Day 32

i·ma·go

[ih-mey-goh, ih-mah-] Show IPA

noun, plural -goes, -gi·nes  [-guh-neez] Show IPA.

1.

Entomology. an adult insect.

2.

Psychoanalysis. an idealized concept of a loved one, formed in childhood and retained unaltered in adult life.

ESPNs Streak For the Cash is back to humbling people the way it used to.  We had winners the last two months after a drought of 13 months.  Now no one is getting past 21.  Good.

Day off!  This means I have to read a whole book.  Yup.  I could be spending this time doing something more productive than that, but also doing something much less productive than that.  Althought I am aware that I do have the time to read a whole book and no other obligations, so atleast that will put me in my place. Logically I'll let it slide.  Going to see They Might Be Giants tonight, so if anyone is around just holler.

My own dilemma took shape in attempting to make my brain want to write, which is that I can't stay up late and wake up early.  And I'm always hungry.

            Bronco removed the baseball bat from the Louisville Slugger trophy case, next to the ottoman and the red vinyl chair.  The room wasn’t as dirty as the rest of the house, Bronco had spent the vast majority of recent nights sleeping in the big squishy chair.  He felt like a child in the glovelike hand of the chair, but during the day it could have been a throne.

            The gentle susurrus of the leaves falling outside gave way to the blustering explosions coming out of the exhaust pipe of the realtors car.  It had to be the realtor, the house was in on a side street, a private setting in which each neighbor was the length of a football field away from each other. 

Bronco peered through the faux wood vertical blinds, his hulk of a Mustang taking up much of the driveway.  He chuckled as the irritated pencil neck steered his car half onto the grass and half on the driveway, and then bouncing itself into position at the pull of the parking break.

The rustling outside of the door continued.  Bronco forgot about the loose thing in the house.  Walking tentatively down the stairs, gripping the bat with two hands on the taped handle like a broadsword.  The rotors on the ceiling fan were slowly spinning, and Bronco could hear the rustling of papers as they settled into new spots.  The basement door was still open, but the front door was locked, no windows were open. 

The doorbell rang.  Bronco squinted as he peered through the fisheye peephole, an older man with a bowler hat, a two piece suit and a briefcase stood looking at his watch.  “You’re early!”  Bronco called from the other side of the door.  “Come back in 20!”

Bronco raced to the basement steps, the incessant banging of the man filling the house.  It slowed down and the intensity died seconds later, the man in the bowler hat had gotten ahold of himself.

Bronco went down into the dungeon, hitting the swinging light with the door again.  It glistened dimly and buzzed, like a firefly struck with a flyswatter.  He threw the bat down next to the tunnel and exchanged it for the shovel, but peering in front of him he noticed that the carrots were gone, the bowl was flipped over and he could see beyond where the darkness used to end.  Crawling into the tunnel on all fours, he found that, firstly, he couldn’t squeeze all the way through, and secondly that everything on the other side was glistening with a purplish hue.  Bronco pulled himself out of the hole with a reverse manuever which to the average onlooker would have been like the wriggling of a fish.

He heard muffled screams from outside followed by a snap.  Moments later, a mansized purplish creature with a green mohawk sauntered down the stairs one stair at a time, dragging the carcass of the man in the suit behind him.  After some deliberation, Bronco switched back to the bat.  At the bottom of the flight, the creature looked over at Bronco, dropped the body with one arm and saluted Bronco, then picked it back up.

Bronco inched his way towards the stairs, tossing the bat aside to avoid any suspicions.  A group of tiny purple people emerged in a stream from the wall, and the big purple one shrunk back to normal size.  As a group, they pulled the man in a bowler hat through although he did not fit, bending him and twisting him to whatever shape necessary.  He became crooked with a series of small cracks.

Bronco tugged on his coat and retrieved the keys to his car from the right pocket.  On the shiny oversized keychain, an 8 ball and a bottle opener shaped like a bottle dangled, along with the ignition key for the Bronco.  He was halfway through the door when the dilemma of whether or not to seal the basement door struck him.  There were two-by-fours, a hammer, and nails in the garage that he had planned to use for renovations when he came into possession of the property but hadn’t gotten around to.  He thought he better not make these things mad, if they had forgiven him for his earlier transgression.

The car tore around the lane, up steep hills in a flurry, braked at the bottom of the inclines with elegance and grace.  Bronco would live in this puppy if he had to.  He drove past the office he used to use, back when he knew what he was doing.  He flicked the building off, a man in the window of his old office looking out at the blue and red mustang hauling ass through the plainstreets with a hypertrophied finger out the window.  Bronco scoffed that there was already another man in his office, shifting his eyes between the road as seen through the narrow viewfinder of the windshield and the familiar sites of the street.  Humans in this area stayed inside their houses for the most part, the closest grocery store up by the Interstate a good 10 miles.  The common ritual was to buy in bulk, filling cellars and pantries with goods like an ice age was coming.

Bronco stepped through the doors of his old stomping ground, The Jungleroom.  Where there used to be nary a resting spot, even during the day, now there were two or threes older men with giant steins in front of them.  At the bar, no one turned around to see who entered, Bronco’s popularity wavering with his bravado.  Autographed pictures of TV stars from the 80s lined the outer walls, framed in plastic and hung with screws. 

“John Willbury still work here?”  Bronco inquired, shoveling a handful of peanuts from the bowl at the bar.  The patron raised a finger in the air, he was in the middle of counting his register. 

“Ok, what will you be having?”  An unfamiliar face turned toward Bronco, not pleased with his imposition.

Note to self:  On days where it feels like I can keep writing, just keep writing.  Because, there are other days when it's impossible to keep going or even reach the finish line.  Duly noted.  My writing sucks today I'm unhappy with myself.