Schoolwork: Derrida and Mr. Owl

Salvatore Brown

Junior English Theory

Final Essay

Prompt #2- Derrida and Mr. Owl

Arnold Lobel's "Owl" in the book “Owl at Home” fails in the same way Derrida describes Freud, Nietzsche, and Heidegger failing in “Structure, Sign, and Play”: by positing a new centered system to replace an old, de-centered one. After much exhaustive experimentation with the two-floor system of his home, Owl chooses to sit conclusively in the middle of the stairs because he's not content with taking on the role of the 'bricoleur' and simply experiencing separate floors of his house system individually. Like the metaphysical philosophers, Owl cannot cope with being without the comfort of a center in his system-- he too strongly desires “totalization,” a typically human need to exist within a system that can explain everything through a relation to a centralizing entity or idea. The analogy is as follows: Owl's entire house is his representative “system,” and the “upstairs” and “downstairs” are the different, arbitrary elements of the system. The “play” is Owl's movement in the house and sampling of the different floors. He has the potential to be a bricoleur, and starts to do so as he transitions between the floors, but eventually he cannot come to terms with the absence of a center and must create a false one for himself in the middle of the stairs.

Through the following analogy and Derridian analysis, we’ll see how Owl’s actions in Lobel's "Upstairs, Downstairs" exemplify the fruitless search for a 'transcendental signified' in all systems, a tendency characteristic of the metaphysical philosophers Derrida mentions. We’ll then go further and demonstrate how Owl’s eventual choice of response to the de-centering/deconstruction of his system is furthermore detrimental, useless, and impractical. This explication of the dangerous effects of Owl’s new centered system will hopefully shed light upon the possibility for the same dangers to threaten philosophers and others who adopt such an approach to the deconstruction of systems in the real world.

To prove Owl’s inclusion into the group of metaphysical philosophers whom Derrida criticizes, we’ll begin by detailing the analogy between Lobel and Derrida that we are going to work with. The analogical “structure” or “system” in question in Lobel’s story is Owl’s house. It is the structure with which Owl experiences the Derridian dilemma of coming to terms with the reality of a decentralized system. This house structure is comprised of two opposing elements which constitute a binary pair locked in “binary opposition.” A binary opposition for Derrida and Levi-Strauss was a pair of conflicting ideas that only achieve meaning through comparison or relation with one another. Each element or “floor” of Owl’s house entails a different experience for Owl, experiences which he signifies as “upstairs” and downstairs.” These opposing experiences can be recognized as forming a Derridian binary opposition because they effectively define each other only through Owl’s experiences of their individuality and relation. When Owl is upstairs, he recognizes that he is not downstairs. The experience of “downstairs” is therefore defined by its direct opposition to “upstairs”—Owl acknowledges upstairs by the fact that it is not downstairs, and vice versa. This realization of the individuality of the two elements of the house’s binary pair is in turn based upon Owl’s experience of the reality of absence and presence.

When Owl is downstairs he realizes that he is absent upstairs, so he hurries up the stairs in an attempt to do away with that absence. But this action only creates another absence where he was downstairs only moments before. He recognizes this new absence, and begins the cycle again to fill the new absence, frantically refilling a sequence of vacuums that he himself is perpetuating. According to Derrida, the disruption of “presence” constitutes play, or the movement of elements within a system. Thusly, because the disruption of “presence” is absence, absence must logically constitute “play.” So Owl’s movement between the binary elements “downstairs” and “upstairs” hinges on this idea of absence, as we’ve already seen in the way he defines the two conflicting elements in the binary pair (upstairs is defined as “not-downstairs”). But something is limiting this play in Owl’s system. He cannot achieve that which he desires, which is to be upstairs and downstairs simultaneously. This limiting factor will be the most important part of our Derrida/Owl analogy: it is the center of Owl’s house structure.

Despite its importance to the analogy, the exact center of Owl’s system is debatable and its specific designation necessarily irrelevant to our greater understanding of his experience as a Derridian analogy. Owl himself could be the center, or the entire house could very well be the center. The exact distinction does not matter, as long as we understand that the “freeplay” in Owl’s system is being limited by its tethers to a central focus. Owl cannot achieve his goal of simultaneous experience of the upstairs and downstairs elements of his system because the center will not physically allow it. If the center is Owl, then he acts as the limiting force because he is unable to exist in two places at once. If the house is the center, then it too can function as the limiting force by virtue of its disjointed form—it has disparate elements which simply cannot be experienced simultaneously. Either way, the center of Owl’s system remains of paramount importance as the element of Owl’s house system that dictates his frustrating, limited experience of “freeplay”-- or absence and presence-- in his system. This center of Owl’s small universe will also prove most important in our discussion of Owl’s story as a foil for Derrida’s “metaphysical philosophers” because it will eventually prove insufficient for Owl and be abandoned and replaced by a new, even more limiting center—in the exact same pattern of centered-structure substitution Derrida so laments in the progression of philosophy, and which he condemns the metaphysical philosophers for perpetuating. 

Now that we’ve envisioned a comprehensive Derridian analogical portrait of Owl and his house, we can now begin to analyze the progression of Owl’s actions and his eventual, conclusive decision from a Derridian point of view. As aforementioned, while traversing the staircase Owl begins to understand (through experimentation) the nature of the binary pair (upstairs and downstairs) in his system. From a Derridian perspective, this transformative realization of the limits of play within his system instigates the major development in Owl’s story: when he finally realizes that he simply cannot be both upstairs and downstairs at the same time. This realization fits neatly into our Derrida/Owl analogy as one of Derrida’s “scandals,” or a rupturing of a system caused by an element or rule of the system that exists in both polarities of the system’s binary opposition. For Owl, the rupture is caused by the rule of presence and absence he discovers which acts in exactly the same manner upstairs as it does downstairs, and blocks him from experiencing both floors simultaneously.

Owl’s realization of the “scandal” effectively deconstructs his system; it is a deconstruction that evolved out Owl’s experimentation within the false parameters of his flawed, centered system. By moving within his theoretical system, Owl has discovered the failure of that system and its limiting effects on his “freeplay” within it.

But Owl, like Derrida’s metaphysical philosophers, desires totalization so strongly that he refuses to accept a de-centered system. He feels the need to have a system of belief that explains everything through relation to a center, and he will not be content with anything else. Below we’ll investigate two typical routes which Derrida describes as following such a de-centering, structure-dismantling “scandal.” We’ll see how Owl, just like the metaphysical philosophers Derrida criticizes, will choose a variation of the latter route.

The first option Derrida sees as possibly following a scandal is “bricolage”, or a continuation of experience with a system that one knows is inherently flawed and has been deconstructed and de-centered. A “bricoleur” uses disparate elements of deconstructed systems to his or her advantage, while understanding that the systems the elements belong to are de-centered. Owl did attempt some form of bricolage in his original experimentation, sampling separately the disparate elements of his de-centered system as he ran back and forth from upstairs to downstairs. But his final decision discounts that brief bricolage.

