Monday, February 14, 2005

My first full day as a married man

It was a beautiful spring day in Memphis this morning. The concrete floor of the balcony was warm for the first time. I looked down at my toenails. They are still painted red, a fact that was slipped out pre-wedding and mercilessly incorporated into the Best Man's speech. I then felt obliged to show my red toenails to the wedding party. I thought offering them a glimpse of the real thing would limit their potential to construct their own elaborate fantasies. For the same reason, I reproduce the offending red toes here.


I have also completed my first story since being married. Here it is:

The Voice of Understanding

They drove along together, with people in the back seat. The people had names, but he had temporarily relieved them of their labels. He pictured them as Stick Man 1 and Stick Man 2. One of the Stick Men had just misread a sign that said “Goods sale” and had rendered it as “Gods sale.” That was the highlight of the trip so far.

The Cure were playing quietly, so quietly that all you heard were the cymbals and synthesisers. To his mind, the synthesisers seemed designed for maximum penetration of the skull. He thought of giant robots in a future wasteland, stomping through abandoned cities, the synthesiser sounds from Cure albums boosted to a volume that delivered awesome destruction. Then he thought of all the members (and ex-members) of The Cure having to have long and complex operations in a hospital where there was no anaesthetic.

He had his way and put on Van Morrison. A period of thirty seconds elapsed.

“He sounds like a turkey being plucked,” said his brand new wife.
“I just listened to The Cure whining for an hour, we’re even.”

The Stick Men in the back, they still had no names. They were quiet, as if they were trying hard to remember them. Or maybe he’d forgotten to provide the Stick Men with basic social skills.

He looked at the Mississippi sky, chose what he felt was the least significant portion, then stared. From nowhere, he heard The Voice of Understanding, booming out a message that shook the car...

“… as we labor to extricate ourselves from the realm of reflection, we shall finally see that there is no Cure, there is no Van Morrison, but only a single song, the song of Creation… and it sounds nothing at all like a turkey being plucked…”

It was quiet. Van Morrison was quiet, too. He was probably on his way to the oven by now.

Slowy, he began tapping his fingers on the dashboard to remind everyone he was there.

4 Comments:

Blogger HF said...

I checked the post on one of the computers in the shop. A customer peeked over my shoulder and gave me a very alienated look. She behaved a bit standoffish towards me after that. But I sympathise. The picture is disturbing, pornographic. It haunts me. It's disgusting but I have to look at it again and again. You are an evil man.

1:19 PM  
Blogger kingfelix said...

That's funny. I never intended to spread the completely false rumour that you are interested in looking at images of Men with Painted Toenails.

I can put up some photos of women wearing bikinis if it will help restore your reputation...

1:26 PM  
Blogger KarbonKountyMoos said...

and it's a marvelous night for a moon dance... how come the pinky toe doesn't appear to be polished?

I don't think you're evil - but maybe a bit odd - hmmm - maybe more than a bit.
No worry - I recognize that quality - and appreciate it!

4:18 AM  
Blogger KarbonKountyMoos said...

So sorry - I forgot to congratulate you both! I need to go back to sleep...

4:19 AM  

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