13.5 – A Story About You

You decide, instead, to go to the Moonlite All-Nite Diner, and have a slice of pie.  The wind is hot, like always, and smells like honey and mud. Night is your favorite time.  Daylight brings only a chain of visual sensations, none of which cohere into meaning for you anymore.  Life has become out of focus, free of consequence.  

As you drive, you turn off the headlights for a moment.  At that moment, you feel again, above you, not even far away now, that planet of awesome size, lit by no sun.  An invisible titan, all thick black forests and jagged mountains and deep, turbulent oceans.  You see nothing but the faint moonlight on your dashboard, but you know the planet is out there, yawning in the unseen spaces.

The moment passes.  You turn your headlights back on, and all you see is a road.  Just asphalt!  Just that.  And you pass a man waving semaphore flags, indicating that the speed limit for this stretch is forty-five.

The Moonlite All-Nite Diner is radiant green, a slab of mint light in the warm darkness.  You squint when you see it, like it hurts your eyes, but it does not hurt your eyes.  You park near the front door.  A man rolls by on the ground, his eyes bleary and sightless, whispering the word ‘mudwomb’ over and over.  But you don’t have the money to tip him, so you go inside.  You order a slice of strawberry pie, and the waitress indicates through words and movements that it will be brought to you presently.  The radio speaks soothingly to you from staticky speakers set into a foam-tile ceiling.  It is telling a story about you. Your story, at last.

Advertisements

13.6 – A Story About You

A man slides into the booth across from you. You recognize him vaguely, although he looks considerably different now. It is that man who appeared to be of Slavic origin, but who dressed in an absurd caricature of an Indian chief and called himself the Apache Tracker. Except now, it’s difficult for you to miss, he has actually transformed into a Native American. You wonder if the pie will get there soon. The Apache Tracker smells of potting soil and sweat. He leans across the table and touches your hand, lightly.

You do not pull the hand away, because you know that there will be no consequence for any of this.

“Вы в опасности.” (Vy v opasnosti. You are in danger.) he says. “Они идут.” (Oni idut. They are coming).

You nod. He taps the table. Then, bringing his thick eyebrows together and pursing his lips, he leans down and taps the ground. You nod again.

“I think my pie is here now,” you say unnecessarily, as the pie is quite visibly placed in front of you.

You did not order invisible pie. You hate invisible pie.

He looks at the pie for a long time, and then lets his breath hiss out slowly through his nose.

“Они придут снизу. Пироги не помогут.” (Oni pridut snizu. Pirogi ne pomogut. They are arriving from below. Pies will not help.) He leaves. What an asshole that guy is!

 

[Cyrillic & translations provided by anonymous Tumblr users and noaarmstro, with help from annachibi.]

13.7 – A Story About You

You finish the pie and ask for the check. “Check pleasssse,” you say, whispering it into your drinking glass as is custom, and then lifting the tray of sugar packets to find it, filled out and ready to be paid. You drop a few dollars onto the check, place it back under the sugars, wait for the sound of swallowing, and leave the diner. The waitress nods as you leave, but not at you. She nods slowly and rhythmically to music only she can hear, her eyes riding the curved line of neon lights above the menu.

As you start the car, the man on the radio says something about the weather.

[“You Don’t Know” by Mount Moon. For more music by Mount Moon, check out mountmoon.bandcamp.com.]

13.8 – A Story About You

The crate is in your kitchen where you left it, and you get down on your knees to embrace it more fully. It has grown warmer, even hot. It still is not ticking. It had taken you no time to get back home. Now that you think about it, were there any other cars on the road? Where did all the cars go? The man with the semaphore flags explaining the speed limit – he wasn’t there either. Your heart pounds.

Without allowing another stray thought to wander through your mind and delay you, you grab the crate and throw it in your trunk. You turn the ignition, and your car radio comes alive with a pop, just as the announcer says that your car radio comes alive with a pop.

Where to now? You don’t know, but you go there anyway. A pair of headlights, a pair of eyes, and two shaky hands, speeding through the silent town. Behind you, you see helicopter searchlights sweeping down onto your trailer. There are sirens. A purplish cloud hangs over the town, glittering occasionally as it rotates. The whole works.

You drive past the Moonlite All-Nite, still aglow and full of people eating what sounds good only late at night, and Teddy Williams’ Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex, which has taken to not only locking but barricading its doors at closing time. You pass by City Hall, which, as always, is completely shrouded after dark in black velvet.

Moving farther out, following the pull of the distant, uncertain moon, you pass by the car lot, where the salesmen have been put away for the night, and Old Woman Josie’s house, where the only sign that the unassuming little home could be a place of residence for angels is the bright halo of heavenly light surrounding it, and the sign out front that says “Angels’ Residence”. And the town is behind you, and you are out in the scrub lands, and the sand wastes. By the road you see a man, holding a cactus in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other. He shakes both at you as you pass, and howls.