            The second option which Derrida describes is the one most like Owl’s choice, and the one which Derrida says the metaphysical philosophers and theorists Freud, Heidegger and Nietzsche choose. This option entails substituting the old centered system with a new centered system. Derrida sees the progression of the history of philosophy as following such a pattern. Owl chooses to sit in the middle of his stairs, creating an impermanent, physical “center” between the two elements of his system’s binary pair. This new center in the middle of the stairs provides a false sense of accomplishment that Owl has finally been able to exist simultaneously upstairs and downstairs (at least technically).

However, Owl’s choice is dangerously more restrictive than his original system—a fact which certainly does not bode well for his analogical counterparts, the metaphysical philosophers. Owl’s willingness to devise an extravagant and ridiculous new centered system in order to stretch his universe so that it may still retain some semblance of totalization is not only unnecessary, but it is completely immobilizing, fragile, and impractical. To achieve his goal of simultaneous existence in both ends of his binary pair, Owl has restricted himself to a static position in the middle of the stairs. If he moves but one step, his new system will instantly shatter. This new system frighteningly binds Owl to only one mode of immobile experience in between the two floors. If the new, centered system Owl has devised for himself is so completely immobilizing and limits his freeplay and movement in the real world to a minute fraction of what it was in his original system, what does this say about the dangers of this center-substituting cycle when it translates back through our analogy into the realm of humanity and philosophy? It need not even be mentioned that the Owl analogy makes a bold statement against the trend of metaphysical philosophy and the post-deconstruction choice to supplant new centered systems as described by Derrida.

Works Cited

Derrida, Jacques. "Structure, Sign, and Play in the Discourse of the Human Sciences." Lecture. Writing and Difference. Chicago: University of Chicago, 1978. 247-72. Print.

Lobel, Arnold. "Upstairs and Downstairs." Owl at Home. HarperCollins, 2007. 41-49. Print.

Article: Valentine's Day Dinner

“Momof**kyou, or Happy Valentine’s Day from David Chang”
Valentine’s Dinner at New York’s ‘Coolest’ Restaurant

by Salvatore Brown

(The Revision)

    We dressed and readied ourselves separately, deciding to meet at her place first and then take the subway to 163 1st avenue at 10th street in the East Village. I marched, on my mission, from the train to the steps of her apartment, sweating in the nicest of my clothes and milling over in my brain the upcoming events of the evening. We met on her steps. She was thrilled, and looked beautiful in that white sequin dress I like so much.

“Happy Valentine’s Day”

“Happy Valentine’s Day”

    “Ready to go?”

“Yeah”

    We held hands all the way to the subway. That was good. The 6 train was a straight shot down to Astor Place, from where we’d be able to enjoy a short, leisurely walk to 1st and 10th. That too, was good. The subway ride passed quietly: we sat close but didn’t laugh and bullshit the whole way as we used to do.

    I continued to sweat. I had worn a tie and buttoned the top button, which I never do because it’s so damn uncomfortable. It makes me feel like I’m asphyxiating. I thought she appreciated the tie, though. I hoped so.

    We held hands again on the walk from Astor Place to 163 1st ave. More hand-holding and less laughing: that was… I wasn’t sure. If things were over between us, they could at least go out with a bang. I had paid $250 up front for the two of us on a debit card; that should have counted for something. I was unsure. But I had some faith in my ability to accomplish my mission. I was hungry too. Not $125 worth of hungry, but hungry nonetheless.

    See Valentine’s Day had to be really, really good. Because with a laundry list of romantic mishaps under my belt, I couldn’t afford to botch yet another important event. On her birthday scores of her friends and family flew in from across an ocean, and I blacked out drinking-- not vomiting, obnoxious blackout, but an out-with-the-guys, act-like-a-fool kind of gag. And I had performed a truly stunning array of other assorted relationship no-no’s, of which the birthday incident was thankfully the worst.

    I thought that my Valentine’s Day plans were foolproof. I was intent on redemption. In the week before the date I had approached my mission like it was stealing the Mona Lisa: every extra moment I could spare was dedicated to meticulously researching the newest and most interesting restaurants, and when I found one I promised myself that I would get a reservation for Valentine’s Day if I had to kill for it.

    The restaurant I chose didn’t exactly make it easy.  “Momofuku Ko,” a new restaurant in the East Village, Zagat’s “best newcomer” in 2009, the magnum opus of infamously radical New York super-chef David Chang, was our Valentine’s Day destination. I was really aiming high with this place—it was way too cool for me, or at least that’s what everything about it told me.

    In keeping with Momofuku Ko’s aura of aggressive exclusivity and carefully calculated mystique, the reservation system was a real pain in the ass. At exactly 10:01 AM on Monday, February 8th, I was staring forlornly at a weekly calendar covered in angry red x marks. There were no seats left. I was pulling out my hair. The lottery-like reservation system had opened a mere 60 seconds ago, and I was already too late. Momofuku Ko only offers reservations on its own website, on a first-come-first-served basis. The process amounts to a frenzied competition of will and dexterity: each morning at 10:00 seats become available only for the date six days following, and the race ensues. Once you create a Momofuku reservation account the week’s calendar is laid out before you, with time slots marked with a red “x” for filled and a green check mark for available. By 10:01, my hundreds of faceless internet opponents had already crowded me out of relationship redemption. But then I logged back into the system, sighing, and was miraculously graced with one green check mark on Feb. 14th, at 9:20PM. I clicked, then rushed to fill the lengthy online reservation form.

    Momofuku’s owner and brainchild, David Chang, opened his first restaurant in the East Village in 2003. This first was “Momofuku Noodle Bar,” followed by a “Bakery & Milk Bar” where patrons come for Chang’s acclaimed “pork buns” and baked treats. Some favorites are: “crack pie” (crack because it’s so good, apparently), and the “compost cookie,” made with butterscotch chips, chocolate chips, pretzels, and potato chips-- Chang is known for his unique and innovative combinations of atypical ingredients. His popularity is so widespread that it warranted a Charlie Rose interview. Charlie says the restaurateur has “taken the food world by surprise and applause has followed. He’s already won two James Beard Awards--the Oscars of cuisine--and both ‘Bon Appetit’ and ‘GQ’ magazine named him ‘chef of the year’ in 2007.”

    Momofuku Ko is the most recent, hip, and frustrating addition to Chang’s empire. It spearheads a new generation of culinary hipster pomp. The website is as ardently understated as the restaurant: “we try and serve delicious American food,” it says. Ko’s food is more accurately a global synthesis with a special focus on Asian and French, especially in preparation. The menu is a fixed-price, 10-course experiment in taste-bud molestation.

    Despite our doubts, the man behind Momofuku Ko and the restaurant’s governing ideas fascinated my girlfriend and me (things were going well-- she was excited, I was out of trouble). In his Charlie Rose interview, Chang stressed how he wants to make fine cuisine more accessible to everyone. In opposition to the forced flash of his new masterwork, we couldn’t help but notice the slightest strain of noble intention peeking through the restaurant’s polished veneer of cool. The reservation system, albeit endlessly aggravating, could potentially be an effective tool for evening the playing field in a foodie frenzy where getting to the best food often means having special connections or just having lots of money. Granted, Momofuku Ko is not cheap, but the unique online reservation system assures that if one can scrape together the funds for a special occasion, and has patience and a quick draw on the mouse, he or she can eventually secure one of Ko’s only twelve coveted seats. And so as the two of us bonded thankfully in the few days before Valentine’s Day over our growing interest in Chang’s aims, the question arose: was Momofuku Ko’s secrecy shtick just another smirking wheeze of hot air, or the only way to protect a good thing and keep it available to the normal, good-food-loving public?

