Whats in the cup Part 1

In this cup in front of me

There is a red marker, a pink highlighter, a blue pen, a mechanical pencil, and a close pin

The RED MARKER

In a small village next to a small town next to a large city, a boy wakes up.

Every morning

The rooster crows, the meager meal is prepared, the family eats.

A story is told about a dream that was had.

An antecdote about the color of the sky is given.

Little by little, the bowl is emptied

And soon, the plates are gathered into a large pot to be rinsed for the next meal.

The boy gets ups.

He picks up his sack.

He picks up his hat.

And begins the walk to the factory, past the small town to the large city.

He walks by roosters tip toeing around the sides ofthe roads.

He walks by buffaloe grazing the grasses and working along the fields.

He breathes. The air is fresh.

For now.

Smoke rises from stacks of factory chimneys

Smoke clouds the sky.

Roosters are replaced by the vagrants

Calling left over boxes and discarded metal home

Buffaloe replaced by men in suits

Forcing the single file line into the metal monster that lay ahead

The door into the factory

The boy walks in, has his named checked off, and puts on safety glasses.

He walks down a hall to his post.

He cleans the machines

He cares for their gears

He oils them to life

And the machines stamp their logos

Like an elefant on slab of wet cement

Yet more graceful

A swan perhaps

Churning through the machines are the red markers.

And green. And Blue. And orange.

Sliding down the grate into boxes to be shipped, into cars to be driven, into planes to be flown

Into stores to be sold.

That mornig, a boy wakes up.

Its Saturday. Its time for an activity. Time to finish a coloring assignement from school

Mom goes through the drawers that house the markers

We are out of Red.

Lets get a new box.

The boy is placed into the front seat

In a 2009 mini van

The van starts

It drives past mailboxes

It drives past firehydrants

People walking their dogs

Or the other way around

The car makes it to the store.

Looks for a parking spot.

Frustration.

All the spots are taken.

Well, most of them.

But she doesn't want to park far.

She does want to walk

The boy exits the van, and holds the hand of his Mom.

Safety

They walk to the store, past parked cars and the frustrated adults waiting for open spots to open.

THe Friendly colors welcome them, the cool air inside refreshes them, the friendly workers greet them.

They look for the sign that says School Supplies

Or Office Supplies

Same thing

They ask a friendly associate. They find what they are looking for

They find the markers

Stamped

Gracefully.

They pick up the package and throw it into their basket

And they walk away

With the red marker

And somehow that red marker got lost.

Possibly in a classroom

Possibly along the sidewalk

And somehow it ended up in this cup in front of me

Stars

Girls are like stars. You look at one. Just one. It shines so bright. So beautiful. It shimmers. You wonder if somehow, it is glowing just for you. Then you realize its not. Its nature is to glow. And its shimmer is no different when you look at it than when anyone else looks at it. And no matter how many other stars there are out there in the sky, you dwell on that one...hoping that somehow it will only shine when you are there to see it shine...

You hope for exclusivity

You hope for some sort of special privilege that no one else can get.

And over time

You just stop looking

Until another one catches your eye

And the cycle begins all over again

Luck

I wrote a crappy story about 7 years ago. I edited it so its not as crappy. key word, not as...

One day a kid named Alexander moved to a big city from a small rural town in the South. His friends tried calling him Alex, but he preferred the longer, almost as a designation of class, of being above the stay in the same town for generations type of folk that surrounded him. He knew he was better than that, and like the Alexander of old, he would conquer his own world, nation by nation. His trip began with a scholarship to a school based on his ability to throw a baseball really well.

And like the credits sequence of the first Karate Kid film, it was a long drive with his mother across the nation in an old, dusty 1990 Ford Crown Victoria.

Once there, he said his goodbyes and hellos, he found his room, and went to sleep.

The first night he dreamt he had it all

The second night he dreamt he lost it all

The third night he did not dream at all

Alexander went to his first week of school. Throwing a baseball did not help him in the classroom.

Luckily, he had a team of tutors and bookkeepers and high level grade manipulators that allowed him to throw that baseball in the spring.

One year passed. Two. Then three.

The fourth year, graduation. 4 years of classes have had their toll on his sleep. 4 years of baseball has a toll on his arm. 4 years of women had a toll on his ability to reproduce effectively.

Lucky for him, the pros want you for your arm and not your ability to reproduce. The draft came, and he was picked well into the first few rounds. Corporate bosses who had a hobby of owning baseball teams loved him.

"That Alex kid can pitch" they would say

"That Alexander," the team coach would correct

"Who cares!"

