Cut to the Chase

The train swayed. Hot, crowded, smelly -- a goat to one side wore a monocle and solemnly ate the pages out of a book. A cage of chickens clucked in the aisle next to her seat. In front of her a nearly naked man sat sweating, a basket perched next to him. The sort of baskets that held cobras, she thought, and no doubt this snake -- considering the heat and the noise and the smoke -- was not considerably charmed at the moment.

The land outside the grimy window blurred past -- checkerboard farm land -- a trip through the land through the looking glass no doubt -- where one had to run very, very fast in order to stand still. She had never been a fast runner but she could eat up the miles nonetheless.

The woman, surrounded by fever dream figures, listened to the roar of foreign tongues all around her as her aching forehead tapped the window. How did I get here? The goat finished the book and started in on a magazine. A rabbit in a vest pulled out an iPhone -- no pocket watches for this crowd. The woman laughed, earning a glare from an old widow in black.

The train careened -- far faster than a train in India should travel -- especially given the sound of songs and bodies sitting on the top and clinging to the sides of the ancient iron horse. A monkey in a uniform held out his hand for her ticket. The woman handed him a cucumber sandwich, neatly wrapped, that she found in her own wicker basket, thankful it wasn't a cobra. The monkey handed it back and pointed at a banana. The transaction done, the woman settled back into her misery.

The scenery flashing by turned to jungle and the woman felt like she was traveling through the rings of a lunatic hell. At least my head's on straight, she thought with a laugh, Dante was wrong there. Then again, who can accurately predict the future in a world where turtles skateboard down the aisles? Perhaps I've been let off on a technicality. 

Glory-Hounding

 "Do the muses have pets? Are they plagued with glory-hounds and copycats?"

The day was one of soft sun and cool breezes and the hum of traffic on the busy street where I lived lulled me to think of naps and quietly unproductive afternoons. The woman looked up from her computer and sighed. She had just read an article about the necessity of shameless self-promotion in the job market. Just thinking about it -- much less thinking about filling out applications, writing bullshit cover letters, presenting a bright and happy face on it, writing about a love to teach when the hard bit reality of why she wanted a job was because the rent was due -- all these things just made her tired. Sad and tired. Here she was, billing herself as an inspiration to aspiring college students when she all too often found getting out of bed a remarkably uninspired act.

Slowly, slowly, her hands quieted on the keyboard and she drifted off to sleep.

Pseudoscience

"We rewrite the past. Of course we do. It's as changeable as our future, as malleable as our present. Even more malleable than the present. In the present we run into cold, hard facts that leave bruises. Sharp facts that prick us and leave us bloody. But the past, the past can be anything!"

"You're completely mad," I remarked, "Totally right, but completely mad."

"The best people always are," he replied with a grin. "Come with me to Wonderland and we'll paint your past in wild, psychedelic colors and give you the trippiest soundtrack imaginable."

"Why not?" I asked, matching his grin as I took his hand. Sanity and sensibility were both distinctly overrated. 

Temperance in Reverse

"Dear Heart," Mama said, "Pull up a seat and have a slice of cantaloupe and a glass of iced tea."

"Mom," Dana asked, brow furrowed in confusion, "Why is there a monkey at the table?"

"His name is George, dear, and be polite. He's a guest." The monkey, err George, smiled at Dana and banged his spoon on the table. Dana sat tentatively and tried to ignore the other monkey who was in an apron dusting in the living room. "Her name is Ethel and she's a great deal less dear with the cost for the housework than you are," Mama answered to her unasked question. "The whole house for two bananas and a chocolate covered cherry - she's partial to cordials."

"I see," Dana said with a sigh. It was always something. At least there wasn't a llama in bathroom. That had been last week. "Where did you meet Ethel and George?"

"At an astrology lecture. George is a great believers in how the stars chart our lives. Ethel thinks it's pure bunk."

"Of course she does. Why, anyone can see she's a rational monkey." George lifted his eyebrows at that comment and stuck his tongue out at Dana. Ethel gave a snort and monkey laugh as she pulled out the vacuum. "Mama, you really have to exercise some restraint when it comes to inviting guests -- who happen to be other species -- into our home."

"I'm Temperance in Reverse, dear," Mama sighed. "Always have been. Always will be."

Dana sliced up her cantaloupe, stuck her tongue out at George and then asked with resignation heavy in her voice, "Are they housebroken at least?"

"Yes," Mama answered, "These are civilized primates. At least, as civilized as primates ever get." Mama sighed and wished, once again, that she were a cat.

Shallow Overindulgence

"Why? Why have I done this?" "I want to laugh. I want to be free with my love and my money and my dreams. But I'm so afraid and there's the rub -- it's not fear of death for me but fear of lack that leaves me always feeling the pinch of never having enough."

"No," she said preemptively, shutting her daughter down in mid-sentence. "Whatever it is no. We're broke." I've lost my second job and God in Heaven I hate the fact that I feel the need for a second - a third - a fourth job even. I used to have eight back in the dark times during the divorce when fear kept her up night after night -- might as well work she'd thought.

"But..." her daughter began and then stalked out. Her bedroom door slammed, teenage punctuation to nearly every exchange.

She sighed and felt guilty. Always guilty. Always lacking. "Shallow overindulgence," she thought as she looked back down at the Three of Cups, Tepid enjoyment, chased by guilt, ruining the taste of any half-assed extravagance she mustered. She sighed, tears threatening. She had spent, too much she thought, but she'd also cut corners, saved, scrimped, and groused over every penny spent. It soured the whole transaction. She couldn't give with guilt. Shallow overindulgence stripped indulgence of every pleasure.

Here she was, fifty-five, counting calories, counting pennies, old and thin and pinched. "Why? Why have I done this?" "I want to laugh. I want to be free with my love and my money and my dreams. But I'm so afraid and there's the rub -- it's not fear of death for me but fear of lack that leaves me always feeling the pinch of never having enough. Enough of that!"

"Let's go," she yelled.

"Go where?" her daughter asked cautiously.

"Wherever you want to go. To the moon and back. To Paris for dinner. Let's go! Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die! That's biblical you know and damn good advice." That's the rub, she thought, not fear of death but fear of living past the celebration. Hangovers are a bitch.