Marquis De Sade
1st Level Blue Feather
- Joined
- Nov 21, 2007
- Messages
- 5,175
- Points
- 0
Like clockwork:
Piss.
Shower.
Breakfast.
Coffee.
Work.
This routine is routine.
This morning, you just sitting here in the office, you just know nothing special will happen.
It’s not some gut feeling. It’s not in your daily emailed-to-you horoscope. It’s more because you base everything on what’s coming your way on what’s already happened.
Today will be like yesterday will be like it was last week. Last week will be like how it was...
Well, you get where I’m going.
That’s right, nowhere.
Same as you.
Like clockwork:
Calls.
Files.
Calls.
Everytime the phone makes you jump, the conversations are always just what you expected:
“Is Eric there?”
“Eric’s on a business trip. Can I take a message.”
“That’s fine. I’ll call back.”
Everytime.
But if things ever went like how you’d want them to go, then all your conversations here might go a little more like this:
“Is Eric there?”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“This is Don.”
“Don? Okay, hold on a sec. Let me check.”
“No problem. I’ll hold.”
“Hello, Don?”
“I’m here.”
“Yeah hey, is it Don Connelly or Don Silver?”
“Silver.”
“Okay, thanks. Hold please.”
“No problem.”
“Hello, Don?”
“I’m here.”
“Yeah, hi Don. Eric’s fucking your wife right now. Can I take a message?”
Like clockwork:
Calls.
Files.
Calls.
Then, just when everything you think is going how it always goes, everything changes.
Just like that.
How everything changes first is this guy, he just walks right in.
Just walks. Right in.
Just like that.
He looks around. He nods his head. He smiles at you. He lights up a cigarette.
And, just so you know, this is not the noon postman.
This is not the delivery girl.
This is, just so you know, not routine at all.
None of it is.
Well, not anymore anyway.
This is all just so fucking new.
“You can’t smoke in here.”
“Don’t worry,” he says, big old man smile on his old man face. He says, “They’re Lights.”
And he sits down right opposite you.
He pulls out a second cigarette and kisses the end of it with his own. His old man cheeks blowing until both ends glow.
He offers you the freshly lit one and smiles.
“Well, how’re you then?”
“Do we...I mean, well, okay, Eric’s on a business trip.”
“Well isn’t that nice?”
“...I’m...sorry, do I know you?”
“’Course you do.” And there’s that smile again. All over his old man crinkled lips.
“...Can I...is there...something I can help you with?”
“You called me. You tell me.” And he settles in his chair.
“We have an appointment?”
“Whatever makes you feel good.”
“So we do?”
“If you’d like to call it that. Sure. Then yes. We do. Why not?”
“Okay. So, how can I, help, you.”
“Oh, come on now.”
“No really, you’ve completely, utterly lost me.”
“You let one slip.”
“I let...I’m sorry, I let one what slip?”
“You know.”
“No I don’t. Help me out here.”
“A prayer.”
And just so you know, this isn’t anything like clockwork.
The old man sitting in his chair says, “We hear ever one of them. Him and I. We both do.”
He says, “We’re always listening. Both of us.”
He says, “Very intently.” And smoke trails from his old man lips.
And just so you know exactly how uncomfortable this is all making you feel, when he says Him, he indicates UP with his lit cigarette.
And when he says, I, he points to himself with the same hand.
And you might pretend to look confused but really, deep down, you know exactly who this is and what he’s doing here.
Don’t you.
“So, what do you want?”
“Shouldn’t you already know?”
“Of course I do.”
“So...”
“Look,” he says, shifting in his seat, “There’s a big difference between my already knowing what you want because you told me while you were pretending to take a shit in the middle of the night just because you couldn’t sleep next to your wife while she’s fingering herself and fantasizing about your boss giving her anal again on one of his weekly out-of-town business meetings and you telling me in person by yourself right now loud enough for you to hear yourself say it.”
And he exhales smoke.
He says, “You have to really be sure about this sort of thing.”
You say, “Okay...” but then...
just
sort
of
trail
off
“Okay, let me make it easy on you.” He says, “No need to say it out loud. It’s fine. Just.”
And he smokes. He continues, “Just think it.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Just think it.”
“Just think it. Just, you know, real clear in your head. I just have to be sure, well, you have to be sure that this is what you want before, well, you know the rest.”
