sometimes see her reach a certain point of desperation. She is watching a paid advertisement. I watch her trying to close her eyes, unable to fall asleep. As the TV spokesperson promises that his magic grill is easy to clean, the white light flickers off the smoothness of her knee. I want to help her, but from under this chair my power is limited. When she finally falls asleep I want to come out and brush her purple satin with the back of my fingers, but I stay hidden for fear that she will sense me. I watch the shadows flicker on the couch behind her. The outline changes shape, and I am not sure which variations are accurate and which are distorted. As my eyes scroll down to her freckled cheek and soft lip, I realize that every shadow of her is only a distortion. When the flickering fades into daylight, she is gone from this room. When the daylight dies, she returns. One night she tucks an envelope behind the cushion of my chair and leaves. I find two dollars inside. She knows I have been collecting her pennies, and she knows why. I sneak out from beneath the chair. This time the night air is a bit colder. I'd hoped everything would be the same again. I consider leaving the door open, but decide against it. I walk down the street. Although no car comes this time, I duck down behind the bushes and touch the tiny branches anyway. The leaves are coming off the trees now. It has become fall. I head down the dark alleyway. Although the dog doesn't scare me this time, I pretend that it does. When it barks I run all the way to the store. I open the glass door and the aura of the 7-11 pours over me. The lights dazzle me. Steve is standing behind the counter in the middle of the store. Somebody is laying items on the counter. I'm too excited to see what. Steve is busy ringing them up and doesn't notice that I have come in. I want to run up to the counter, tell him everything, but instead I decide to wait. I head straight for the noodle aisle. There is nothing else in this store that interests me. Steve puts the items in a plastic bag. I am here. Sapporo Ichiban with bean curd. I touch the package. I pick up the package. I stop just short of smelling it. I wait for Steve to finish with the customer, who is handing paper bills to him. I want to rip the package open and eat the noodles right now. I want to talk to Steve and tell him he is my best friend. I find myself picking up a second package even though I only have enough money for one. I have discovered your secret of friendship, Steve, and we will spend many great days feasting upon noodles and watching the greatest shows of TV. Steve, you are giving the customer his change. I watch the customer heading toward the door. My best friend looks at him and says, "Have a good one." I run as fast as I can, slamming through the front door with my shoulder. The noodles are in my hand, I don't care. Steve calls after me, begs me to stop running, but he is too late now. His brutal betrayal can never be amended. I run forever, straying from my usual path. I don't know where I am anymore. The sidewalk is covered in leaves. In the dark I run everywhere, stagger, get caught up in windswept piles. Nature is a vandal, a bully. Shredded pumpkins litter the Halloween street. My mind begs me to stop. I fall to my knees. When I can cry no more, I give up. I am lost. When I finally find my way home, I've been gone for hours. I walk in the door and flop onto the couch. When I look up she is standing there, wearing pants and a pale blue shirt. I gaze at her, astonished. She smiles at me. I feel myself standing up. She and I embrace. My hands are surprised by the warmth of her back. She feels the noodles in my pockets. We go into the kitchen, make up two bowls, giggling sporadically. I say something to make her smile and her nose crinkles. We could be eating anything; it wouldn't matter. She kisses me, tells me she wants to show me something. We run outside, leaving our dishes where they are. We are on top of a hill in a grassy park. We stand here holding hands, watching the sun rise. .-. _ _ .-. / \ .-. ((___)) .-. / \ /.ooM \ / \ .-. [ x x ] .-. / \ /.ooM \ -/-------\-------/-----\-----/---\--\ /--/---\-----/-----\-------/-------\- / fun4us \ / \ / `-(' ')-' \ / \ / nofun4u \ \ / `-' (U) `-' \ / `-' the original e-zine `-' _ Oooo - today, tomorrow - / ) __ /)(\ ( \ FOREVER / ( / \ \__/ ) / Copyright (c) 2004 cDc communications and the author. \ ) \)(/ (_/ CULT OF THE DEAD COW is a registered trademark of oooO cDc communications, 1369 Madison Ave. #423, NY, NY 10128, USA _ oooO All rights left. Edited by Myles Long. __ ( \ / ) /)(\ / \ ) \ \ ( \__/ Save yourself! Go outside! Do something! \)(/ ( / \_) xXx BOW to the COW xXx Oooo