     And so, we went. We were still holding hands, and still not laughing, but there we were in front of the unassuming entryway to eat the chicest food we’d ever have. The door opened into a small, spartan space with 12 backless wooden stools facing one long counter behind which a few chefs in backwards baseball caps busily cooked for the hour’s lucky 12. The wait-staff were kind if not a little tacit, which I expected. The other patrons, that supposedly “casual” crowd, weren’t so casual, which I also expected. The woman sitting next to us had on the biggest diamond ring I’ve ever seen—so much for equal opportunity eating. “Good thing I wore the tie,” I thought to myself, even if it was slowly choking me to death. The chefs were cold and the atmosphere of the open kitchen somewhat stressful—I was starting to see my mission slide mockingly from my clammy hands.

    The chefs worked mechanically and rapidly, only speaking to patrons when reciting the extravagant descriptions of each new plate they prepared. The chef closest to us was a New Yorker named Andy who had wide, unblinking cocaine eyes and a backwards baseball cap. He seemed to take his job very seriously, and moved throughout the open kitchen like a maniacal robot. “You guys seem pretty intense,” I asked. Looking up only briefly he responded “It doesn’t feel intense,” and then conceded, “We’re all working to ‘turn over’ the restaurant.”

              I pressed on, determined: “How’d you get this job, did you audition?”

He said his interview had been to cook in front of David Chang, a mere three months ago.

              “Did you go to cooking school?”

              “I’ve been working in restaurants since I was 16, somewhere along the way I guess I just figured it out,” he quipped.

              The soundtrack playing throughout the night came from an iPod in the corner of the room full of Beach Boys, Dylan, and Beatles tunes. “Who chooses the music, everybody?” I asked.

              “David Chang,” said Andy—he continued to use Chang’s full name throughout the night in the little I got out of him. I asked him about the menu:

              “We change it every three months.”

              “Do you all collaborate on it, like in a sort of think tank?”

              “No, we just work.”

    But luckily for me, the food was fantastic. That night Andy presented to us, among many other strange and delicious dishes, “crispy chicken skin and Italian black truffles atop pasta with snail sausage.” The strangest, by far, was a foie gras shaved over lychees. Using a cheese grater, Andy shaved the pink block of duck liver over those lychees with reckless abandon-- but only after deftly wiping down the plates with a tasteless combination disinfectant/stain-remover. The presentation was immaculate. The portions were so small yet so full of flavor that I questioned my previously unswerving loyalty to my grandmother’s massive bowls of pasta.

     I went to the small bathroom periodically, nervously adjusting my tie. It was adorned with a bookshelf showcasing culinary classics and ultra-specific cooking guides, from a whole tome on “Polish Sausages,” to “LaRousse Gastronomique” and “Grand Livre de Cuisine.”

      We started to feel like our incessant questioning was unwelcome. Maybe we were being too forward: the other chefs seemed to be looking at us strangely. Had we drunk too much wine? Did they think we were reporters, agents of infiltration, usurpers of cool? Were we just too friendly?

       We paid the bill, grimacing, and left under the watchful eyes of David Chang’s protégés. We had eaten incredibly well, and my girlfriend was getting defensive of me over Andy’s laconic and derisive treatment of my questioning. That was definitely a good sign. The first thing she said as we left was: “that would be a good place to walk into with a bomb.” But we had connected with one another underneath Ko‘s scrupulous gaze. And we had had a few moments to touch glasses and laugh together; my Valentine’s dinner had, in the way it needed to, accomplished its aim.

       Sadly the answer to our question is not, at least right now, as simple as David Chang might hope. Our Valentine’s Day dinner at Momofuku Ko cultivated mixed feelings. The place felt more formal and insular than the classiest of upper-east-side restaurants we’ve blown all our spending money on in the past. We felt less welcome in Momofuku Ko than we had in any other establishments with actual dress codes and much longer histories of culinary accolades. Perhaps in his other restaurants Chang’s haute-cuisine-for-the-people mantra might be less convoluted by the realities of fine dining in New York City. Because the lengths Chang has had to go to in order to let (almost) anyone into Momofuku Ko, and the nature of exclusivity especially in a place like the East Village, seem to be working together against him, damning what he’s said to be his original purpose. The staff radiated an unsheathed, hostile sense of entitlement that, even when coupled with a surprising and fantastic menu, was not palatable. Whether or not David Chang suffers from the same phenomenon is simply irrelevant.

Fiction: "Fantasm Fatale"

“Fantasm Fatale”

(a very short play) 

Setting:

Begins inside of a police station, expands to the large surrounding city. The atmosphere shifts between a pulpy fantasy world and normal everyday occurrence. In Carpenter’s fantasy world, the city is a decaying metropolis full of pimps, hookers, thugs and romanticized disarray. This setting and the characters he imagines to be disreputable are mirrored in the real world in mundane ways. Carpenter’s raspy “noir voice” narration signals the onset of the fantasized setting. When reality interjects and Carpenter’s voice switches back to normal the setting changes back to one of stability and exaggerated dullness.

Characters:

Rex Carpenter-            a timid, bumbling 32 year old detective who fantasizes about living in a noir-inspired world while going about his uneventful daily life.

Chief Palombo-            an overweight, bombastic and crass middle-aged man (52 years old) who takes his job very seriously.

Jack McClusky-          a 36 year old failed conman with a big mouth and a frantic, neurotic demeanor (a smooth criminal mastermind in noir world)

Ted-                            a balding, overweight carnival employee/owner who wears a stained tanktop. He is impatient and loud.

Donna-                        a bubble-gum-chewing, obnoxious “floosy” (a swanky femme fatale in noir world)

The Bum-                    unexplained apparition who speaks once-- in a monologue in Scene 7

Opening (Scene 1):

                                    Rex Carpenter sits in his office in (almost) darkness smoking a cigarette with his feet crossed atop his desk, and a fedora pulled down over his eyes. A rainstorm can be heard from outside of his one window, and simulated thunder and lightning effects go off repeatedly and unrealistically.

Rex (in noir voice): What am I doing here? The hell if I know. Most days I feel like a ghost. A ghost who shoots criminals and beds beautiful women. A ghost who’s inches away from quitting this damn dirty job, turning in his badge and moving somewhere sunny. It ain’t easy being the angel of death, cleaning these streets of slime and scum day in and day out with no one but your smoking holster to keep you company. I’m one man. Only one man. One very dangerous, delicious m…

                                    Chief Palombo storms into Carpenter’s office, and the scene changes back to reality. The thunderstorm sounds halt abruptly as Carpenter, surprised by the Chief’s entrance, fumbles with his hat which has fallen off of his head.

