day 38! nanowrimo.com

Started this national novel writing month thing.  Something will happen in this story.  This will be a true testament to postmodernism, however.  Mostly because it's going to completely lack structure or the concept of "the real world", and mostly be full of dumb exposition.  I don't care though, let's get 50,000 words.  Hello to anyone else who is doing this nanowrimo.com thing!

It's too bad the website doesn't let you put your work on it, I want to read some of these other peoples stories and STEAL ALL THEIR GOOD IDEAS.  Like I need any ideas.  Just make it up as you go along, is good enough.

              Charles thought he should go to a local bookstore to learn about science.  His first day was a Friday, and now he had the whole weekend to learn what he was doing.

            “Some of these guys were good, I mean really good.”  He said to his friend Thomas, a local bouncer.  “Remember how I told you I was in over my head?  I don’t even recognize half of the instruments we’re supposed to know how to use.”

            Thomas nodded and flexed a shrug.  He bit into a coney island dog and held the paper bag out in front of him to avoid spilling ketchup on his Detroit Lions jacket.  “Well I don’t know, man.  You didn’t get fired yet.”

            Thomas was a good sport, living a happy day-to-day lifestyle without much hope for improvement.  He was content and satisfied with his simple life of working at the door of The Tahiti Hut, a bar and occasional gambling parlor.

            Charles paged through science books but was already starting to get discouraged about his prospects.  Most of the books were for kids, and none of the machines looked familiar.  In a recent science magazine called “Science NOW!” with a picture of a scientist holding a tiny brightly colored frog in the palm of his hand, he found a story about Mr. Pulp in the back complete with pullout photo and interview.

            “If you come work for me, you’re an expert.”  It said in the caption of Pulp sitting back with his chin perched on his arm, a pillowtalk type of scene.  “We only hire the brightest and bubliest. The problems we deal with, scientists haven’t even experienced yet.  They don’t even have this stuff in the science books yet.”

            “A true pioneer,”  The fat asian man with a bowlcut interviewing him said, Charles assumed while he nodded and maybe brought his hands into a steeple in front of himself.

            Charles combed the rest of the article.  Mr. Pulp’s language was vague and straight forward.  He said some of the problems his company was dealing with were, “flavor, but not taste”, “ornamentation, and scintillation”, and “the test of time”.  Charles rubbed his eyes, just as lost as before.

            “That’s the guy you work for?”  Thomas said, taking the magazine and bending it back in a way which should probably necessitate a purchase.  “Looks like Willy Wonka.”

            Charles might have been paranoid, but it seemed like people were paying more attention to him on the street.  He was getting anxious looks from even the youngest passerbies; everyone seemed to be aware that he was a sham. 

            He couldn’t sleep that night, every time he fell asleep a jolt of lightning in his head would galvanize him back awake.  He felt like Frankenstein’s monster, trying to be part of a world he didn’t belong in.  He pictured the doctor, the effeminate scatterbrained maestro, plugging electrodes into his brain and rising with flamboyant bravado.  He knew when he freed his hands from the metal clasps that bound him to the inclined board he would have no idea where to go from there.  He decided against trying to get to bed, flipping on the overhead lights and entering the TV room.

            Something dawned on him as he saw the He couldn’t remember if he had signed a contract.  A moment when he had an idea of the nature of his situation eluded him.  He dug through a pile of his recent mail, it was mostly bills, student loans, birthday wishes from fast food restaurants, and a letter from a lawyer.  A letter from a lawyer?

            He noticed pictures of him and a woman that he didn’t recognize strewn over the mantle over his fake fireplace.  There was a picture of his dad looking disapproving, holding a fish like it was a friend of his tha had just died.  A photo of himself in high school with a gawkish full face smile, feathered mullet, braces and square frame glasses.   He set this picture down flat, flashing an indignant look toward himself for putting the thing there in the first place.

            Charles picked up the picture of him and the women.  They were dressed in formal attire, and while she looked happy he himself looked like he was in a hurry.  His arm was attached firmly to the back of her dress, and she stood off balance and aloof.  The frame was signed “To Charles, love always Alice”.  He turned this picture downward as well, now all that was left was his father angry with a fish.  The apartment was a treasure trove of unknown information about himself.  He was reassured by this thought, it meant he might know more about his job and it would one day come back to him.  Amnesiac episodes weren’t that uncommon, he guessed.

