LEARNING HOW TO TYPE- THE ESSENTIAL GUIDE By James Thaddeus Jajac

Chapter 1

I do believe that I am the best typist in the entire world. No one can hold a torch to my typist skills! Let me begin by relating the first time that I touched the keys of a key board. There I was, the tender age of four, when I found my fingers teased above the keys. I knew not what, I knew not when, but my entire world was about to change. While I sat there my hands instinctively typed by some bizarre telekinesis, in its entirety, Leo Tolstoy’s immortal classic “War and Peace” in 9.3 seconds. Let me tell you ladies and gentleman it was a moment that I would never forget, nor would any of the people in attendance that day. Of the forty thousand that I know of all but two of them have mentioned it on Larry King Live.

Chapter 2

Later that afternoon I invented the hang glider. There I was suspended from the top of the empire state building; I knew that with out some creative thinking I was, most certainly, a goner. And so I hung there, suspended just from a thread of the seat of my ‘Smurf’ overalls, trying to work my magic upon the universe. I had in my pocket a paper clip, a dollar bill, an onion, and fifty feet of the strongest nylon I had ever laid my hands upon. Coincidentally at the exact same time there was a holly wood film crew filming a great holly wood epic just one roof top away. One of the crew men caught sight of me and quickly turned the cameras toward me, fascinated by this 4 year old boy, dangling within an inch of his life, knitting and weaving in mid air, something no one had ever seen before. What I then called a ‘fly -wing- boat’. That crew man was none other than Steven Spielberg and he later used that footage to flesh out his masterpiece, “ET”. So after I completed my flying machine and dropped from the top of the empire state building, I arced through the air, the paper clip bent and reshaped as a frame work, to nest the nylon, and I soared into the clouds like an eagle. Yep it’s true, I did that. Did I mention I am a great typist? Call me.

***INTERMISSION***

It’s the new thing.

If there is a party, get there early. If it starts at 8pm get there at 4pm, and bring your laundry. Act like it is your party too. Order food, hand them the bill. When some one knocks, answer the door and greet every one like it is your home. In the middle of the party interrupt everyone to let them know you are going to take a bath. Then, fall asleep, in your clothes, in the bath. Then, after midnight, when you wake up, when the party is over, ask if any one has any pot. Then after you have convinced them to let you sleep on their couch, once every one else has fallen asleep, after you have compiled a karaoke play list on their lap top, wake them up, to let them know that they are out of fabric softener. THE END. Oh yeah and don’t forget, take lots of souvenirs!

***END OF INTERMISSION***

***PLEASE RETURN TO YOUR SEATS***

Chapter 3

I spent my last ten weekends floating. It is a nice change of pace from the usual run of the mill sluggish routine I had been adopting since I was elected mayor. You’d think that there would be so much to be done, all the time, but there is a heck of a lot of free time to adjust to. You’d think it would be easy too. At least that is what I thought when originally confronted by it. How quickly did I learn my lesson; it takes at least as much energy to do nothing as it does to stay busy. That is where the floating comes in. Apparently there is a service available to figures of public office. All you need to do is submit a form with a declaration of abject boredom (In triplicate) to the nearest library and in a matter of hours a seventeen foot waxen duck appears at your door. A wing lifts mechanically and out drops a stair case with a petite young lady acting as your guide, she quickly ushers you inside and stealthily there it begins, a most peculiar journey.

They call it floating likely because it involves floating. This magic duck, I presume, lifts above the ground and floats aimlessly about the intergalactic landscape. I say ‘presume’ because I was never certain at any point if any of this was real, or just an illusion, like a child’s ride. I was told by the young lady that the duck would take me any where I wished and I was granted this indulgence, whether real or imagined, without argument, with out hesitation for as long as I required, for ten weekends, as I have mentioned, in a row. That first weekend I wished to explore the inter workings of a live volcano, The duck immediately roared to life and the screen before me danced with the imagery of transport, lifting high above the town, twirling madly through the galaxies, until we then dropped suddenly into a glaring red volcanic orifice. We traveled through this tunnel at great speed, for an undisclosed amount of time, bending the air with velocity, crashing through waves of molten lava, descending and rising, sinking and floating, drifting with out route infinitely abjectly akimbo. Then I checked my voice mail and the town hall was on fire, so we rushed back. By the time we had arrived it had already been attended to by the local fire department. I, the proud mayor, made a quick appearance bowed ceremoniously, tipped my hat at the robots and children, and made my way home by limousine just in time for a quick nap before meal time. Which was, by the by, a heaping helping of macaroni and cheese served upon the elbow of a shaved Bengal tiger (with a feather of a crescent moon); Most exquisite if I may be so bold, to be so frank, to state the obvious.