Chief: Carpenter! What the hell are you doing in here, jerking off? I thought I told you to look at the McClusky Files. What exactly does this job mean to you, Carpenter? Are you trying to get fired? Do some work!

Rex (in normal voice): Yeah Chief you see I looked at them McClusky files and…and the whole thing seems fine to me. I mean so the guy tried to hold up a… a few stands at some carnival. He didn’t shoot nobody. They say he was wielding a cap gun.

                                    The Chief looks at Carpenter for a few moments and then turns to leave, speaking behind his shoulder as he leaves the office.

Chief: Well I still want you to go down there to that carnival, or circus, or whatever it is. And today, Carpenter.

Rex: Hey Chief, you ever read any Walt Whitman?

Chief: I don’t see how that has anything at all to do with what we’re talking about, kid. But no, I haven’t, because the man was a fairy. Regardless, shut up and do your job— go investigate the McKlusky case.

                                    Rex looks anxious and fearful about the prospect.

Rex (in noir voice): What does this job mean to me? It means nothing—nothing… and everything. A part of me says it only goes as far as a hot meal every night and paying the rent check. But another part says that I have to do it… that I’m the only man who can bring some solace to this stinking, sordid city. And so the hunt begins again with this McClusky cad. Mad Jack McClusky. McClusky the sinister scourge of the south side. McClusky the Butcher. They say he’s seven feet tall, and an ex green beret. He reportedly raped, slaughtered and consumed an entire busload of elementary school children-- a shady character. An evil that must be stopped, a stain that needs rubbing out. Tomorrow I’ll bring a brighter day to this dark, dark town. Tomorrow…

                                    End Scene

Scene 2:

                                    A windy day, downtown. Rex clutches a briefcase brimming with manila folders in one arm, holding his hat to his head with the other. Folders fly out of the briefcase, which he scrambles to pick up. He moves quickly as if late. He arrives panting at the tall gates of a large and dilapidated circus/carnival.

                                    Rex stops in front of a lone carnival stand strewn with police tape, nervous and fidgeting at first, until the light darkens. Noir entrance begins, he lights a cigarette and stares boldly into the dark doorway.

Ted (bursting from the door): Where the hell have you been?!

Back in realty: Rex drops his cigarette-- coughing, he grabs for it and burns himself

And I thought they were sending a team of investigators—You sure you’re a cop? How old are you? Where’s your piece?

Rex (in normal voice, getting out a notepad): Sir, if you c..could just describe for me now, what the perpetrator looked like: any unusual physical features, a tattoo, scar, maybe some gold teeth? Was he a large man? Muscular? Dangerous-looking or more the friendly, misguided type?

Ted: He looked like a crook, kid. How am I supposed to remember? The little shit ran off as soon he had the money in his hands.

Rex (writing on his notepad): So he was a rather small man, got that.

                                    The two walk inside the store, out of sight but still audible, improvising investigative jargon in character.

                                    Slowly and carefully Jack enters the scene and surveys the outside of the store. He looks at the audience and then enters the store quietly.

                                    Next two lines unseen by the audience, but heard:

Ted: That’s the guy!

Rex (normal voice, in a frightened yelp): Oh god!

                                    Jack pops out of the doors into sight, running off stage

                                    A few seconds later, Rex peeks sheepishly outside, and then is pushed by Ted into full view

Ted: well go after him!

Rex (normal voice, shakily): Yeah, after him. Yes sir, follow him down a dark alley, alright, yes sir.

                                    Rex takes one cautious step in Jack’s direction and the stage goes black

                                    End Scene

Scene 3:

                                    In noir world. Rex, now in trenchcoat and without his briefcase, walks cautiously down a dark alley, his gun drawn and pointed ahead of him

                                    An unseen trash can lid falls to the ground with a clang. Rex reacts coolly, heading towards the noise, and cocks his gun

                                    A faceless voice (noir Jack) echoes across the stage

                                    (whole scene is in noir voices and setting)

Jack: Rex Carpenter, I presume?

Rex: What’s it to you?

Jack: Everything. Everything, and nothing.

Rex: I’m taking you in, Mad Jack. Any attempt at resistance on your part could be fatal.

Jack: I know about you, Carpenter. You’re a good cop—clever, relentless, you always get your man, don’t you?

Rex: And you’re my man, Jack.

Jack: You seem to have a deep well of confidence in the integrity of your work, Detective.

Rex: Any confidence I have is in my trigger finger.

Jack: Perhaps you should have a talk with your chief. I think he has something he needs to tell you—a problem that can’t be solved with your trusty trigger finger.

Rex: What the hell are you talking about? Mind you, mind games don’t work on me, Jack.

Jack: I’m talking about lies, Mr. Carpenter-- big, fat, stinking lies. You need to examine exactly where you put your trust. And once you’ve done that, you need to come talk to me. I’m on your side, detective, remember that.

Rex: Is that what you told those schoolchildren?

Jack (more excitable now): It’s all lies! They say I’m the bad guy, and they’re the good guys. Right! Take a look for yourself. you’ll see… you’ll see.

                                    Jack’s voice fades out and Rex is left alone

Rex: Jack? … Jack…

                                    (looking at the audience)

Rex: The plot thickens…

                                    End Scene

Scene 4:

                                    Back to reality, in Jack’s apartment with his girlfriend Donna

Jack: I really did a number on this guy, Donna.

Donna: Tell me what you did baby!

Jack (smugly): This guy was a real shmuck, a softie—a low level detective, real bottom of the barrel paper-pusher. The kind of guy everybody shits on. He’s itchin for some action, but he wouldn’t know real action if it hit him in the peanuts. See I saw all that, and knew we could use him. I spun him some bullshit story about his superiors being corrupt and screwin’ him around. I really think I got him on our side, baby. I think we could get him to do a job for us, get us rich then take the fall. What d’you think? Then we could get a place in Florida like you always wanted. I’m tellin ya baby we really struck gold with this schmuck.

Donna: Sunshine all day in the Sunshine State, baby. All good, all the time. That’s where we need to be.

Jack: We will be if things go as planned.

Donna: This one isn’t just like the others?

Rex: No baby, this is fool-proof : a sure thing.

Donna: What can I do Jack, let me do something!

Jack: I’m sure we can think of something…

                                    End Scene

Scene 5:

Only half of the stage is lit—the part contained in Rex’s small office. Lighting there is dark, and noir rain beats on the window—otherwise the scene is deathly quiet.

Rex (noir voice): Mad Jack hath planted a foul seed smack in the middle of my world. His story’s hard to crack, it lines up in all the right places—gives heat to small doubts I’d otherwise ignore. If it’s all true, then this city’s a hell of a lot worse off than I could have ever imagined. Bad in the good, good in the bad— Where the hell is an honest cop supposed to start?

Chief Palombo (screaming from the darkness on the other half of the stage): CAAARRRPPPEEENNNTTTEEERRR!!!

Rex (normal voice): Coming sir, r..right away sir!

