California as a Final Resting Place: Four Months Too Late
California as a Final Resting Place for Cliches
California as a Final Resting Place [One Year Later (I Would Love to Disappear and Grow a Beard)]
California as a Final Resting Place: Two Years Later: The Cheese Blends
“You missed it.”
“Excuse me?”
I was standing, penniless, shower-less, and pleasantly-smelling-less on the corner of two streets whose names I can’t remember, going to an office somewhere in the area to drop off some work I had been doing (I’m sorry to be so vague, but people are reading). And this guy kept talking to me.
“You. Missed. It." He punctuated his words with bold periods, the way a child whispers after you’ve told him ten times that you can’t understand what he’s saying.
“I. Missed. What?”
The “walk” light turned green and we walked across the street never breaking eye contact. I had to look because he kept on with the bold periods.
“You’re. Four. Months. Too. Late.”
“Four? For what?”
“Four. Months”
“For what?”
“Months.”
Stupid homonyms. “I know months. What am I four months late for?”
“The. Printing.”
Now at this point, I should tell you that this particular part of town was heavily biked--as in, an inordinate number of people rode their bikes around from place to place. I didn’t necessarily mind it, dodging them dodging me kind of helped me to stay in shape. It was the closest thing I did to exercise besides tote around a three-hundred page manuscript that I’m not supposed to tell you about.
“The printing?”
“Yes. The--” And one of the number of bikers hit the guy. Pummeled him. He and the biker became one ball of human limbs, fumbling and rolling down the sidewalk like the bagel in that Ignatow poem. I watched them roll out of sight, around a corner, and I would have gone to help the poor guy, but the truth was he was giving me the creeps and if I had known the biker’s name I probably would have bought him lunch.
When I finally arrived at the building, they were closed. There was no one there that I could tell, and no sign of the publishing house that had once operated there. There was only a sign:
This was bewildering, to put it mildly. I had spoken to someone on the phone that morning, and they had not mentioned an address change. With my frustration at the peak level, I decided, then and there, that it was time for The Cheese Blends to officially see the light of day. In these days of such rapid technological advances, there is no sense in someone’s hard work not being read and appreciated by millions of people. That is, after all, every American’s right. It’s what America’s all about--personal recognition for mediocre accomplishments. Having people read my novel was my birthright!
However, having no home, and therefore no access to technology of any kind, I saw that I had two options: 1) The soapbox. I could perform a public reading of the novel from start to finish, here on this very street. I considered this and did not see where there should be anything illegal about it, figuring that it would at least get my name out there. 2) Pass it out. I could turn The Cheese Blends into performance art by passing it out, page by page, to all of the people walking and biking down the street. I would be a pamphleteer of sorts.
I weighed these options out. Either way, people would be getting only a portion of the novel. With option 2, they would be able to actually take home a piece of it for themselves, and may even be inclined to seek out the other 341 people who got a page that day, and piece the novel together for themselves. I felt that, in the end, this would actually be more flattering than having someone read the novel outright. With option 1, it would certainly be more controlled, but I ran the risk of getting arrested, not to mention publicly berated and called down.
So, after much deliberation, I chose option 2. And what happened next was unprecedented.
One word: elephants.
California as a Final Resting Place [One Year Later (I Would Love to Disappear and Grow a Beard)]
California as a Final Resting Place: Two Years Later: The Cheese Blends
“You missed it.”
“Excuse me?”
I was standing, penniless, shower-less, and pleasantly-smelling-less on the corner of two streets whose names I can’t remember, going to an office somewhere in the area to drop off some work I had been doing (I’m sorry to be so vague, but people are reading). And this guy kept talking to me.
“You. Missed. It." He punctuated his words with bold periods, the way a child whispers after you’ve told him ten times that you can’t understand what he’s saying.
“I. Missed. What?”
The “walk” light turned green and we walked across the street never breaking eye contact. I had to look because he kept on with the bold periods.
“You’re. Four. Months. Too. Late.”
“Four? For what?”
“Four. Months”
“For what?”
“Months.”
Stupid homonyms. “I know months. What am I four months late for?”
“The. Printing.”
Now at this point, I should tell you that this particular part of town was heavily biked--as in, an inordinate number of people rode their bikes around from place to place. I didn’t necessarily mind it, dodging them dodging me kind of helped me to stay in shape. It was the closest thing I did to exercise besides tote around a three-hundred page manuscript that I’m not supposed to tell you about.
“The printing?”
“Yes. The--” And one of the number of bikers hit the guy. Pummeled him. He and the biker became one ball of human limbs, fumbling and rolling down the sidewalk like the bagel in that Ignatow poem. I watched them roll out of sight, around a corner, and I would have gone to help the poor guy, but the truth was he was giving me the creeps and if I had known the biker’s name I probably would have bought him lunch.
When I finally arrived at the building, they were closed. There was no one there that I could tell, and no sign of the publishing house that had once operated there. There was only a sign:
CLOSED: 2/18/08
FOR RENOVATIONS
FOR HELP CONTACT
123-456-7890
FOR RENOVATIONS
FOR HELP CONTACT
123-456-7890
This was bewildering, to put it mildly. I had spoken to someone on the phone that morning, and they had not mentioned an address change. With my frustration at the peak level, I decided, then and there, that it was time for The Cheese Blends to officially see the light of day. In these days of such rapid technological advances, there is no sense in someone’s hard work not being read and appreciated by millions of people. That is, after all, every American’s right. It’s what America’s all about--personal recognition for mediocre accomplishments. Having people read my novel was my birthright!
However, having no home, and therefore no access to technology of any kind, I saw that I had two options: 1) The soapbox. I could perform a public reading of the novel from start to finish, here on this very street. I considered this and did not see where there should be anything illegal about it, figuring that it would at least get my name out there. 2) Pass it out. I could turn The Cheese Blends into performance art by passing it out, page by page, to all of the people walking and biking down the street. I would be a pamphleteer of sorts.
I weighed these options out. Either way, people would be getting only a portion of the novel. With option 2, they would be able to actually take home a piece of it for themselves, and may even be inclined to seek out the other 341 people who got a page that day, and piece the novel together for themselves. I felt that, in the end, this would actually be more flattering than having someone read the novel outright. With option 1, it would certainly be more controlled, but I ran the risk of getting arrested, not to mention publicly berated and called down.
So, after much deliberation, I chose option 2. And what happened next was unprecedented.
One word: elephants.
posted by Matt Mc at 1:50 PM
Link to this Post
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home