The Sports Center mouths praised his Spring Training performance. The local media advertised his appearance at the Burger Spot, or the Sports Authority.

His name became worth more than a number 5 on the menu at McDonald's.

His first year would probably be in a minor league bus, but he knew in time he would make the big time.

He always did.

On the first night, he dreamt he had it all.

Alexander took it all in. His mouth humbled in front of the mic, his mind on his career, his heart in the game. Lucky to have gone this far. Lucky his arm overshadowed his incompetence behind a book, above an essay, under a math problem.

One year. Two years. Three. Then four.

He had made it. He wore the uniform of champions. He tasted victory. He tasted glory. He tasted champagne.

And wine.

And beer.

And vodka.

And whiskey.

And rum

And a drink made in someones kitchen sink.

And, like for many people, down came the rain, and washed the spider out

The arm no longer wanted to pitch.

Impotent arm.

Useless.

Year 5, spent in a daze.

The mind numbed by Bacchus's drink

And unlike Rookie of the Year, surgery does not lead to a faster pitch.

Nor where there any Angels in his outfield.

He never made a team again.

His money, slowly waning.

Because of wife #1.

Or maybe #2.

His motivations waning.

That was wife #2's fault.

He thought.

Year 6. Then 7.

8, then 9.

Alexander was on the street, in the center divide, with a sign in his hand.

"I need money for beer"

And on the second night, he dreamt he lost it all.

As time went by, his face became unrecognizable, no longer surviving was that clean shaven smile that donned his baseball cards. and in its place, was a face of weariness, worn, weathered.

The smile was no longer there.

His mind on regret.

He wanted forgiveness.

He wanted love.

He wanted peace.

He wanted a Time Machine.

But Doc Brown was nowhere to be found.

He continued on his days, thinking there was no more hope, thinking if he should give up. He spent his Sundays staring at all the people smiling and talking in front of churches. He spend his Mondays looking at people rushing off to work, forgetting about what they learned on Sunday.

But Alexander always held on to one hope.

His name.

He was Alexander. Not Alex.

And little did he know, Alexander would once again be a millionaire.

His sign out in full force on a busy Friday lunch, a man handed him two one dollar bills. He thanked him with the usual head nod, and walked to the 711 for a drink.

He had quit the booze by now.

2 months sober.

He realized you get less money on the corner when you smell like the alley of the after party or if your eyes are glazed over from the deep long swigs of cheap liquor.

Which by now, no longer pleased his demons.

His 2 dollars this time, bought him a coke and a lottery ticket.

He bought the coke, drank it, and put the lottery ticket in his pocket, to wait for tomorrow's numbers on the little TV behind the counter.

The numbers

2, 4, 16, 22, 30 and the special sixth number 1.

2: The number of wives

4: The number of years of effective pro pitching

16: The day of April his mom was born

22: His uniform number

30: His age now.

1: In his mind, Alexander would reach number 1 again. Somewhere, somehow.

In order to win you had to get the first 5, plus that last separate number drawn out.

Sometimes 10 million. Sometimes 50.

Even 100.

This time, it was 100.

100 million.

In about 24 hours, there was going to be someone with 100 million dollars attached to their name. 100 million wishes. 100 million solicitors. 100 million friends out of the woodwork.

100 million problems.

But 100 million dollars to forget about the others.

He goes back to the street to try for a few more dollars. He gets just enough for a nice little meal at a diner down the street.

The waitress there gives him her discount. Usually.

He puts down the sign.

Its already dark.

He grabs the backpack that was on the floor next to his feet, stuffs the sign inside, and walks off the edge of the center divide.

His eyes focused on the sidewalk across two lanes of traffic.

His hearing, never the best thanks to the screaming music of his college and baseball days, only had gotten worse, as biting cold nights tend to have an adverse effect on human ear drums.

His reaction time, once what had made him such the athlete, slowed because of years of drinking, drugs, drowning.

One more lane to cross...

Party goers in the back seat smoking.

A girlfriend in the front talking loudly while texting on her iPhone

And the driver, without any inhibitions for the night, speeding past traffic lights and stray cats crossing the street.

A typical car, flying by the streets on a typical night, typically ignoring dashed lines of safety and signs of car driving etiquette.

"Lets go to the next party!" one said.

"No, lets go downtown to a club!" the other interjected.

"We just came from downtown, idiot! How do you think we got wasted?" said the driver.

"But its still so F***** early!" repeated the first.

Laughter

The kid where you close your eyes to stop the tears.

It wasn't even that funny

No screech of tires.

No pulling over to see.

Just a loud thud.