This has been a quote from: “The Memoirs of an obtuse man in the jungle of a sea of fish headed free pageantry (In a gallery of abstractions)”.





Chapter 4

THE DIARY OF A FAT HOMELESS NINJA

So there I was, down to my last crystal throwing star, tummy rumbling like no ones business, standing stark naked in front of the last Carvel for the next fifteen hundred miles, a satchel full of stale pecans, my wife is screaming in my ear, the kids are rolling on the floor like they have the worst case of herpes since George Hamilton met Claire Danes, my alarm clock starts clambering, I’m out of Tylenol, a polar bear starts doing cocaine off of my glistening bulbous tuchas, a bumble bee has a telegram I have to sign for, but neither of us have a pen, there is an Eskimo made of diamonds contemplating suicide hanging from the chandelier of my polish cousins hairdressers nanny’s accountants soup kitchen! Meanwhile, long story short, Carvel is closing in two minutes and eight seconds, I got a bowling ball rolling out of my ear lobe, I’m down to my last crystal throwing star and it’s between a cone and killing everyone, what is a fat homeless ninja to do?

Well I’ll tell ya.

That was one fine ice cream cone.

Diet starts tomorrow ass hole.

EPILOGUE

Learning how to type is indeed a challenge. It is often hard to remember which letter rests beneath your fat retarded fingers. For example: When I wish to type “Hello, my name is Juan and I would like a drink of water”, with out correction this same sentence may read as: “Hello mt name is Yuca and I woiels lieks a feink id qarehotdogr”. Correcting a sentence of such monumental depth can take up to an hour of grueling labor, hunched over an encyclopedia, thumbing through a thesaurus while cradling a dictionary like it was your first born. For this reason typing can be a challenge and often you will be reduced to screaming and kicking and carrying on. But it is moments such as these you may be happy to learn are what make you A WRITER! Enjoy the unpleasant distraction of adaptation and learning by slapping your hams upon the key pad like Gene Kelley at an Andy Dick convention. But seriously, typing, like life is not all fun and games. To hone your craft you may have to isolate yourself to depravity, stave off your growing suicidal tendencies by humming and singing and scream crying, but through it all one must be devout, and taciturn and esteemed with the utmost conviction (unwavering). For it takes more than a nimble cascade of finger feet to complete and compete with the unitard of life. It takes excellence and brethren like a sack of kittens vomiting from the soul of non other than Ghandi himself, it takes commitment. And if there is anything I want to learn from this experience it’s that hard work bears fruit, and even though you may have to waste hours of your time with that harpy Mavis Beacon bellowing in your ears, it adds up. One day it won’t take an hour to type; “I enjoy my belly, if you please, rub me at your leisure”. And if that isn’t mantra enough, I don’t know what is. Maybe that’s the lesson we all need to learn in these times of modern malignancy, that you take inspiration from whence you find it, for there is no hidden spring, just as there is no fountain of youth, or, I decree, a short cut for learning how to type 200 words a minute; Nor will there ever be.

Mavis Beacon, take thy hand and let us descend into thy quivering gelatinous tomb, hallow be thy name, blessed be the fruit of thy womb, let us gather these metaphorical acorns together. Let us all learn how to type. Amen.

Signed, cordially, lovingly,

James Thaddeus Jajac

THE END

Too many capitals.

11/26/07

You think when you write: “I must write what I know”, and then you think of all the most immediate relevant objects that have crossed your path and you think: “Shall I write about them?” “No” is the answer, “Those things are too remote, too easy, too unrelated! I must write something extraordinary or else who would possibly care?!”

