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III.
It is now ten years later. It’s been ten years since I last read this ridiculous story. That’s a decade, and that’s a long time. That would make Ed seventy-three years of age. Of course, he is still sixty-three years of age because the end of his story hasn’t been written. To be honest, I can barely remember what the end of his story actually is. I shall try to recount that glorious morning in that diner, which unfortunately closed down three years ago and is now home to a Starbucks.
Those lemon yellow walls, the lemon yellow walls I insisted you create in your imaginary diner, were completely covered that morning. A coffee mug full of champagne was thrust into my hands, I am guessing that the diner did not own proper champagne glasses. It doesn’t matter what the champagne was in though, it matters that there was champagne in the diner at breakfast time and was being served for free. Champagne was the perfect symbol to use for this scene, because when I think of champagne I think of well-to-do parties or parties trying to be well-to-do. There was a party in that diner a decade ago, and things covering the walls. Almost makes one think of an art gallery, doesn’t it?
There was an art gallery that morning. The curator was the one and only waitress #1, I suppose if she had a name you would feel like you had more of a connection with this sad woman. Call her Cindy, but only if you want to. Cindy is a sad woman because she slept with a man she didn’t love, she slept with him because he was the manager of some silly corporation and that meant he had more money than the other men she usually slept with. The manager left her after three days, he did leave something behind though. That something decided what Cindy’s life would be. He left a baby boy inside of her. Eventually that baby boy was in the outside world and Cindy had to get a job in a diner to pay for the boy to live. If that manager didn’t exist then that baby boy wouldn’t exist. If that baby boy didn’t exist then Cindy wouldn’t be working at a diner. If Cindy wasn’t working at a diner Ed would be very dead right now. And so on.
Cindy a.k.a waitress #1 had been collecting Ed’s poetry and scribbles. And now, every single one of those napkins was pinned to the diner wall. The local newspaper was taking pictures of Ed in front of his tiny creations when I entered the diner.
I didn’t approach him. I smiled and laughed. We made eye contact for a split second, I waved goodbye and left the diner.
The end of Ed’s story goes like this: after his story was published in the newspaper another, much larger city wanted to put Ed inside their newspaper. After that story a television station wanted to put Ed on one of their most popular shows. Within a year Ed was known all around the world and some company managed to put all of his napkins into a large book which was sold wherever books are sold. It was a #1 international best-seller.
Ed is dead now, he died seven years ago. He was famous for three years. A lot of people went to his funeral. Apparently, somebody found his unfinished book and published it two years ago, it was also a #1 national best-seller. I’m not sure where the money from the sales went.
II.
I think it is finally time for me to engulf you in Ed’s world, now that you know everything about his sad existence.
Right now, Ed is in the washroom, I’m not going to go see him though, for I am a girl. Here he comes now. His eyes seem sadder than usual, his steps are slow and contrived. I hope this isn’t the day–oh no it is, isn’t it? Ed’s at his lonely table now, he’s writing on a napkin with a thin permanent marker. I can’t see what he is writing from my booth, but I know exactly what it says. #1 and Ed have their conversation, but this time it is strange–Ed looks straight into her eyes and says, “thankyou” at the end of it. #1 is so taken aback she can barely mouth the words “you’re welcome”. I was even surprised! I had to hold in my gasp by shoving a chunk of toasted bagel into my mouth. There was now no doubt in my mind that this was in fact the day it was going to happen.
I went through three coffee refills while watching Ed finish his breakfast. He finally crumpled up his napkins and left the diner, like always I didn’t follow. While #1 was making milkshakes for some punk rock teenagers I snuck over to Ed’s lonely table. I picked up one of the napkins he has written on and smoothed it out. A line of tears instantly escaped my eyes. I was right about what it would say.
I am going to share with you what it said, even though I swore a very long time ago to never share Ed’s pictures or poems with a stranger.
It read, “I am going to murder myself…”
I saw #1 sway her hips towards Ed’s table so I quickly dropped the napkin, as it fell it flipped over. I glanced at is and read the word, “Tomorrow.”
Yes! There’s still time. I’ll see him for breakfast tomorrow, I’ll say a proper goodbye, I’ll even hug him! Today wasn’t the day, it was going to be tomorrow. I knew that it wasn’t possible for me to stop Ed from offing himself, it was his destiny. I’m not sure what my destiny is, but I hope it involves a publishing deal.
I had forgotten to set my alarm clock.
I am running to the diner.
I could probably just make myself appear in the diner with my writing powers.
I am such a fucking idiot.
Ed is probably gone now, forever. I’ll never get to watch him eat a cup of juicy fruit again. I’ll never get to see the conversation he and #1 had every morning. I didn’t even get to say goodbye.
You are going to be surprised about what is happening in the diner right now. There’s a commotion.
I’m there right now, in the middle of it all. Everything is happening (but what is everything?), I couldn’t have written what was going on (which was everything). How did this happen? For the second time in this ridiculous story tears are flowing from my eyes.
Here is a story I wrote.
Slice of Life
Miriam Cumming’s eyed her seven grained opponent. It stared back at her blankly. Miriam knew this game all too well, she stood her ground and clenched her teeth.
BLOOD WOULD BE SHED ON THIS DAY.