"What was that?"

"Who cares, just go!"

"Shit!"

Soon, sirens.

Soon, silence.

Soon, the sound of prison bars, the tears of getting caught more than remorse.

The driver, manslaughter, among others

The passengers, public intoxication, among others.

The body is identified with an ID card. The coroner speaks.

"I saw him at the Sports Authority. I got his autograph"

The next day, the Lottery is announced. A few people at the liquor store crowd around the small television screen, with their numbers in one had, and some with a freshly purchased pack of smokes in the other. A lady overdressed for a green screen in an under budget studio with a vacuum like machine with numbered balls in front of it calls out the numbers

4, 16, 22, 2, 28...

and...

The TV screen shuts down. Someone had drilled into an underground cable while fixing a pothole in the street. No one in the block knew who won. No one really cared. Most were more concerned about getting their TV back on. They were going to miss their favorite show. They weren't able to log into Facebook, so they turned to their smart-phones, but for some reason, for some sick twist of momentary fate, they had lost reception. They lost the ability to communicate for a moment. A few seconds. Maybe a couple of minutes. To them, their world had ended.

And somewhere in a bag with bloodstained clothes, a lottery slip waited to be claimed.

And on the third night, he didn't dream at all

Melissa...and the Wall

"I'm bored."

It began with those two words. Uttered so many times, by so many people. She had said these words many times. But today, she meant it.

Sitting in front of a computer screen, inside a grey cubicle, surrounded by slips of paper, random photos, and semi-inspirational quotes, Melissa stared deeply into a wall behind her.

One of those stares that sometimes accidentally finds a human target, causing that uncomfortable half second where you turn to avoid any notion of awkwardness with the person on the receiving end. But a wall. There is no danger in staring at a wall. No awkward potential. Maybe the boss might come by and ask why you are staring at a wall. But that was the risk she was willing to take.

Blink.

Back to the computer.

The economy had emptied out the cubicles surrounding her. And those who survived seemed to be in a different geographic location of the office.

Blink Blink

The water cooler conversation a thing of the past, social networking sites blocked, You Tube filtered.

Blink Blink Blink

I should get back to work, she thought. This staring business was going no where

"Excuse me..."

A soft, deep voice.

An unknown voice.

An odd voice.

Melissa turned around

"Yes?"

Her eyes scanned the room. She peeked around to the next cubicle. No one.

Was she losing her mind?

No, she thought. Maybe it was someone on Skype.

You know, those people who feel the need to be connected with someone at all times, to the point where their only escape from this network is a power outage.

Melissa went back to the computer. Back to routine

"Ahem...excuse me..."

There is was again. Once again, she peeked, she scanned, she stood up.

Nothing

"Can I help you?"

No response. Then...

"Why actually yes," came the voice.

Ok, this is getting weird, she thought.

Worry started to settle in. The first thought was stalker.

It wouldn't have been the first time.

The second thought was God.

But God isn't that loud.

The third thought...was...no it couldn't be

Or could it?

"Can I help you?" she repeated

"Yes. I was wondering if you could do me a favor."

Melissa got up and looked at that wall behind her cubicle.

"Yes?"

"Can you be a dear and take this tack off me! The last person here took all of his tacks but this one. And it is starting to hurt!"

Reaching out at first delicately, and then with a sudden burst of effort, she pulled out the tack, a remnant of those who had preceded her in this empty side of the office.

"Thank you so much! It's been bothering me for weeks, and there has been no one here to take it off!"

A quizzical look came over Melissa's face.

"Oh...anytime. Just glad to help"

Melissa continued

"Oh by the way, I didn't mean to stare at you. I was just bored, since I have no one to talk to anymore."

"Oh don't worry! Usually there are too many people here anyways to notice that i even exist for anything other than a place to hang photos, or to wipe sauce from their burritos. Its been a while since its been just me and some other person."

"Who was that other person?"

"Oh that's a long story for another time. I'm just glad to finally get that tack off my chest!"

That was his chest. Weird.

"OK, well I probably should get back to work."

"OK."

The wall sounded disappointed, but conciliatory. He knew business was important. And what can a talking wall really have to offer?

But Melissa couldn't focus on work anymore, and it wasn't long before the initial reservations of talking to a wall wore off

"Ok, i have to ask you a question."

"Yes?" the wall asked in anticipation, for it hadn't been asked a question in ages.

"Ok so you hear everything that goes on in this room, right..."

"uh-huh..."

"I always wondered..."

"Yes?"

"How? I don't see any ears! In fact, I don't even see a mouth! For all I know, you are just some creepy guy hiding in the wall."