With clenched fists you now walk through life with your mind coursing all around you like a fog, lifting and picking and sifting though everything in which you come in contact. “Perhaps I can use these” You may think or: “Yes this may do nicely ha, ha, ha; I will conquer the world for certain!” You will continue to walk with fists clenched, and then unclenched and then clenched and unclenched again, grabbing the invisible with your hands and grabbing the actual and transforming it from the concrete thing into the invisible object that are… “I will have a mind full of ideas” you may think: “And with these ideas I will work, I will create that which has never existed, and with these creations I may rule and conquer, I will stand atop my own ideas like a man on top of a mountain, human foot atop cold wet stone. This will be my reality…” You will think. And with this thought your mind will drift far, far away into an unlit room that exists only within the deepest recesses of your mind and blindly grabbing and feeling you will sit and wonder and sit and create and imagine all of the wonderful things that you can make, and all of the beauty that will shine in your eyes and all of the “whatever” that will swirl all around you and every one and everything, and try as you might to distinguish the real from the unreal you will struggle and it will all start to feel the same and you can imagine light and you can imagine darkness and you can feel rain though it is as dry as bone and you can hear music though there are no speakers or microphones and then there are white circles every where and you shout out holding the thumb you have just crushed with a hammer trying to hang pictures on the wall, and shouting out again you imagine somewhere down that long dusty distant road of the day when you can finally afford…a lamp.

“I can’t see a goddamned thing in here!”

You shout now angry with fists clenched (and then unclenched and then clenched and unclenched), thinking and dreaming of another day when thumbs aren’t so sore and crushed and dark rooms aren’t so dark and dusty and you think and walk and think and walk and then sit and wonder and sit and think and sit and laugh then you write something down and close the book in which it was written because you have some where else to be, and then you walk again completely uncertain but determined in every way to get where your going in the exact time allotted though it is cold and rainy and your hunched over and wet, and your glasses have cracked and there are too many cars in the street and they are moving much too fast but you know you can get there because you’ve been there before and you know there can be no doubt because you think: “I can see it” and you know you can because you can and you know it will always be there because it has always been there and you say those words aloud because you can and the words form in front of your eyes and then you think about the words and you think about the letters and then you scramble them and unscramble them and the words have not changed and you know it’s there and that it will be there and you cannot miss that which has always existed. You may just have to find it: “I may just have to find it” you think, and you think: “I know that I can see it because I can”. You say the words and you can see the words and you can hear the words, and it has and it will always be there because you know and because you believe and there is no longer any doubt or mystery: Because you can, because you care, because: “I can see it”.

Because I can see, because you can see, because you can…

“See.”

I wrote it down.

Bill The Window Warrior

By James Jajac 2006

Time stood still from the window to his face. Only that fragment of space had been affected. Just outside of the room he was standing in, was a long white hallway that at the opposite end of was a kitchen, and in that kitchen there was a door and the doorknob of that door was being furiously shaken. It was locked.

In that first room we have Bill a terrible paranoid prone to panic attacks, he often stood in the front room like that staring out the window for hours on end; it was a some what busy street so there was a lot to look at but Bills intentions may not have been curiosity as much as it was terror. He was afraid of being murdered. He would tell you, you didn’t have to ask, that three people had been murdered on his street since 1968, and that one can never be too careful.

Today when he was staring out that window there was a fight that took place in front of his home, it must have been about twenty to thirty kids. It was a furious battle; there were knives and even guns involved. Bill froze, he should have liked to call the police but he was afraid to take his eyes off of them, he wanted to be ready. He had to be ready.

There was a red haired boy, he had sort of a lumpy face with freckles, some one hit him with a bat across the teeth and nose and he fell screaming onto Bills steps, Bill flinched thinking of the blood but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t do anything.

A car window was busted open, glass was every where, the car alarm erupted, and a siren screamed in protest. Bills hands by his side were trembling.

Soon there were more sirens but this time it was the police, three cars that he could see pulled into view maybe more. Most of the boys scattered, the few that remained were badly injured. One of the boys shot at a police officer and the officer fell down beside his car. His hat fell off and rolled over sideways. There was shouting and gun fire as the boy pressed between the narrow space between the houses. Bill could hear him struggling through.

Then he heard it. At the back door, the doorknob; He couldn’t move.

He was going to be murdered.