And even if you don’t, well, you know you will.
Don’t you.
You clear your throat. Fidget.
Inhale.
Exhale.
And this is...
No...
Okay right here.
This is when you think it.
Right here.
The old man smiles, smoke snaking from between his old man teeth and says, “Perfect.”
He reaches into his suit pocket, fumbles about, and pulls out an old sheet of paper.
He slides it across the shine of your desk. He says, “Read it. I always advise people to read before you sign.”
He says, “I’ve highlighted where your signature goes.”
And just so you know, he really has. With a yellow marker. Three different times.
It’s even dated.
And this is the part where you pretend you’re reading everything including all the really small fine print.
But really, you’re just thinking about that night.
That night where you let one slip.
A prayer.
And just so you know, you even flushed several times to make it seem all the more real.
“You okay hon?”
“I’m fine hon. Go back to bed.”
This routine is routine and it happens everyday with everything.
“Good morning honey.”
“Good morning honey.” And you kiss.
“How was your day honey?”
“My day was fine sweetheart, how was yours?”
“My day was fantastic.”
“That’s SO good to hear.” And you kiss.
“Goodnight sweetheart.”
“Goodnight honey.” And you kiss.
Except that night, you just couldn’t take it anymore. All this deadening sameness.
This loveless everything.
Poor, miserable, sad little You.
You.
You walking fucking sob story.
You.
And just so you know, your wife has always faked it since she was just your girlfriend.
Your friends, they don’t really say what they mean.
And just so you know your parents, both of them, they always sigh when you hang up the phone.
Maybe you sitting there in your locked little bathroom that night pretending to take one of those real messy long time clean up burning kind of shits praying to the wrong person wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
For the rest of us.
“Did you read the fine print?”
“Yes, 'course I did.”
“Good.” And he takes the sheet of paper back from you.
“I do have a question though.”
“Go ahead.” And he’s still looking at the paper, not at you.
“Why you? Why not the other guy?”
He puts the sheet of paper down. Looks at you.
He leans forward in his seat.
Pause.
He says, “He doesn’t like you.”
More pause.
He leans back, laughing hysterically. “I’m kidding! I’m KIDDING!” And he slams his free palm against your desk. Laughing harder.
He laughs, “No really. I really am just kidding.”
He says, shifting in his seat again and looking comfortable, “Who knows? Right? Huh? I mean really.
Prior commitments?
Maybe you’re on His laundry list of things to do, people He needs to get to but maybe he just hasn’t yet.”
He says, shrugging, “Who knows?”
And he goes right back to examining the piece of paper in his old man hands.
And this is when you think back to everything that led up to this day. Everything that made you snap and let one slip.
You let one slip.
You did.
You stupid, miserable little ****.
This is all your fault.
No one else’s.
Not your parents, your babysitter.
Not your teachers, your friends, the bullies, nerds. Not the hot girls who would never talked to you or knew you even breathed.
And just so you know, television did not do this to you.
This is no movie’s fault.
This isn’t the fault of some stupid Emo rock song or some heavy metal venting anthem of hate.
Just so you know, you know exactly who’s fault this is.
Don’t you.
Eventually, what started to happen here is you started to think of your future in the past tense.
You gave up.
Poor you.
Poor sad, miserable little you.
Nothing ever goes right.
Nothing ever works out.
We should all just feel so damn sad for you.
Shouldn’t we.
Right now you ask, “What guarantees do I have?”
He says, “I’m a man of my word.”
You remind him, gently, that he doesn’t exactly have the best of reputations.
He says, smiling his old man smile, “You see, what I am, exactly, is I’m just the best damn salesman there is.”
He says, “What I do, is I just show you what I have. To offer of course. That’s all. I just show you, what I have to offer.”
He says, “Now. If what I have, is what you want. Well then we’re in business, aren’t we?”
He says, “Now, mind you. If what I have to offer you, isn’t what you’re looking for. Then I just walk away.”
He says, “I’m not selling anything.”
And he pauses for another smoke.
He says, “My guarantee, is your guarantee.”
But it’s not enough.
It never is, is it?
And so you just have to ask. You ask him to show you anyway. All you need is just a little more convincing.
He says to close your eyes.
So right now, right here, go ahead.
Close your eyes.
His old man voice says, “Do you see it?”
