Pinkerton's Weblog

Shortstory Excerpts

The first few pages of an as-yet-untitled shortstory I'm working on.

April 4

Carol comes home from work and drops a notepad on my face. I’d fallen asleep watching Oprah, a row of empty beer cans winding their way along the edge of the coffee table and coming to an end at an ashtray brimmed with spent cigarettes. I try my best to focus on the page while Carol takes a frozen lasagna out of the fridge and talks about the habits of highly effective people. According to Carol there are seven, and according to Carol I possess none of them. I take the implicit suggestion that I am not highly effective in stride.

Listed on the notepad in Carol’s prim handwriting is a categorized list of resolutions. I am about to voice applause for her commitment to self-improvement when I notice that the resolutions are, in fact, my own.

“What’s this?” I ask pleasantly enough, flipping through several densely-written pages of scrawled madness. Carol preheats the oven for the lasagna and explains the need for me to set goals for myself, then meet those goals.

“You need focus,” I hear from the kitchen. Carol appears in the doorway, a look of concern on her face. “I’m serious, John. If you’d just apply yourself you could do so much.” I scan her face for any hint of sarcasm before returning my attention to the itemized list of all my faults.

Among Carol’s proposed resolutions is the ominous-sounding Only drink socially. This has been underlined twice for my benefit, as if I had a reading disability that prevents me from understanding any sentence that isn’t passionately illustrated.

Only drink socially confuses me, as I’ve always seen myself as both rakish and charming while under the influence of alcohol—two qualities that strike me as the very definition of social. Carol explains that drinking socially means not drinking by myself all day. How this detracts from my social life is beyond me—I’ve always found myself to be a great conversationalist, and drinking alone only serves to bring out this quality in spades. When Carol gets home from work I take the time to greet her at the door with good cheer and high spirits if I’m awake. I take her briefcase and offer her any beer I can spare. I ask you if these aren’t the actions of a social man.

Carol’s reasoning dictates that I spend my time entertaining guests and freshening drinks all day, as if the only rationale for having a few beers before noon is hosting an energetic social event in the living room minutes later. How she expects me to look for work when I’m filling ice cube trays and moving the furniture for a game of Charades escapes me. My days are already a flurry of job-hunting activity—sometimes I’ll concentrate on the couch for hours, thinking up questions I might get asked at a job interview and the inventive answers I intend to supply.

“It looks like you’ve been out of work for over a year, Mr. Eaton. That must be very difficult for you.”

“Perhaps for others,” I’ll say with humility. “Personally, I thrive on adversity.”

“That’s fascinating. Would you like a scotch?”

“Oh, don’t get up on my account. I’ve brought my own.” We’ll share a knowing laugh at this. I pour two tumblers of scotch from my briefcase to toast our like-minded sensibilities, while he busies himself dotting the i’s on a contract.

When I get bored of mental preparation I like to challenge myself with riddles to stay sharp. Riddle time typically leads to naptime, which continues uninterrupted until Carol gets home from work and is furious.

April 5

Today I block out the time I’d normally devote to riddles in an effort to rewrite Carol’s resolutions to more accurately reflect my capabilities. I change the unrealistic Quit smoking, for instance, into the more adventurous Develop an intense fear of smoking. Under the careful editing of my pen, unobtainable pipe dreams like Lose 30 pounds and Start an RSP transform into Don’t gain 30 pounds and Hide ATM card—sane and achievable goals well within my grasp.

Carol, true to her pessimistic nature, remains unconvinced that I’ve improved on her resolutions, and implies sabotage. Chief among her complaints is my alteration of Pick a career path into Have more sex with Carol. She accuses me of insinuating that sex with her is like work. I explain that I find sex with her very enjoyable; I was just suggesting that she pay me for it. This opens up a whole new avenue of debate, and I am soon defending myself for still being between jobs. Our discussion ends with Carol looking up the word ‘between’ in the dictionary.

“In an intermediate space, position, or time,” she explains. I attempt to defend myself but get distracted by the origin of ‘between’ listed below the definition. It comes from the Middle English word bit-wean. ‘Wean’. I like that, as it sums up my professional life perfectly. According to the dictionary, I am becoming accustomed to finding sustenance in a manner other than by sucking.

While Carol incorporates the dictionary further into the debate, I make my first mistake: I assume her silence in looking up the word ‘shiftless’ is an indication that she’s calmed back down to her usual state of mild exasperation. I decide to wrap up my side of the argument with the truism that seeking a new career path is time-consuming and thirsty work, and by its very definition (the route or course along which something travels) I am making slow progress. I point out that Carol’s own career path, which has to date led her to a job as a secretary at a children’s hospital, is also one of slow but eventual progress.

Carol stops in mid-search and looks up from the page. Apparently this conclusion is my second mistake.

April 8

In Carol’s absence I’ve come to rely on my dwindling savings account to get me through the week. Freed from the grind of meeting Carol at the door at 6:00, I take advantage of my flexible new schedule by becoming incoherent far earlier in the day. ‘Evolution’ is the keyword of my new lifestyle. I rise up against the tyranny of pants, and soon prowl my apartment in an old t-shirt and boxer shorts, as Nature intended.

If ‘evolution’ is my new keyword, ‘hot dogs’ is a close second. I find them ridiculously easy to prepare and decide to make them a staple. By themselves, a rejection of pants and hot dog-based diet symbolize little. Together, they resonate with the clarion ring of independence.

During my mental preparation time I watch a nature show called ‘The Howler Monkey: Nature’s Little Rascal’. The program is aimed at children aged 5-10 and doesn’t concern itself with a lot of hard facts, but I manage to learn that they come from Argentina, eat leaves and figs and, if the Narrator is to be believed, are quick to engage in monkey business. The stock footage seems to bear his theory out.