He was going to be murdered.

He stared out the window. The officers were too large to push through the narrow gap. They ran away toward the end of the block; to the right. Bill watched it all unfold.

The ambulances scooped up bodies.

The door shook.

There were footsteps and voices in every direction.

The back door, some one was kicking it.

The traffic was stalled, the red sirens reflected across the window pane.

He heard the back door splinter and give and then foot steps, as they came down that long hall way.

He couldn’t turn around.

He would go away.

Bill couldn’t move.

The footsteps went passed his doorway and they sounded upon his wooden steps. He had gone upstairs.

There were more footsteps and voices now, from the kitchen; heavy foot steps and loud voices.

Bill tried to process it all in his mind.

He turned and lifted his loaded weapon from his dresser drawer.

He tried to remember what he was afraid of.

A police officer entered the door way and when he fired he remembered that that wasn’t it.

He fired again and again until the gun was empty.

Now it was quiet except for the voices outside the window.

He turned around.

There was an officer, a police officer, with a gun aimed directly at him.

Through the window he saw it all.

The sound came second as the window shattered.

Everything was on a delay.

One can never be too careful.

The back of his head burst open and then came a peculiar sort of clarity.

One can never be too careful.

Through that window, he saw it all.

He tried not to panic.

THE END

“The Typist” By James JAJAC 4-15-07

He wanted to try something different so he curled in a sheet of paper and wound it into the long neglected typewriter that sat just by the window. First a test: He typed the letters:

“A, t, g, h, u, c and w”.

Monitoring his progress and seeing that it was legible, he typed again:

“This type writer works, HOORAY!”

He then pulled the page from the typewriter and crumbling it into a ball shot it up into the ceiling fan from where it bounced and dropped onto the wooden floor with an audible thump.

Driving in a new page, it now sat ready to receive his every thought. The Bright white sheet was illuminated in the dim room; A beacon of light in the blue green darkness. He sat and faced the task before him, the type writer, old oily and dusty, his clawed fingers curled around the keys, he let his mind drift out of focus and waited for something to appear. His fingers waved like snakes, and framing the picture in his mind, he slowly closed his eyes to black.

There was a wind from the window, there were his feet barefoot on the cold wooden floor, there were his lips, which he felt were frowning, there were his hands gently caressing the keys. He felt the plastic, he felt his finger tips he felt his mind finally wandering…

A sky is black above an old court house. It looks like a court house, a big officious grey building. Very large and looming, a bare flag pole stands alone above three rows of long short grey-white steps. They look like piano keys and they are divided by a black railing. At the top of the stairs are three sets of double doors, framed by heavy marble. The doors are also black, they are reflective; they echo the darkness all around them. There are trees all around, but not clustered too close together, it looks like a public park; the leaves are green but deep and dark in the dead of night. The air is very still but it is not quiet; there is the sound of voices that gradually fade to life.

A group of young children between 6 and 10 walk in an unruly pack; one of them points up and shouts: “Oh shit the moon!”

It is full and heavy clouds drift right through it. The clouds are a funny color that night, a pale blue green, they look like death.

The wandering kids come upon the court house and race up the steps. They are trying to beat each other and a tall fat boy in a red shirt beats them all and calls out: “You Losers, I win!!” There is general laughter but one of them calls out, the short one: “Shut up you fat pig”.

Two of the kids disengaging from the pack began winding their way down the stairs under the railings, snaking all around the metal posts. Once they reached the bottom they turn around and race back to the top rejoining the group. They were now all centered at the double doors peering into the dark glass to see what was inside. The fat one kicked the door, and then hit it hard with his shoulder. Two of the others did the same, nothing happened, it didn’t budge.

The fat kid said:

“I wanna break in there, it’s probably easy!”

“Why?” one of them asked.

“Just for fun, I’m fucking bored”

“I don’t know” Another answered.

The youngest one called out finally:

“I want to go home”!

He opened his eyes.

Had he been typing? Or just thinking?

He looked down at that page and saw that he had. Words had been formed. He felt odd, a little out of sorts, groggy but not tired, tired but wide awake. Rather than figure it out he tried again:

A dog?

A dog.