Rex gathers a bundle of files clumsily in his arms. With difficulty he manages to free one hand, turn the doorknob, and ease himself through the door. The second he opens the door, bright lights illuminate the other half of the stage as it comes to life—it is the main working space of the police station, full of desks and people.

A background hum of loud, repetitive office noise also begins with the opening of the door (copying, typing, faxing, ringing phones, people talking…etc.). Each person Rex passes by fixes him with a condescending/disapproving stare that lasts until he passes from their field of vision.

Rex passes by them all, nervously looking around and nodding obsequiously to some. He reaches the end of stage left where the Chief’s “door” is (the door leads offstage). Palombo screams again…

Chief: CAAARRRPPPEEENNNTTTEEERRR!!!

and Rex jumps to enter the door. As he does, he moves from view of the audience into “the chief’s office,” (offstage) while the crowded office area stays lit but all the office background noises stop. All that can be heard is the Chief’s angry yells:

Chief (furiously, with a hint of malice): I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you this, Rex Carpenter, although by now someone sure as shit should have, but you are a colossal waste of humanity. You can’t do a single goddamn thing right. I truly don’t think I’ve ever seen you do anything remotely well here. You’re the worst cop I’ve ever had the displeasure of knowing.

Some of the police in the main, lit office area start to motion and discuss (silently on stage) the Chief screaming at Rex. Miming, the policemen laugh and banter, while one moves to the Chief’s door to listen in

If your father hadn’t been who he was there’d a been no way in hell you’d a ever gotten a job like this. He was the best cop this city ever had. And you… you sit around in your office all day and daydream. You’re a goddamn disgrace to the memory of your father. You might as well be pissing on his grave. He… was a winner, and you…you are a loser. And, uh… you’re fired… so… pack your things.

The door swings open and the office background noises start again, but this time they’re even louder. Rex, panting and flustered, with the bundle of files still in one arm, hangs for a moment in the doorway staring stage right through the large lit work room towards his own office. He begins stumbling through the crowd in a daze, dropping all of his files along the way. The office background noises grow louder and more menacing, as policemen at their desks laugh and point at him on his way to his office.

Once he reaches his office, he slams the door shut, the office noises and lights go off, leaving only Rex’s small office illuminated slightly on the stage, like in the beginning of the scene. He stands in his office with his hands on his desk, head down, shoulders sagging, panting and shaking. He cries audibly.

                                    As he cries, a recorded narration of his noir voice plays--

Rex (noir voice narration): Huh. (ßa chuckle) Looks like the Chief’s still gaining weight. And what a slimy, shady porker he is. That miserable, pompous piglet has wrapped himself in a blanket of corruption. A veritable corn dog of evil. He must be dealt with.

                                    (he’s starting to sound more crazed)

They all must be dealt with. And soon. Yeah they’re laughing now… but not for long. Mad Jack was right. Must go talk to him—but in the morning. I need to sleep soon, right after I pack up my things and leave this dark den of iniquity for the last time…

                                    (a pause for exaggerated emphasis)

Justice rides alone in the morning.

Throughout the narration Rex has stayed in his standing slouch position, whimpering the whole time. He does the same for 2-3 seconds after the narration ends, before the stage goes black

                                    End Scene

Scene 6:

                                    The following scene, acoustically, only includes Rex’s noir narration and wind effects. The action on stage takes place in the real world (in constant and obvious opposition to Rex’s narration)

                                    The setting is at the corner of a tall brick building in the city.

Rex (noir narration): I first met her on a windy day outside the Rococo. She was Jack’s girl—“Donna” she said. We were there to talk about Chief Palombo’s nefarious scheme, but all I could do was stare at her. She had on a red dress and high heels, and I couldn’t help but sense some kind of far away sadness in those big brown eyes of hers.

                                    Simultaneous with Above Narration--Donna and Rex walk onstage heading towards each other, equidistant from the corner of the brick building. Donna is dressed in short jean shorts, a tank top and a ponytail. She walks like a little girl and is chewing gum exaggeratedly. Rex has messy hair and a fully buttoned short-sleeved dress shirt, nondescript pants. They meet at the corner and Rex nervously stretches out his hand to a bemused Donna

Rex (noir narration): Her voice was husky, smoky even… like a lounge singer’s. It was through that angelic euphony that the Chief’s wretched plot was revealed to me in its terrible entirety. Yeah, the dame’s song certainly softened the blow-- But not enough. This was some deep shit we were getting into. She was talkin’ about the mob, about police pay-offs and drug money, about government ties and international crime. About attacking corruption from the one place it didn’t expect: the criminal world, a world of shadows and intrigue. It was looking like it was just us—She and I, and Jack, against the whole damn world. Noble outcasts—bad guys on the good side.

                                    Simultaneous with Above Narration-Rex holds his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth. Donna twirls a finger in her hair, blows bubbles, and appears to be (casually yet excitedly) relaying some sort of message to Rex. The two actors pantomime an awkward conversation as the narration continues.

Rex: The plan was simple. We were to do it together. Simple, yet brilliant. A three-pronged invasion on those police scum. If all went as planned, it would send the lid flying off of the whole stinking thing--Palombo would be finished in this town. Yet all throughout my meeting with the lovely Donna I couldn’t get over that sadness I saw in her eyes. It was like watching a beautiful songbird with a clipped wing. The sadness kept dogging me, so I had to ask.

                                    Donna (in reality) slaps Rex across the face. He recoils and looks hurt.

Rex: It must be Jack. The man’s a fine schemer, and a much better guy than they made him out to be. Slaughtering a busload of schoolchildren—completely ridiculous. But something wasn’t right between he and his woman. Was he hurting her?

                                    Donna gets up huffily and stamps offstage. Rex is left alone.

Rex: I noticed an ugly shiner underneath her left eye. The bastard. If the three of us are going in on this together, then we have to set some things straight first. I have to speak to Jack. Even now as a rogue agent, I retain some honor. “I harbor to speak for good or bad, I permit myself to speak at every hazard”. Walt Whitman. (a long pause and  longer sigh…)                Shit is hitting the fan.

                                    End Scene

Scene 7:

The stage is bare, one long-bearded bum wheels a shopping cart full of plastic bags and trash across the stage from right to left slowly, and delivers a monologue that encompasses the entire scene

                                    The bum speaks slowly, in rhythm with the slight swaying motion of his cart as he traverses the stage—evocative of an American slave spiritual or a singer on a chain gang

Bum: Poor, poor Mr. Carpenter. His shit did hit the proverbial fan. He lost the case. He lost the touch he never had. He lost the girl, who was never really his to lose. She wasn’t such a gem, anyway. Jack and her* met on a corner. He paid her twenty dollars. And then they held up the circus, and then found a patsy to get them to the sunshine state and take the fall for ‘em. They got there, and with a little spending money left over. Circus to sunshine. Poor, poor Mr. Carpenter. He lost the case, he lost the touch he never had. Jail’s a tough place for a man with such an active imagination, whose Daddy gave him wings, wings that weren’t very long. Real danger is awfully hard to swallow when you’re used to the sugary kind. Or maybe jail is the perfect place. No sunshine to fuck up his circus. He can ride the Ferris wheel as many times as he wants, and without having to wait in line. What’s left but to indulge in fantasy and the self? The city will go on without the addition of Rex Carpenter, or any Rex Carpenter for that matter. Let him sun himself in his own sunshine. “While they discuss I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself.” Walt Whitman.