            Charles returned to his room where he found his work outfit was dirty.  It looked like someone had spilled mayonaisse all over it.  Looking at his phone he realized it was Sunday, not Friday as he originally had thought, and that outside the sun was already coming out.  He drank some coffee, and retrieved a stack of three newspapers from the other side of his door.  He ran down to the bottom floor with his uniform, throwing it into the washing machine and applying the detergent.  He scampered back up three flights of stairs, planning to take a quick shower while he was waiting for the laundry to finish.

            He closed the door harder than he intended to, sliding across the linoleum floor on his “Welcome Hooooome” mat with the smiling cow on it.  A set of three knocks and what sounded like a kick sounded seconds later, before he was even able to fully regain his balance, and an angry old man stood on the other side.

            “Do you know what time it is?”  A short, soft-spoken, silently angry man said in a hushed baritone.  He wore oversized cloud pajamas and looked pleading and threatening all at once.

            “It’s… yeah.”  Charles looked at his watch.  He didn’t have much time to waste but was careful not to offend the man by answering his question incorrectly.  “Yeah, it’s… 5:30.”

            “Do you know what people do at 5:30?  People other than you, I mean.” 

            “Sorry about that,”  Charles closed the door in the mans face.  He felt an irritability growing inside of him but was able to shrug it off without much effort.

            He parked in his personalized parking space again, this time feeling like a sham who didn’t deserve it.  His hideous reflection in the rearview mirror alarmed him, and he combed his hair with futility.  He saw the “Fuck You Girl” getting off the bus with oversized headphones and a hooded sweatshirt on, with her hands in her pockets choosing the next song.  Be even quieter and ruffle less feathers, he thought.

            There was no lunch or thermos to forget this time around, and when Charles realized this his stomach immediately began a loud racket like a wagon on rocky terrain.  The rain from the night before had accumulated in large puddles lining the black asphalt parking lot.  The painted yellow lines were bright enough to hurt his eyes, and he resented looking down at them.  Other than the girl, it looked like he was the last one here again.

            He thought he would make a better introduction this time, but she was over on the other side of the lot by the street, and he overthought how he should approach her.  He thought about going to stand by the door and waiting for her to come up before going in, maybe holding the door to be a gentleman.  Instead, he ran up with long strides like he had caught her shoplifting.

            “Creep!”  She said, louder than as loud as she had planned to say it because of her headphones.  She continued past him and into the building, walking as fast as someone with their hands in their pockets can do.

            Inside, everyone was already hard at work at their stations.  They worked laboriously and simply, like monkeys at type writers.  Mr. Pulp bustled around the room, shoving his officious face into everything.  It was earlier than 10:30, Charles assured himself as he looked at his watch.  Men in full yellow radiation suits walked through the soundproof doors which split open with a hiss, carrying covered grey trays of the work that had already been done.  One of them, passing Charles, offered a nod and a glance through his hood, which helped mitigate some of the nervous energy he was feeling.

            “My up-and-comer!  The best of the best!”  Mr. Pulp called as he approached from across the room, looking svelte and taking elongated triangular strides in his black velvet jacket and pinstriped bellbottoms.  He reached out and took one of Charles hands between his two and shook him with genuine glee.

            “We’ve got something special lined up for you today, the best!”  Mr. Pulp crossed his arms and tapped his foot.  “These lab rats here will do all of your work for you, they don’t mind, look at them work!  In the meantime, you’re going to go to our corporate office!”  He paused in mid sentence to let this settle in, or to rub his ear.  “We have something there that I need to have picked up, and I told them I’d send a trustworthy representative down!”

            The girl meandered slowly away from Charles, and Pulp noticed her.  “Who is this, your girlfriend?!”  Pulp laughed to himself.  “Fine, fine, she can go with you!”

            They settled into Charles car after he removed piles of fast food wrappers from the passengers side.  “I don’t know who’s these are, I swear.  I don’t even eat fastfood.”  He couldn’t actually remember having fastfood, but she was obviously not interested one way or another.  She looked up at him with the impatience of a teenage daughter.  They exited the parking lot and the car wound its way through the side streets onto a freeway ramp.




           A hand reached down into the cyclone to pull me up and it was my own.  The gods stood watching impartially and the villagers looked up worshiping the gods.