A dog was walking through some tall grass in a dark and deserted neighborhood. Jumping over some high weeds it found itself on a sidewalk beside an over turned car. It was smoking and the glass was melted and black. A charred cracked blistered arm hung from an open door, he sniffed it and licked it and unsatisfied walked away. A street lamp flickered above, its base bent from impact. Our dog stepped oblivious over tiny fractions of glass and metal walking across a short bridge. Beneath it was a flood of rushing water, as he passed above, the roar of the water filled his ears; they jumped up attentively at the sound. He turned and stood up placing his two paws on the low wall and looked out at what was left of the world around him. The sky in the distance was a deep orange; the fires rang out across the horizon. What was left of the city hung across the sky like a skeleton and a black smoke trailed away into the fiendish night sky like a ghost sucking and spiraling into nothing. Our dog’s eyes reflected everything in microcosm, but there lay a peculiar kind of clarity, and comprehension in those eyes- and its mouth hung open as if it were going to speak:

DAAAAAMMMMMN THAT’S SOME CRAZY SHIT OUT THERE!! HOOO-DAAAMN. WHAT THE FUCK BE GOIN’ ON? I DON’T EVEN WANT TO KNOW. SHHEEE-HOOOT! YOU HEAR ME? I DON’T EVEN WANT TO KNOW! KEEP ME THE FUCK OUTTA THIS. SHIIT! DAMN MY BALLS BE ITCHY. I GOTTA LICK THAT SHIT.

He swung his head around and began to lick his balls furiously.

DAMN NOW THAT IS SOMETHING SPECIAL. MY BALLS BE ITCHIN!

He kept licking his balls.

MMM HMM NOW AINT THAT SOMETHIN’?! I’M IN THE MIDDLE OF ALL THIS POST APOCOLYPTIC ARMAGEDON BULLSHIT N’ ALL I GIVE TWO SHITS ABOUT IS MY ITCHY BALLS. EAT YOUR HEART OUT ARISTOTLE.

Near by there was an explosion. A wall collapsed two blocks away, and a car alarm screamed ‘warning’ to no one at all.

He opened his eyes. The room was still quiet but it felt rounder, like typing had brought him back into something, it turned the edges into pears. It was practically night now and there was very little light in the room. He glanced at the lamp at his side but found him self comfortable in the darkness. He could make out that he had turned the paper around but had no memory of it. His hands still hung above the keys as if in mid sentence. He could make out a post card taped to his wall. It was from his ex girlfriend it was a cat in a sombrero, it was from Mexico. The memory made him smile and then frown. He then looked at his fingers for ten full minutes until he typed these words:

EVERYTHING IS ALIVE.

He slammed his fist down hard on the table suddenly enraged. He threw the chair back and went to the kitchen. The refrigerator cast a bright light making his clothes look cheap and old; he rubbed his hands against his eyes feeling old and worn out himself. He made himself a sandwich and sat down at his little white table. Fumbling for the remote, he switched on the television. On channel 8 there was a movie about a werewolf, on channel 9 there was a movie about a black boxer, on channel 10 there was an infomercial for ‘fat burning shorts’, on channel eleven a movie about a nuclear waste land. He lingered on it and focused on eating his sand which.

Light flickered across the walls, he was watching so intently now that he felt like he was in school. Fragments of thought entered his mind: His feet, His torn shirt, refrigerator magnets, Ice cubes, Steak knives, Elevator music, ducks, cabbage, opera, jet packs, fish, monkeys, and Walnuts. He ran his bare feet across the floor clutching at mysterious objects with his toes.

There was a little girl sitting on the side of the road in the movie. She was all alone and a car pulled up beside her, there was something terrible inside the car and just before something happened he quickly changed the channel. Passing through a few news stations he laughed at an anchor mans hair, and a weird old lady who screamed when she appeared: NO BUTTER FOR ME THANKS! He switched it off when he got to the Spanish channels and leaving the bread crusts on the table went back to his desk.

He began running through his mind the beginnings of sentences.

“The pale eerie night sky…”

“Some where down beneath the water…”

“No one ever knew what happened that night…”

“It was most certainly peaceful back then…”

“Calamity is most definitely a suspicious word!”

But he couldn’t quite finish the thoughts. They were just fragments that he could pick up and run with but to where he didn’t know.

