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| Acmlm's Board - I2 Archive - Modern Art - A Story. |
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Grey the Stampede Don't mess with powers you don't understand. And yes. That means donuts. Level: 82  Posts: 3588/3770 EXP: 5192909 For next: 16318 Since: 06-17-04 From: Kingston, RI, USA, Earth Since last post: 2 hours Last activity: 1 hour |
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| A story. I wrote this in half an hour. Feedback is appreciated. I’m suddenly kind of angry. I can’t place my finger on why. I believe I may be more grumpy than anything else. Yes, grumpy. Perhaps I am somehow unsatisfied with my life. Such is the case usually. I don’t just get grumpy for no reason. Well, that’s a lie. I do. Constantly. But today it feels like there is a reason. Today it feels like something has happened to cause me to become disgruntled, to further my dissatisfaction with my current state of being. Perhaps it is the constant prompting I have to restart my computer after Windows Update executes. Perhaps it is the loneliness I feel as I sit, typing at my computer at 12:46 AM. The thought that everyone around me has somebody? The thought that everyone around me can define success, whereas I stand alone and confused? Nay, that’s self-pity. Self pity is useless when attempting to discern the cause of loneliness. Oftentimes I go to sleep wondering where I stand in the world. The friends I’ve made on the internet and in real life are hallmarks of where I am in my life. What can I do? How can I function? Where does my worth lie? I asked myself that as I went to work the next day. Toys. Always toys. That’s really all the business is about. My boss? A barrel of a woman, constantly obsessing over small details. She reminded me of a classic 1950s housewife, puttering about and dusting and wiping and inspecting every piece of grime like it was somehow a plague infesting her sacred halls. Her idea of business, her manifesto of moneying was hardly a strong argument for the needs that our business met. And I? On the bottom. A low rank, just like everywhere else in life. A “shirt�, as it were. Better than a vest, not quite as good as a tag. Nowhere near as good as a black. Everyone still sold the toys, though. Why not? There was nothing else to do. I went along with it. Children needed their machines of meaningless and unrealistic worlds where princesses were innocent and heroes were all brawny, serious, limber, intelligent men. Nobody played with balls anymore. I walked into the store. Red shirt. Ironed. Tag on. White, not blue. Blue was for the higher-ups. Had to remember that. Long pants. Belt. Pants couldn’t fall down, after all. Shoes? Yes. Today’s project, barked the dog. I’d need a ladder, and would you try to sell those protection plans? Grand. I would try to sell those protection plans. We sell insurance for toys now. Your toy breaks, we replace it. If you pay the money for the plan, that is. And only after the manufacturer’s warrantee expires. The king demanded it. Someone higher than the blacks? Yeah, that was about right. Some kind of super-black. I didn’t bother asking. I want to be paid for a job, not to dwell on office politics. First customer. An old woman. She asked for something, an effect of a pink nature, with flowers. Keys. Music, I asked? Yes. Music sounded about right. Of course it does. Music always sounds right unless it’s the bad kind. But she didn’t reply to that. Nobody ever does. Why am I telling you this? Turns out it’s not around. Time to ask a co-worker. Too bad, attempts to get their attention become futile stares at their nonchalant nature. They do less, yet get more done somehow. I squint. The computer? Indeed. Better than Windows Update at 12:46 AM. Punch a number, crunch a number, get a number. Get another number. A what, and a where. The woman provides the why, though around here Socratic method is underappreciated. Give the number. Give the other number. No, I think that’s too much, and if you have so many, then I’ll come back later for it. When the numbers are dropped, her mind screams. Rejection. Grand. Just Grand. I watch her stride away and pick through more of the same. She finds a smaller number and drops it herself. I give it a higher number on the chart. Willingly. It’s how I get my numbers. Eyes lower, never make contact with others. Shh. They’ll ask for you. A brave one asks next as ten more numbers pass. Some kind of device. He found it. He found it himself, but he doesn’t know where it is. He doesn’t have the number. All of the numbers start coming together after a while. Red shirt. Not the only red thing now. The charts begin to slant. My windows are falling down. I push them back up and close my doors, but there is no light in the room. It comes to me. I come to him. I lead him, follow the red shirt. He’s got another number, thankfully. It’s his now. The day continues as such. Numbers abound. The red shirt’s not all that’s red at the end. The hand is red, the face is red, and the doors are most certainly reddening. Everything else? Grey. Even the car is red. The insides are grey. The numbers read to be low, so I collect my numbers and get some more. Time to go see the old one. He’s happy I arrived, and my numbers all stop counting for a pair of hours as we recount. There’s food, fortunately. And film, and fortune. But eventually his fatigue proves fortuitous. Time for me to leave. The numbers continue to count. Such is the week. Awaken, and work. Count your numbers. You never have enough. What am I trying to say? I cannot account. |
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