Bedbugs XIV
Click here for an explanation of how Bedbugs is created.
Click here for last week's Bedbugs.
Onstage I was happy to say that "Millington" was petals that
came off envy, knowing any words I wrote on the beach
pay for it and get out! Mental vegetation encouraged
as all triumphant knowings, bristles painful to run
though challenge me and my forgotten friend like no other
world in the world. Spies rust over like everything else.
Sleeping nine hours a day, waking to find yours stuck in
the moment you said "Well, I've lost." Stacks of hundreds of
dreams are in the hallway. One day motivation will
get them collected. Building's mortar listed by thieves
waiting on all four corners of the box. My watch works
fine on every page...last smile you get today.
Next week's seven phrases/groups of words:
-Anthromorphic and ready to save
-wild night all in your head
-Friday alone
-all of them blur together
-she somehow finds humor in it
-only room for six of them in the truck
-I don't even know me
Click here for The Throes (Part 1)
“Where are the three shirts for a hundred and fifty-nine dollars?” Hans asked a tall, rather austere looking salesman wearing a Golden Fleece two-button suit. He measured Hans’ arm and neck, then walked him over to a huge wall of dress shirts.
“Our sale selections are just over here, sir. Would you be interested in a traditional fit, or a slim fit?”
Hans didn’t know. “Traditional.”
“English Spread collar, wing collar, tab collar, button-down collar, or plain collar?”
“Button-down please.” Hans hated how the wing collars turned upwards and downwards after several washes, stiffening like a dead penguin. Button-down held the collars in place. Hans liked that.
The salesman was pulling out a wide variety of shirts when a customer got his attention.
“I’m ready, Sir,” the customer said to the salesman.
“Excuse me, Sir,” the salesman said to Hans.
“No problem, go right ahead,” Hans replied as he searched out his size. He wasn’t at all particular, and he was far from a fashion expert. As long as the shirts were new, had that crisp feeling to them, and were his right size – that was about all that mattered to Hans.
Once Hans picked out twelve shirts, he was led to a wall of casual khaki pants. Hans told the salesman his size and that he was interested in no pleat pants. He tried on a navy blue pair and found them very comfortable. He placed five additional pairs of khaki’s at the register and was ready to make his purchase.
Hans walked out of Brooks Brothers with two heaping bags of new clothes. It was a good beginning to the new year. The Connecticut evening was unusually warm for January as he walked briskly to the Metro North train station at Stamford. Hans unbuttoned his wool overcoat and let the light wind blow through it.
It was then he remembered his cell phone. There was a message. It was from Doctor Lehman. As Hans listened to what the doctor said, he slowed his pace down. By the time the Doctor had finished, Hans had slowed down to a complete stop. His stare was vacant as he closed his phone. He wanted to cry, but couldn’t – instead the wind hit his eyes and welled them up for him. He shook his head and began walking again – slowly, but distracted. Why did I wait, he thought.
Early the next morning, as a matter of formality, Hans visited Doctor Lehman – confirming what he already knew. Then, he caught the 10:07 am train north. Sitting inside a closed conference room, Hans sat with his superiors and told them about his uncertain future:
“Take all the time you need Hans.”
“Thank you, Harry. I appreciate it.”
“And if we can be of any assistance to you, both emotionally and financially – don’t hesitate.”
“That means a lot.”
Hans got back on the train and headed south to Grand Central. He was hoping to get some shuteye on the trip back home, but it was impossible. Instead, he took his iPod out of his coat and listened to some of his favorite classical compositions. He decided that if he wanted to feel bad about himself, at least once, it was his right. He earned it. And as the strings soared mellifluously through his ears, he scrunched up his legs against the train seat and began to cry. It was a good cry. All fifty-five minutes of it.
The first shirt was far too big. He had begun to regret buying the traditional fit. After trying on the second, egg colored, shirt, and that too did not fit, he knew the rest of the shirts would be a washout. Should he return them? What would be the use of that, he thought to himself. He only wore button-down shirts at work. The khaki’s fit perfectly – he’d hold on to those.
After listening to several podcasts of lectures on Buddhism, on the futility of possessions and the necessity of simplicity, Hans had a hankering to throw his entire apartment away: all the books he never read, all the albums and the cds of those albums, his matchbook collection from restaurants he visited all over the world – all of them were small beans to him now.
The only desire he had at that moment, standing small in front of everything he owned, was to sit and meditate. Hans hadn’t sat in more than two years, having abandoned his faith for the internet long ago. So he sat for twenty minutes, hearing the rumbling in his stomach and the discursive thoughts running through his mind. I’m not ready, he thought. I’m not ready.
After a successful stoop sale, in which he sold off most of his music and all of his books, Hans grabbed his Brooks Brothers shirts and headed to the nearest Good Will center. The thought that someone less fortunate than he would enjoy his new, crisp Brooks Brothers shirts brought a smile to his face as he walked down towards 14th Street.
When he arrived at the building, he looked up – uncertain and a bit scared. He walked up two flights and knocked on the door. A man dressed in a monk’s garment addressed Hans and asked him inside. After being poured some tea, the two gentlemen walked into a small office and sat down. He didn’t know what to say at first. All he knew was that there were endless self help books on how to live one’s life to the fullest; countless books on how to make lots and lots of money, and make great gains in real estate, but there were few books that taught you how to die well. How does one die well? Dying is important, Hans thought as he looked across the table at the monk and smiled, the monks hands resting calmly in his lap. Dying, or the death of those we love is probably the most important thing we will ever have to face. How do we do it?
“How can I help you today?” The monk asked.
Having first been lost for words, Hans knew exactly what to ask.
This video blog will chart the progress Brian Hughes will be making to get his novel The Boxpress Manifesto published.
When he's not watching, with beads of sweat, his fellow, legally blind, senior citizens parallel park, Frank Palmcoast is catching seven dollar movies at the local multiplex from sunny Pompano Beach, Florida. He's retired, he's angry at the world, he can't spell to save his life, and he hates Hollywood almost as much as Hilary Clinton, but that will not stop our irreverent, dementia fightin', AARP card carrying everyman from giving us a fresh take on all things Hollyweird. Besides, how can he pass up that marvelous senior citizen discount?
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Why wouldn’t you want to ring in your new year now… with Teddie DiKiekens’ fourth Bonanza…. what a time now…
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