Listen:
I didn’t create Miriam Cummings out of this air. I found a model that already existed and changed a couple things. For example, I made her 1″ taller. The reason I made her 1″ taller is because she is wearing a dress which is supposed to hit just above the knee. When the dress is worn in her size the skirt hits right on the knee. And so, being incredibly diligent to detail, she must be made 1″ taller for the dress, a forest green sundress made of silk, to look just right on her. Miriam Cummings already has lovely curly hair, so I am letting her keep it. I did change the colour of her eyes though. I gave her my eye colour, a mixture of green and grey, to draw attention to them and draw attention away from her abnormally long legs in proportion to her body. Some other tweaks were made to her person which are far too minor to mention, but all create the perfect character to tell this tale.
Miriam’s hand reaches to her right, a handle is held, a drawer pulled out. Inside the drawer light reflects off of metal. She knows which weapon to choose, for she has been in battle many times before. Miriam raises her sword to the heavens, she prays for her battle to be quick and painless. She brings her sword to her side and points to her enemy. The enemy doesn’t respond.
Miriam Cummings lets out a cry one might hear from an amazon warrior.
She charges!
In one swift swoop of her sword the enemy is defeated. The deed is done, the cut is clean, perfectly sized, and straight. In two peices, her opponent rests. She lifts up the Achilles Heel and tosses it into the compost.
Listen:
I am not sure is the original Miriam Cummings is environmentally conscious, but the Miriam Cummings I created is. I made her this way because I had to make the fact that her enemy is biodegradable clear. I don’t want Miriam to seem like a cold blooded murdererm, for that may damper the reputation of the already existing Miriam Cummings this character is based on.
With the remaing limb of the enemy Miriam Cummings places it into her personal torture chamber, which she bought at Wal-Mart for $19.99. It slowly heats up. The smell of her enemy’s burnt flesh fills Miriam’s nostrils. She is satisfied and releases her enemy from it’s fiery hell with the simple press of a button. It pops up and she reaches for the second phase of her torture process. With her sword she easily cuts away a peice of the soft dairy product we like to call ‘butter’. She carefully spreads the butter across the surface of her nemises. When all is perfectly melted she prepares for the third and final phase of the torture. She licks her lips. She picks up the enemy and brings it to her mouth. A satisfying CRUNCH is the last sound heard from the pained and tortured victim. A satisfied smile covers Miriam Cummings face. She has one this morning’s battle.
But what about tomorrow?
Listen:
The real Miriam Cummings would never make such a big fuss over eating a single slice of buttered bread. But my Miriam Cummings would. She does all of her ordinary, everyday things in such a manner and that is what I admire about this character. She takes the time to do the minor things in viewed as ordinary, plain people. Miriam Cummings is an extraordinary character, and she was created by me.
My favourite part of this post is the fact that you can google image “toast” and get 2,400,000 hits.
Tres Bien!
Herman Slaughterhouse
I went to a Hallowe’en party on the weekend.
I didn’t know anyone.
It didn’t really matter that I didn’t know a soul though, I was intoxicated on many different substances and didn’t have a care in the world.
My costume was a depressed, rich housewife. To pull such a costume off I wore a dress, pearls, and fur. Then I smeared ‘cocaine’ (actually just flour, I swear) on my nose and taped a syringe to my arm. It was a fabulous costume.
I was planning on being Daria tomorrow night but I have decided to go with the classic “Ghost World” look. I actually found $20 DocMartens at Value Village today, which are perfect.
Back on the subject of stupid Hallowe’en parties:
I was a total loser and started writing poetry on the back of random objects (gum wrappers, playing cards etc.). So here is one of them. Might I remind everyone that I was heavily influenced by drugs and alcohol while writing this.
Untitled
Going inside the place was the worst
I couldn’t have made such a mistake
Unless I was truly scared of what
Was going to happen in my enclosed exisitence
Would I be laughing right now?
If Berkeley rules my mind then it never existed
And my whining prose is useless
Is love John Locke’s second quality?
If I don’t understand the philosophy
Then I don’t have time for the nature of time.
This linear progression along the track is
Fucking up my mind to the point where I can’t
Understand the Quantum Physics of it.
Music is dead to my ears, writing is alive in my eyes
I was afraid that our lives were meant to be together
And intertwined to become a heap of lust
That’s why I went inside that night.
I had found my other.
I didn’t want to destroy them with my makeshift poetry
So I didn’t.
But I wish I did.
If I had, maybe we would be together right now.
And I would be laughing and he would be singing.
Man, I love drug induced poetry.
HAPPY HALLOWE’EN PEOPLEZ!!!
Hi
Is Thou Narratress
I
far too frozen to fully
tell you my thoughts
stupid fucking scientific things
allen ginsberg is glass togther
with windows
spelling mistakes are just enhancing
my wahsing of my face
where did we even go
all of these things just went away
fuck off you stupid influences
media fuck is not in res
i need a quiet room to study my mind
it isn’t endless
i would have found what i wanted to say to the world
II
real fur
real REAL REAL
WHY is it real.
what is a real thing
nothing probably
I
Shoot
That pony tail is flattering to everything about you
Mustache faced little girls wearing musical t-shirts
want to fuck my manly curves
churning ones butter
you are dead
pain in circular motions
some shit he’s crying about
peeing on the floor
get it in the toilet
clean that cunt up
with your tongue
or breasts of 15 year old footless children
will get you
II
waves of pages
afraid of juice
oh fuck
douche is just saying
he doesn’t come to history
big fucking tits
don’t touch those oh shit oh shit
open love up
and embrace those fuckers all night
I am not on drugs oh
they haven’t thrown any eggs at me yet