Maybe the boys trying to break into the court house and the dog with the itchy balls got eaten by an octopus? Maybe the stories combine ten chapters later. Each one could be a chapter in the same book of short stories or they are individual novels that are connected by a series of events sharing the same time line.

The boys weren’t breaking into a court house after all that day it was actually a scientific bio chemical ware house where a covert group of judges/scientists were experimenting with atomic warfare as well as genetic breeding. There only successful experiment was a single dog that had been given the power to speak but unfortunately not the power to learn. The kids did break in, setting off a chain of events that resulted in the almost total destruction of that local town- SNOWFLAKE TX; the only link to their experiments are this dog and the scientists/government have to get it back before any one can connect the two. Mean while the dog wants to direct movies and hopes to go to holly wood to follow his dreams! UH OH!

None of that made any sense.

He sat in the darkness and though he couldn’t see the keys, he impatiently typed the words (so fast it sounded like a machine gun):

THE END

There really wasn’t one, but it’ll have to do all the same. He was satisfied. It’s an ending if you say it is.

THE END

I see a landscape:

I see grass before me; a long stretch of grass, it’s yellow kindy grass; dry or something. It sticks up out of the ground like a billion zillion pencils made out of paper, strips of paper. To make it easier I will herein describe the grass as “Kenny”.

The sun shines down from the sky. The sky is gray with darker gray clouds. The sun is bright white- looking like a snow ball that is dropping out of...a snowball dropper thing.

The trees (at the end of that long stretch of Kenny) poke out of the ground like popsicle sticks, but round ones, kind of like pencils, but rounder and longer and lumpier, like carrots but browner and “branchy”. Little branches jut out that look like bendy wire hangers at the ends but at the base from where they grow out of the trees- like carrots that taper into bendy wire hangers, but the bendy wire hangers split out or “branch out” and make smaller bendies like bendy tooth picks that want to shake your hand.

If the trees were people they would be a family of tall skinny people wearing lumpy brown leather coats with green leafy fur collars-except the fur collar is kind of a green leafy ocean, or clouds that hover completely intertwined by their leafy tooth picky wire hangers (bendy) growing out of their lumpy leather coats. The leafy ocean is not actually hovering because it is growing out of their heads like a brain and the branches that hold it are like lumpy wirey brain stems that reach out like thoughts that would seem to hover above them all like one giant green and leafy wirey lumpy thought bubble.

A family of tall lumpy brown leather wearing skinny people with no faces all thinking the exact same thing- a giant ocean of green leafy wind shakey thoughts. (If they wrote poetry: “Hark: Greeny leafies, shakey. THE END”)

Standing huddled in a mass as if in an elevator or at a funeral looking out at the long base of dry pencil paper yellowy grass- “Kenny” who lays before them.

There is also a stone, no a rock, a stoney rock. It’s gray and jagged lumpy. It looked like a crushed donut with a helmet with a jagged stomach like a window screen taped in the middle. It looks like some one shot the donut and it fell down and its helmet sticks out and its stomach is choppy, liney, jagged because it was shot and then it turned to stone on top of Kenny.

The trees all walking in a line stopped before it, this stone, and thought of how sad it is and they all thought of the good times; running through fields in lumpy leather with their helmeted funny donut friend! Oh the splendor of those days as they frolicked in fields of “Kenny”, whose pencil yellowy papery laughter would soothe them all like the balm of the snow ball sun above them! Giggles and gusto but...

Now there is sadness. Donut helmet is dead and turned to stone. They stand above, all in rows consumed by sadness for their fallen friend with a singular mourning. Even Kenny is consumed by melancholy “oh why has our donut brother passed?” he asks incredulously through soil strewn lips.

“Oh whoa, whoa, why must it end this way?”

Their grieving is interrupted as they becomes distracted, looking outward past Kenny, seated upon a stretch of concrete (like long gray book marks) beside one of their darker lumpy tall leafless brothers is a pinky lumpy hairless monkey writing something down upon a V shaped slab of white lined leaf skin sheets bound together.

He is looking out at them and his hand (like pink french fries) is scratching down, scribbling rolling lines.

“Who is this idiot?” they all ask in one complete greeny leafy wirey bendy wind strewn thought.