                                    Once the bum passes offstage, rear curtains raise to reveal a jail cell.

                                    In the barren jail cell, Rex sits slouched against the cell wall, whimpering audibly. His pitiful reality is narrated by his noir voice again:

Rex (noir voice): So the bitch was a slut, and the thief a thief. And I a tool. Now what. Once a rogue always a rogue, I suppose—there’s only one logical thing left to do.

                                    A prison guard enters and walks by Carpenter’s cell. Silently, the guard mimes trying to talk to Carpenter through his bars.

Rex (normal voice): What did you say?

                                    In a frenzy, Rex jumps up from his seated slouch and angrily stabs the guard several times with a shiv. The guard falls dead, and Carpenter snatches the keys from his belt and frees himself

                                    Rex looks directly into the audience. As he gives the following monologue in his real voice, stage hands roll in an electric chair on wheels. While speaking, Rex moves toward it, sits down, and straps himself in. The monologue ends upon a bright flash of light accompanied by the sounds of thunder, rain, lightning, and the busy police office from Scene 5

Rex (normal voice): You know—it’s a downright circus in here, folks. (pointing to his head) And don’t try to pretend it isn’t. I’m a loser, right? I got… c…carried away? You think you ain’t a circus? Check again. I’m positive that at some p…point today every single one of you drifted off to bathe and admire yourselves. Come on, don’t feel bad about it. We’re all on the trapeze somewhere, each of us on our own different wires. It may feel like s…sunshine, for a while. But it’s not.

                                    And then the flash of light/sound/ “electrocution”, followed by:

Rex (noir voice, looking out into the audience, bewildered and inspired): What beautiful sunshine! The rain has stopped as well. Time either to wake up or got to sleep now, but I couldn’t for the life of me tell you which one. Because ya see I’m just one man. One fatal phantom… One daydreaming dope. Like you.

                                    Stage goes black

The End.

Fiction: "Wyrd Feelings"

“Wyrd Feelings”

A Friend’s Revisionist Endeavor.

“I have included segments of the “history book” only for purposes of ridicule. Carpenter’s poem isn’t bad either, but they edited out a lot.”

                                    -George Gill, also known as “Big Guy”

 The Development of the New Post-Apocalyptican Party

Part 1: “Starting at the End: The Saga of John Henry Carpenter”

The world had ended with little fanfare. But somehow Carpenter saved us all. We now look back with admiration upon his writings and his early life.

“Deathbed Dementia and Wyrd Feelings for a Generation of SoftHands”

(From the Journal of John Henry Carpenter, also known as 8:30, who would grow up to become the savior of a fallen world)


“I can hear the thunderous roar of the wind knocking together some far off suspended beams of steel in this broken city. Their rhythm helps me concentrate, and I think about the past. But I've got nothing to say. There are few thoughts knocking around in this empty shell, and none seem to stick. See I was supposed to be a Titan, a Hercules, an island. What happened? A softhand in a generation of softhands, I listen to my mammoth urban wind chimes and think about the past.
I'm so far from the truth that I can't smell its impostors any longer, and they dance before me like cheap, hellish prostitutes, bloated with a venereal infection of falsity. And me in my drunken stupor-- I think they're pretty. And invite them into my home. And there in the dark they gather round me and wantonly feast on the scant, sickly flesh of my soul.

I come out of a world in which youth relied completely upon substance abuse in order to feel a connection with one another. It was a world of human satellites. And only when the foundations of that world began to ring and shake like tuning forks with all the awkward silence in elevators and bathrooms and throughout cityscapes where our parents had built spaces for themselves up and away from life, and experience, and chance, and danger, built big towers in the sky where they performed the various perversions and extensions of industry and administration which  supported a fat economy soon to grow thin, only then did it dawn on them that they had also built themselves up and away from nature, from dirt and real, thinking creatures other than computers, and frighteningly far away from the bones and wisdom of their ancestors and henceforth-most-importantly, because of all that, they had built themselves up and too far away from themselves.

And the tuning forks shook too violently with the no-good, lousy vibrations and shattered and the whole damn thing came tumbling down right in front of us all.

Adolescents of the upper-middle class, were, surprisingly, the first demographic to go.
Shootings,
Violence,
The "Satan Complex": a recorded psychosocial phenomenon in which social privilege in adolescents acts as the catalyst for severe guilt and shame, resulting in random acts of violence, Or: ‘I am the right hand man of heaven, I have been given much, but I feel wrong because I'm not sure I deserve any of it, and so the only thing left to do is lash out’

The place where I am and have been is in a dark, cold cloud of backwards nostalgia and emotion
Fear beats me like an angry pimp
Shame, shame, shame. And no turning back from it either.
In this cloud I can see one end of my life.
Crumpled among sheets, a tired withered face looks back inwards at itself in disgust.
Among them, in ashcloth, I too pray to our grandfathers:
‘Forgive us. We have been found lacking. We are no men. We’ve effected a long and gruesome amputation of ourselves from life, and the surgery was clean and showed no scars in the world save those within us and those that we gouged impetuously in our ancestry and our dignity. We could not build our houses with these hands, though these hands were more than adequate.’
All this I see from my seat in the dark cold cloud.
I see a future of
Shame, shame, shame.

We’re fucked, see.”

Carpenter’s journal can now be viewed in its entirety in the John Henry Carpenter Museum, New New York City, 33 West Manhattan Street.

Here we see close friend George Gill’s description of the young John Henry Carpenter (8:30), in a transcript from Gill’s acclaimed oral memoirs. Recordings of the full memoirs of George Gill are also available at the John Henry Carpenter Museum, for purchase.

“8:30 was a small boy with a big opinion of himself. His appearance fit in every way into the name his parents had given him, and continuing the tradition of his parents and the books they had read and the people they had gone to listen to and the things that they stood for but didn’t really stand for because that’s not what they were all about, you know...It’s not about standing for anything, alright? But in continuing with that tradition he reveled in the joke that was his name and subsequently his existence. It was the fountain from which he drank. He was the product of certain ideas and attitudes – although his parents would vehemently deny this to their last breath the pompous assholes. But he undoubtedly was a product, a product of a neatly controlled market of ideas put into practice and finally manifested completely in the birth of a baby human. 8:30’s parents had sacrificed their firstborn son to the god they served. They would never be real parents to him and he would never be a real person in their eyes. But that was their point, Fuck it. That was the way John Henry’s parents set about grooming him to be the next ‘great’ leader of a directionless movement. Appropriate, I suppose.

The loose group that 8:30’s parents belonged to was the result of an angry pile of words and ideas from the past like nihilism, beatnick faggot, and New York City super liberal colliding with a cultural and social phenomenon of overwhelming discomfort, dislike, and distress. Not giving a shit but secretly giving a whole lot of shit had always been hip, mind you- but 8:30’s parents were part of a movement that wasn’t really a movement--They’d tell you to eat shit and die if you thought it was one-- they were part of a movement that had pulled all the choice strands of good, mean ideas out of the long tapestry of history and woven them into a perfectly embittered and near incontestable idea which armed them well against the ‘phenomenon of discomfort, dislike, and distress’ that ended the world.