"Ah, I knew one day you'd ask that question."

"What do you mean one day? This is the first time we've talked!"

"Oh. Well, I knew you would ask that question...eventually...you know...within the first few minutes of our first conversation..."

"Oh, then why didn't you just say that?"

"It doesn't sound as dramatic."

Melissa giggled.

Melissa giggled to a wall.

"Well, the story is, I was once like you. A worker, who loved to talk to everyone around me. I was the life of the office. I had advice for anyone who asked, and ear for anyone who listened, a story for anyone who needed something to hear. Then, one day, people started to turn to their computers, not just for work like in the old days, but to chat. Some instant message thing. AIM i believe it was called"

Melissa looked down. She remembers those days, falling prey to the impersonal, yet seemingly personal form of communication summarized by a high pitched tone.

"But i refused. I wanted to keep my conversations personal, face to face, eye to eye. But over time, few people seemed to care. All i would hear are 2 tones, one for incoming, one for outgoing messages..."

"I'm sorry to hear that..." Melissa offered a half guilt ridden condolence.

"And to make matters worse, over the years, people started to go on MySpace. I'm sure you heard of it."

Melissa nodded.

"Soon, Myspace turned into YouTube and Facebook, and I would walk around the office, cubicle to cubicle, to find one friendly face to chat with. But they were all engrossed in their online conversations...their online relationships and flirtations...looking up old friends, new loves, or that Dramatic Squirrel video."

She'd been there.

"So I went back to my chair to work."

Then there was a pause. The wall seemed to sigh.

"Are you ok?"

The wall hesitated.

"Yes...this part is just...a bit hard..."

Empathy overcame Melissa.

Empathy for a wall.

Empathy...

"Well, over time, I began so desperate for attention, that I started to do things to get called into the boss' office. I would misfile things. I would forget to send things. I would just do my job without doing my job.

"And for a while it worked. I'd get called in, have a nice little chat, and then back to the cubicle with a simple verbal warning.

"But soon, the warnings began to come in the emails. The castigation electronic. Digital Discipline, they called it."

At this point, Melissa began to feel uncomfortable.

Yes, she, like the rest of the world, had succumbed to this digital world, where the social no longer became social. Where the interaction had a lot less action.

"And there i was, alone, grasping for the air of attention. Trying to breath in one last conversation. When, little by little, the people around me disappeared, replaced by the specter of a call center across the ocean, replace by IT men, by stern businesswomen who had no time for family, friendship, or fun.

"And so one day, i leaned against the wall, in a moment of self pity.

"And I leaned. And leaned. And leaned...until..."

"Until you became the wall" Melissa finished for him the obvious conclusion.

"Yes."

Melissa then became worried. The wall noticed

"Whats wrong?"

"Well, i was thinking. Do you think this could ever happen to me?"

The wall chuckled.

"Well yes and no."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it could happen. But you see, I made a mistake that you should never make."

"What was it?"

"Well, I gave up. I gave up on my job. I gave up on the few people left. I gave up on technology. I gave up on the human race"

"That's so sad."

A pause.

Had she given up so easily? Sure, she is immersed in the technological society the wall had railed against. But on the other hand, she longed for that dialogue. The face to face. Could she possibly turn to a lack of effort, a lack of grace, just for human contact.

Wait...

Hold on...

The wall wasn't finished

"That. And i forgot to make friends outside the office"

Oh yeah. Melissa had friends outside the office.

5pm. Closing time. A smile spread on her face.

Her fate not sealed.

She neatly packed some papers into her pink over the shoulder bag. She grabbed her lunch bag and tossed it in the trash. She got up, and headed towards the exit of the office.

Then she stopped.

She turned towards the wall.

Silence.

The inanimate wall, remained inanimate. Yet the life it once had when it spoke was gone.

Had she been dreaming?

Either way, she realized that she was focusing too much on the silence of one spot, while ignoring the noise of the other.

Sure, there will be people coming to and from the office. Cubicles will move. And, yes, walls will occasionally talk. But one thing for sure, she could not deny the fact that yes, she did have a world full of social interaction, a place where the only walls that exist are created by stone faced emotions and hidden agendas. A place where she could be the difference

In a way, every day she talks to walls. And every day, she tears them down.

And makes new friends out of acquaintances.

And she claims to be shy.

As she closes the door on the way out, the Wall regains life.

A rumble is felt, but not noticed.

The wall sighed. A sigh of accomplishment.

You know, the sigh you make when you are just about to smile.

THE END

intro

This is where i will post my free flow stories, rants, treatments, etc...