And just so you know, the answer is yes.
You say, “Yes.”
And there it is.
Your new life. Everything you’ve ever dreamed about but were just too damn pathetic to reach for.
You.
Your every mistake, fixed.
Your every relationship, fan-fucking-tastic.
No faking this time.
Maybe this time, maybe your cock’s huge.
Like, porn star huge.
In any case, just so you know, whatever you wanted in life, there it all is. Just staring right back at you.
New job, new house, new everything.
Fame, fortune. Whatever you want. You have it all.
Don’t you.
His old man voice says, “Do you like what you see?”
And you reply with silence.
The old man smiles, “We’re in business.”
He stands up over your desk, leans forward a little so his black old man tie hangs in the air and he sticks his tongue out.
Doesn’t matter how bad it smells or how much smoke it makes, it’s much more the popping hissing sound you remember when somebody stubs a cigarette out on their tongue.
Like so much burning bacon.
He laughs, says, “I’m real sorry. I’ve just always wanted to try that.” And he spits.
The floor begins to sizzle.
The old man reaches out his hand. He says, “Well it’s been a pleasure. I really must get going now.”
And the two of you shake hands.
He reaches into his jacket pocket again, the other one, and this is where he pulls out his old man gun.
He says, looking at it, “Isn’t this just the most delightful toy your kind has ever come up with?”
And he points it right at your head.
“JESUS!!”
“WHERE?!” And he looks around, startled out of his old man wits.
“No, I mean. Fuck!”
“What, you mean the gun?”
“It’s just...well...I mean, now? Here?”
“Well your signature says you’re done here.”
“Well yes but...”
“Well are you done here or not?”
“Well...”
“You want a do-over or do you not want a do-over?” And he looks at you with one crazy old man eyebrow cocked.
“I do! I just...well...a gun?! I mean really, a fucking gun?!”
“Well son, it’s got to look natural.”
“Natural?”
“You know, messy like. Like a break in or something. Some bad guy came along, shot you up kind of thing.”
He says, “I’ll mess the place up. Tip some shit over.”
You ask, “Will it hurt?”
He says, “Well I don’t know. I think it might. If I miss it might hurt a whole lot but, well, I am pretty close.”
“What about like, a heart attack or something?”
“Now I know that hurts.” His old man hand reaches up and clutches his old man chest and he crinkles up his old man shirt.
He says, “Every time somebody goes to Church on a Sunday it hurts a whole lot and I’ve been told it feels like a heart attack.”
He smile, says, “You know what?”
And you don’t.
He says, “Everyday it’s Sunday somewhere.”
“Isn’t there another way?”
Pause.
And the old man smiles. His old man crinkled lips wrinkling into an old man smile.
The same kind of smile you smile when you get an idea.
The old man says, “I know just the thing.” And he reaches out an old man hand again.
He says, “Let me give you a little something.”
He says, “A little glimpse.”
The old man says, “That ought to do the trick.”
You take his hand. Like a handshake except neither one of you is right now shaking. You’re just holding hands.
On opposite sides of your shiny mahogany desk holding hands and just waiting.
You ask, “What is this?”
And he says, “It’s just a glimpse.”
“A glimpse of what?”
“Of what happens once the contract expires. After what happens once I fulfill my end of the deal.”
“I’m not following.”
The old man squeezes your hand a little tighter. He says, “This is all about the balance of things.
Good and bad.
If you want to give it a name.
Ying and Yang.
Whatever.
It’s all about fairness.”
He says, “After the end comes the beginning and so on and so forth. That sort of thing.
After you get what you want, you give me what I want.”
And just so you know, you don’t have much use for your soul. At least, you think you don’t.
Don’t you.
The old man, he says, “I have no interest in what you expect I have an emotional investment in. I just want your time.”
And he says, “Like before, just a few moments ago when you closed your eyes and everything you saw was beautiful.”
He says, “This is what happens after all that.”
He says, “This is just a glimpse.”
And he finishes by saying, “This should do the trick.”
And this is the last part of the story where the old man squeezes your hand with his old man hand just a little bit tighter.
He says to close your eyes again.
Like before.
And just so you know, this is what it will look like.
Your world.
Your life.
After everything beautiful has passed.
This is what it will look like.
To be you.
And just so you know. The old man was right.
That did the trick.