8:30’s father --Albert Carpenter, a weasel of a man-- had named him 8:30 because 8:30AM was the time every morning Albert had to go to a job that he hated to make money that he hated so that he could survive in a society he didn’t believe in, and hated. 8:30AM was the most prominent symbol of discontent and disillusionment in Albert Carpenter’s life. Being the man that he was, Albert thought it would be particularly clever and avant-garde to name his son after such a symbol.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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“Here ends the horrible history book. This is what I know of the real story, as it should be told. Some of the bullshit is thrown in as well to evidence its bullshittery.”

                        -George Gill, also known as “Big Guy”

The Boy at Home

8:30 spent a lot of time on his own. He had always wanted neighbors of his age to play kick the can in black and white with. But he had been granted no such luck. The apartment rose above most nearby roofs and was well furnished. Lots of books. He liked watching westerns in the living room. The books smelled like old people sweating, and he made a practice of wrinkling his nose at them and at his father when he directed 8:30 towards them. But soon enough 8:30 would be reading them. He would read all of them before his 12^th birthday, he would be made to.

The Boy Runs Away From Home

8:30 ran away from home on a Sunday afternoon, when his parents were out. His backpack swung heavy from straps on bony shoulders-- it was filled mostly with food, books, and valuable jewelry, because he was a practical and intelligent boy. He had packed in a hurry, and before that had decided to leave in a hurry. Like he used to do as a toddler, he ran screaming around the house in a frenzy, through all the rooms and hallways of his parents’ unusually large Manhattan apartment. He ran past all of their books and all of the frames on the wall holding all of their heroes and then out the front door and into the cold. He didn’t know where exactly he was going or what exactly he was doing but he felt that he was in the right and that things were better off this way. The boy was 13 years old and the date was January 5^th, 2044.

The following is an excerpt from “The Development of the New Post-Apocalyptican Party”, Part 1:

J.H. Carpenter’s unique resilience and noble composure can be attributed to his experience of trauma at a very young age with the death of his parents and to his thorough liberal education prior to said tragedy. Growing up as a grief-stricken orphan, Carpenter fashioned for himself a character of great strength and nobility upon the memories of his parents’ lessons.

The following is an excerpt from the journal of John Henry Carpenter, also known as 8:30, dated January 7^th, 2044:

“Mom and Dad are heartless assholes. Mostly Dad. Mom too though. I am going to sell her diamond necklace tomorrow. I remember she wore it once to one of their dinner parties. Dad told me I would be going to dinner parties soon, and I would be the ‘talk of the town,’ and I would ‘head this little old revolution.’ Fuck the town. I have to find a new place to sleep tonight. I decided today that this is the last day I will ever cry.

He was a smart and capable boy, highly skilled in manipulation and natural leadership, like his parents had taught him. The boy found his own way, but not without difficulty. Bad things happened while some were avoided. There were cruel, dirty faces to be dealt with and scars to get and the cold and the dark.

The Boy Gets Friends

“It’s slower than baby shit out here, nigger”

Damion Byrne’s voice fed into a duct-taped radio. Normally, 8:30 would not have approached such a large and intimidating black man selling drugs on the street. Why? Because he was big and he was scary and also yes a little bit because he was black. The boy was no racist, he just wasn’t very cool. But all of that fell by the wayside—8:30 desperately needed some friends or connections or anything at all, and that baby shit analogy was too good to let by.

            “Let me get a dub sack of baby shit” 8:30 feebly joked.

            “What?”

The two became fast friends. And Damion had many friends to introduce the young boy to. 8:30 would soon have a growing group of followers.

The Meeting at the Circle

The following is an excerpt from the journal of John Henry Carpenter, also known as 8:30, dated September 2^nd, 2047:

“I remember as a young kid taking plane rides with my parents. I had read all about air marshals, and terrorism, and sprinkled in with that I had read all the fantasies and adventures about crash landings on deserted islands. So, in obvious combination of these, I had a habit of analyzing my survival situations in terms of my nearby fellow passengers. I would even walk through the plane (pretending to go to the bathroom) to pick out my island survival team. The big ones, the skilled ones, ones with that capable look in their eyes-- these would be my men, my partners, my followers.

I looked around the crowd here at the Circle where I had called my meeting. This was nothing like my airplane fantasies. The beefy guys looked more scared than the shrimps. The only man in the crowd with a gun seemed to lean to his side and cower away from his holster like it was a throbbing heap of the AIDS virus. These were not killers, not revolutionaries. But they would be. Damion would supply weapons for everyone, and courage too. The two of us will have an army soon enough.”

Cause for Rebels

Carpenter would soon find the right enemy to fight. An enemy that preyed on fear to achieve nefarious aims.  

The School of Belief:

A much different group than the one with which 8:30’s parents associated, but one just as—no, more-- exclusive. It would seem that Emile Durkheim’s anomie, or perhaps the opposite of it, had gotten the better of the believers. Theirs was a fascinating and alluring philosophy though, and like so many others before it, if it had been taken lightly it might have done some people some good.

The Believers were founded by a homeless alcoholic. But the man was supposed to be brilliant, and as so many brilliant men had done before him he killed himself with his ideas and found things in the actual world like alcohol to hasten the process. Rudgy was the man’s last name. Rudgy had been quite successful and popular within academic circles before the age of forty. But unlike the rest of those filling up such circles, Rudgy actually believed in what he was saying, didn’t give a shit about what he was hearing, and lived what he preached, walking the talk with a unique and truly remarkable sort of saintly devotion. But all this made him crazy. What some would call crazy and some would call true and some would later describe as: “a brilliant, yet imperfect, confused, and tragic experience of a great man with an even greater revelation. An example to all of us, he gave himself as a sacrifice, taking the weight of his revelation solely upon himself, and, so that all of us after him could take it on once he had wrestled with its demons and made it sane and applicable, he eventually buckled under its weight but only after doing with it what no other man could have possibly done.”

Rudgy’s after 40 philosophy explained people’s disillusionment in a novel way. After the fall anything was believable. Feelings of meaninglessness and of being an outcast in a society full of people who seemed not to be disturbed by the supposed meaningless of their existence were explained in this way: (This is how a friend explained it to me once) All those discontented and yearning for “something better” were more highly evolved than those who accepted society as it was: the outcasts had begun to outgrow their physical places in the world and were ready to start upon their journeys towards an unidentified event or process termed “transcendence”. It was because the unhappy were destined for this greater fate that they had felt uncomfortable in the typical social mechanism. They were ready to discard the norm and the way humans had been living for thousands of years. What exactly the whole process would entail, no one was quite sure of except for The School’s “elders”.