True to their name, a Howler monkey howls an awful lot. Being aimed at juveniles, the show doesn’t dwell on the reason for all the shouting, but I conclude it’s probably sexual in nature rather than the product of anger. Hanging around in trees all day eating leaves doesn’t give you much to get riled up about.

According to the show, 75% of a Howler monkey’s time is spent resting, 20% feeding and 5% with social activities. I like their moxie.

I grab the notepad off the coffee table and write down a new resolution before I forget: Get a monkey. I can’t imagine it’s easy to find one, and a difficult quest is just what I need to take my mind off of my hectic schedule. I scribble onto the page, while in the background the Narrator explains that Howler monkeys are highly resourceful, but playful when the occasion presents itself.

I’d like to tell myself that my motive in attempting to own a monkey is nothing but a need for companionship; but in truth, since Carol left the apartment could use a little picking up. ‘Highly resourceful’ tells me it’ll probably be able to work a vacuum cleaner, while ‘playful’ suggests I should try to make vacuuming a game to keep it engrossed. There will be no monkey business while the carpet’s dirty.

April 14

My dreams are crushed after a visit to the city zoo, where I discover that the potential escape of dangerous animals is a more pressing concern of zoo management than I’d counted on. The Howler monkeys are housed in a plexiglass fortress. They caper on synthetic tree limbs and swing from thick hemp nets suspended from the ceiling. I make a note to build a tire swing in the bathroom.

Occasionally one of the monkeys, overcome by all the attention and possibly misjudging the tastes of his audience, gets an adventurous look in his eye and starts masturbating. A nearby zookeeper explains that masturbating is discouraged by management, but difficult to control. I make a note of this. He also tells me about the monkey cage, after I feign casualness and ask if it’s possible for a monkey to escape. It is heavily fortified; the only way out is through a door, which the zookeepers use for feeding.

Is the door locked? I ask. I am told it is. Monkeys are able to open doors. I make a note of this.

Once many years ago one of the staff forgot to lock the door behind her, explains the zookeeper. Two monkeys escaped, and it took three hours to find and sedate them. The zoo was in a panic. Are monkeys on the loose dangerous? I ask.

The zookeeper shrugs. “I dunno. I just sweep up here, man. I guess so. Yeah, they could be dangerous.”

I get excited at the news, already jettisoning the butler outfit in my mind and replacing it with dangerous-looking military fatigues. I bombard the man with questions. How dangerous? Would they attack adults, or would the size difference steer them towards smaller prey, like children?

“Like babies? I dunno. Yeah, sure. A monkey could take out a baby no problem.” He makes several vague hand gestures, apparently attempting to illustrate the ease with which a monkey could take out a baby. I make furious notes.

Here Comes the Sun

Okay, I realize this will make me sound like a crotchety old bastard, but why is it whenever we get the first sunny day of Spring, everyone within a twenty foot radius of me wants to have a conversation about it?

It isn't that I'm not as pleased as anyone about the temperate weather. It's just that, as a conversational topic, it's a bit limited. To wit:

Stranger in Elevator: "Wow, beautiful weather out there, huh?"

Me: "Huh? Oh. Yeah. Totally. Really nice weather."

[awkwardness]

Stranger in Elevator: "I mean, it wasn't that nice yesterday."

Me: "No. Not really. Today is much nicer. Great weather."

Stranger in Elevator: "Yes." [long pause to consider it] "It is."

And so on, throughout the day, until even the staunchest supporter of nice weather would be forced to stop caring. Making it worse is that there doesn't even seem to be any allowable variation in the conversation. For example:

Co-worker: "Beautiful weather out there, isn't it?"

Me: "Yeah. Maybe we should find an extension cord and go work outside, huh?"

Co-worker: [laughs]

Me: [laughs]

Co-worker: [laughs]

Me: [laughs, looks at watch]

Co-worker: [laughs] "I don't understand. You want to work outside?"

Me: "I -- no, nevermind."

Co-worker: "Beautiful day though."

Me: "Indeed. Beautiful."

Co-worker: "Oh yes."

Leading to my breaking point around about mid-afternoon, where I'm convinced if I ever have to speak about the weather again I'll just start blindly punching at anything around me. As the walls start closing in, people take my stumbling around as shock at how great the weather is, and attempt to initiative conversation.

Old Woman: "Lovely weather, isn't it! I can't believe it's the same place!"

Me: "I agree. It's diabolical. There's no precedent for this."

Old Woman: "Well, I just mean it was SO bad the other day, and SO nice tod--"

Me: "Do you suspect Iraq is involved in this in some way?" [asked in such a way that implies: "Because I do."]

Old Woman: "Why, no!" [pause to consider] "Should I?"

Me: "Let me answer that with another question: Was it this nice yesterday?"

Old Woman: "Oh my God..."

Me: "Take my advice. Stock up on bottled water." [thrashing fist at sun] "It won't work, you hear me! We KNOW! WE KNOW!"

And so on, until I can get back to my apartment, lock the doors, and unplug the phone. I'd pray for enough rain to wash away the sin of the city, but unfortunately, a change in weather would likely provoke even more banal conversation.

Old Man: "Well, it was nice while it lasted! Ho ho ho!"

Me: "Fuck yes."

Old Man: "It was so nice out. Beautiful weather. Now it's not beautiful anymore."

Me: "Uh huh." [pause] "You suspect Iraq, of course."

Old Man: "What?"

Me: "Let me walk with you for a minute. What I have to say may shock and belittle you."