He is looking out at the scene before him and thinks, while a snowball sun is slowly dropping:

“Taking a photo would be much easier”.

THE END

MY FIST FIGHT WITH GOD

When I was 14 years old I was an angry kid. So this one day I was in a big huff, I was a typical teenager walking around with a chip on my shoulder, only I was acting like I had 14 chips off of 14 shoulders. Angry about what you might ask? Well it didn’t take much back then, it could have been anything. When I looked up as I came to the corner, I saw a church before me and I raised my middle finger at the highest steeple and spoke the words “Fuck you god” aloud.

“Yo, I’m sorry what did you say?” a voice boomed from behind me.

I turned and saw sitting on the steps an old man with a long white beard. He was missing teeth he was black and he was drinking a 40. He stood up and swayed and grabbed the railing attempting to not tumble down the stairs and failing, He fell on his head.

“I know you didn’t just say “fuck” to the muther fucking god almighty you white mother fucker” He said as he attempted to stand.

But I was filled with the fury of my own personal teenage oblivion, I held my ground. “You’re damn right I said “FUCK” to god, where is he when we need him? God is a big fat gay fraud. If he was here right now I would brick punch his ass (the act of punching while holding brick)”.

“Now hole on you cracker box chicken heart. You so happen to be speaking to God Hisself, so you bes’ show sum respec’ ya hear me chile?” he lurched forward angrily swinging a clubby stink fist at me.

I stepped back and dodged him with my youthful cat like reflexes. He threw another punch and I dropped below it pummeling his belly with eight rapid fire punches to the gut that left him stumbling and gasping for air. “You better start prayin’ to me if you hope to walk away from here you old coon bastard (sorry he kind of started it)”

His eyes grew large and white and an eerie wind began to blow. His beard caught in the breeze and the sky filled with dark clouds. The sound of thunder rolled across the sky and all sound seemed to cease with the exception of a low growl coming from behind his clenched rotting teeth. It was a stand off, I stood there in my batman t-shirt and my acid wash denim shorts facing down the lord and savior of earth! But I wasn’t afraid I was tuff stuff (that’s what my shorts said anyway).

“Boy you gone and done it now, you have enticed the wrath of God hisself, now I’m gonna have to come down on-“

I threw a rock at his head and then he fell down screaming.

I stood over him at that moment squinting in the bright of the setting sun, “When I say “fuck you” to god my friend, you better damn well know I mean it”. He turned to face me trembling with fear, his hands raised over his face. “Please don’t hurt me!” He cackled, “Oh pluuu-eeeze don hurt me no more, I had enough, you are tuff, you are TUFF-er than god. I beg for your mercy!!” At this point a bunch of angels had appeared on the roof of the church above and began shouting and haltingly hurling halos at me.

I said “No god, this ends now!!” (Dodging halos) I lifted him up by the collar and I held him before me just about to break his neck but then his breath made me throw up and I ran home crying (still dodging halos).

Then I looked at pictures of Cindy Crawford and hung out with the ninja turtles and fell asleep.

No one to this day ever knew of this dramatic occurrence. I kept it even from my closest friends. I used to be too afraid to tell any one about it afraid that I would be shamed or rejected but I decided to come clean and tell my tale…consequences be damned.

Sure I beat up god, but in this life we are all brothers and deep down under our skin we are all just human beings and a human being can make a mistake. Now I don’t believe in god but I do believe in feelings, so God if you’re listening I’m sorry. That was messed up. I was living in a “teenage wasteland” and I took it out on you and it wasn’t your fault.

I’m also sorry I called you a coon but you started it.