The “believers” saw themselves as square pegs and set about inventing why they didn’t fit into the triangular slots in the children’s toy of society that most all of their neighbors seemed too easily to fit into. In such strange times, belief in anything at all was warmly welcomed, people were tired of fear and uncertainty- they came to The School in desperate droves. Rudgy, although unstable, was not known to be power-hungry or manipulative. His successors unfortunately did not share these sentiments, and preyed unashamedly upon mankind’s vulnerability after the fall in order to gain support. Some frightening rumors have begun to surface about the School’s intentions. Carpenter had men on the inside. He knew what the school was planning to do, and it had to be stopped.

My Part

They always called me that—“Big Guy.” I suppose it was my size. I was bigger than Damion, and Damion was already pretty fucking big. Anyway, here is where I fit in. I joined much later than Damion did, but I was one of Carpenter’s first generals. I’ve included his ridiculously fantasized account of my supposed history from his diary:

The following is an excerpt from the journal of John Henry Carpenter, also known as 8:30, dated April 17^th, 2059:

            “Big Guy was a very big guy. His life was measured out in scars and fistfuls and it showed on his face. He was the kind of guy you’d want to have as a friend in a strange and mean, smoky bar-- and he liked that. Not to say that he reveled in his protector status: it was the hand he had been dealt, and he shouldered it with great humility and gravity.

Big Guy worked in a big factory, giving shape to molten metal. He looked like a modern day Hephaestus at his work; buckling, hefting, and hammering steel with a firm jaw and a keen eye. But his overwhelming physicality could trick you at first glance. He was not an ogre, or a machine, and he certainly wasn’t stupid. He matched his strength with smiles, and was the first to lend a large, capable hand to the weaker of workers. It seemed like he could have run the factory all by himself, as he danced between the furnaces and robotic arms and over and under the conveyor belts turning knobs and easing down massive weights from high places for smaller men. Everyone liked him, but few knew him-- which was a pity, because Big Guy was a great guy.

He had a mother and a father who were off dying slowly in some other state, a fat dog at home, and a slew of superficial acquaintances who liked to marvel at him and talk about him over supper. They talked about the marks on his face and the heaping curves of his back and the long, rough fingers he had that wrapped yours up like a baby when you shook his hand. Big Guy talked to his dog over supper. They ate together on his couch most nights.

When danger arose, Big Guy was the first one in the neighborhood to come to. Children came to his doorstep nervously to ask him to retrieve their cats from trees, mothers came to ask him to get their sons out of trouble. He did all of this unquestioningly and with a smile and a pat on the head or back once the job was done.

Big Guy was the only one who knew that there were bigger guys in the world. And he lamented the day that one would come along and take his title, which was really the only connection he had to the outside world.

One day, a bigger guy did come along. And this bigger guy was meaner, and had more scars, and, joining the workforce at the factory, began to dance among the machinery there even more effortlessly than Big Guy had. Soon the bigger guy got into an argument with one of the smallest factory men, and the argument turned physical. The small man clutched an iron pipe as he backed into the hot, loud corner of some violently throbbing generator in the factory. But then, quick as a cat, Big Guy stepped between the two men and stared the bigger guy in the face, leaning his face in to talk to him. No one could hear Big Guy’s soft words as he spoke into the huge man’s eyes under the angry din of the factory machinery. He spoke for two whole minutes, never making any gestures or signs of body language. The small man with the pipe wanted to slip in close to the two titans and listen but he was too frightened.

When Big Guy was finished talking, the bigger man looked bewildered and a little scared. The bigger guy said something, only a sentence or two. And then, without warning, Big Guy swung one large, bony right knee into the man’s groin, and the villain crumpled to the ground in pain. Big Guy didn’t smile, but turned away slowly and went back to work. The small man ran after him to thank him but Big Guy pushed him away, which was very uncharacteristic.

Afterward, at first, Big Guy remained much the same as he had been. But then nervous children and worried mothers stopped coming to his door, and he began to change. He danced stranger among the factory machines and got meaner, and got more scars, and grew bigger. It was then that I heard of him, and conscripted him, recognizing he was exactly the kind of man we softhands needed for our quest.”

Carpenter seemed to think I was some kind of herculean hero. I never argued much with that. I believed in what the man said and did my very best to help him. I was even there with him at the moment of his victory and his defeat, deep in the catacombs beneath the School of Belief’s cosmodrome.

The Victory and the Defeat

Carpenter, Damion, me (“Big Guy”), and a few other of the higher-ups were searching the catacombs of the School of Belief, fat and gloating from our recent victory over the fools. We came across a hidden chamber. Inside was a computer which activated a hologram image of the School’s founder, Rudgy. His brain or consciousness or whatever had apparently been copied into the machine.

            The hologram laughed at John. In the corner of my eye I saw Damion tighten and step forward. But Carpenter made us listen to the ghostly apparition.

            “You’re awful skinny for a superman, aren’t you?” it said to John.

John kept silent, only listening. The thing began to make sense, disturbingly.

            “I know all about you, Carpenter—you’re the one who defeated this goddamn excuse for a philosophy. Now you’re down here to pilfer their treasures? Well I suppose I am their greatest treasure—see I’m trapped down here with no say. They used my memory, not my ideas. They ran this joint. From a philosophical standpoint, their beliefs had nothing to do with my theories. They trapped me, soon enough your people will do the same to you. Not the direct apostles, but the second generation, son. They won’t give a shit about what you had to say.”

And you know, the hologram was right. I’m the only one left who lived long enough to see Carpenter’s image get bastardized and fucked up in history books and power-hungry political movements. Poor Carpenter died in an old-folks community that his followers had supposedly founded on his ideals. Below is the last entry in his diary, before he walked off into the woods and died there:

           

The following is an excerpt from the journal of John Henry Carpenter, also known as 8:30, dated April 30^th, 3009:

“I sit on the porch with a wool blanket over my legs. Looking out towards the swamp and watching my fireflies dance in the midnight fog over the fairway. The skin on my face sags off my bones, dangling like worn leather. Tomorrow the Jones’ next-door and the rest of the population of “The Groves” will be everywhere around playing golf and sipping drinks in their colors. A veritable geezer coral reef-- herds of humans put out to pasture in pastel blue, green, red, yellow, pink and purple shawls, polos, sweaters, bonnets and sports jackets. Despite the approaching spectre of their deaths the citizens of the Groves cling to the material and social comforts of their lives: expensive clothing and accessories, silly games, and small talk.

My wool blanket slides off of my legs onto the porch’s lacquered oak beams, and I see my knees—they look like they’ve been chewed on by something, or like old, moldy biscuits.

The goddamn Jones’. Fucking neighbors. I thought humans were supposed to get wiser with age. Apparently the Jones’ missed that step. And so it seems did all the rest of the senior citizens here in the Grove. They’re all still caught up on Things like kids at Christmas. They’re strangers to the very land they live on. Abstracted, detached human satellites. The brochure may say that we have a nice view of the outlying ocean, but that’s all it is: “a view.” This view in reality is not just a small slice of visual candy for some sad, old, sagging children to enjoy before death: the “view” is in reality a massive sheet of nature seething with life and mystery and God or whatever. Tomorrow I’m going fishing there and not coming back. We’re fucked again, see—but I do not care.”