Sincerely,

James Jajac

Friday, June 10, 2005

The girl of my dreams

I was bored and sweaty walking down 18th street at 3am, when I hit Tenth Avenue I knew I had no where else to go so I crossed over and started walking by the water. There was a bit of a wind which was kind of nice, I stared out into the water to see if there was anything out there like an octopus or bank robbers in a raft fighting over the loot, nope nothing but the hollow outline of New Jersey in the distance (like watching paint dry). Well I kept walking, there were loads of creepy weirdo’s out that stare at you like murderers, I'm probably just as weird as they are but at least I don't stare - jeez. As I continued to walk contemplating the mysteries of life (I’m kidding there’s nothing mysterious about life) I noticed in the distance a man wearing a tight red miniskirt. I knew it was a man because I could make out his big sweaty mustache from about a mile away. It was sick and I knew I was screwed because I was gonna have to walk past him; there wasn't a crosswalk near by in either direction, but y'know who cares? I'll just avert my eyes. Its eerie how quiet Manhattan gets very late in the early morning, everything feels so still and quiet, it feels wrong but it's wonderful too. I could hear the water splashing in the distance, I could hear the little waves crashing. It reminded me of the time I was walking across the Brooklyn Bridge when I realized all the cars passing by sounded like water; it was like I was on a beach. Maybe NY is more peaceful than people realize (traffic is Zen).

"What are you doing up so late baby boy?" The mustache asked. I tried not to answer, and just quickly weave past him. "You look like you’re in a hurry" he said slapping his own ass provocatively. "I just gotta get home" I said glancing at him quickly. That was when I realized that he was Charles Bronson in drag. The real guy. I could have sworn that Charles Bronson, the actor, was dead. "You in a hurry?" He asked. He was trying to be cute and seductive and it turned my stomach. I looked him straight in the face and he pouted his lips at me, I felt like I would vomit when I saw the lip stick caked all over the bottom of his mustache. He has that weird accent; it wasn't as pronounced as it is in his movies. He stopped in front of me and I stepped around him, I held my hand up to him as I passed as I would at a passing car I just stepped in front of, apologetically (please don't kill me), and I turned and walked quickly away. A deep growl came from behind me, "EY fuck you, you dick head bastard" (there’s that accent). I would have cried with laughter if I wasn't so frightened. Thirty feet later I glanced back and he was leaning into a car window. Good for him.

I kept walking until I reached Battery Park. It was dark and it felt like there were people lurking in the shadows everywhere. I had never been so paranoid in my life. I stood at the railing and I saw the statue of liberty in the distance, she looked beautiful so when no one was looking I blew her a kiss. I felt so stupid. I looked out at the black water, at the lights drifting through the sky, at the clouds drifting past the moon, at the lights still lit up in the office buildings, and back again at the statue, Miss Liberty. I watched in disbelief as one of her hands reached out and caught the kiss I had blown her, she closed her hand around it and placed it onto her cheek, then she smiled at me and I waved. She already had one foot in the water and before I knew it she was waist deep and walking toward me. In a moment she loomed before me, this grand great giant green woman. Gazing up at her I was in awe, her eyes were so kind, and warm. I racked my brain for just the right words, "I've been inside you a bunch of times" I stammered and I almost exploded when I realized what that sounded like. My face flushed over and I started sweating, I looked her in the eyes nervous, and I said hello. She held her hand out close to me and put my arm on her hand. She scooped me up and held me, and after dangling me precariously over the water she placed me gently on her shoulder. She turned away from the park and began to walk. It only took a moment for me to get comfortable; it was like we were old friends. I can't remember what I said but I just started talking to her, I must have talked for hours. She didn't say anything but somehow I was sure she understood.

The water got deeper and pretty soon, the city was no where to be seen. When the sun came up I wondered what people would say when they saw the statue was gone. I hoped no one would be mad at me. She just kept walking forward, with me holding on, talking into her ear, asking her questions. I didn't even know where we were going, I didn't really care either. The world is a really small place. I wished that we were going some where that no one had ever been to before. Like in “Gulliver’s travels”, I wished there was something left unexplored, that we could stumble upon. A new strange world, a new strange land, where there was nothing set in stone and we could start it over.

In the middle of the ocean in the middle of nowhere, under a perfect blue sky, under a shining sun, the waves were crashing against us, the wind falling all around us in soft bursts. No destination in sight, and no expectations. There was nothing around for miles. Nothing but clear sky and an endless ocean but I could fill it up with all the thoughts in my head, I could spread them out all around us, lay them down like index cards and try to finally get them all in order. Maybe thinking just makes you dumber? I asked her if she knew where she wanted to go, she turned her head toward me and smiled, and she looked back out at the sea.

I tried to think of something to say, but that was all the answer I needed. I closed my eyes.

THEEND