The Analog Kid : II (463 hits)
Category: GeneralRating: 0 on 5 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Derick B <dprime.at.hotmail.com> (View user info) at 2005-04-20 21:47:51 EDT
[The child understands.]
The perfectly-rated first half - http://www.ubersite.com/m/63211. Go see whether or not you want to change that statistic. Once you've done that, here you are.
II
Stately, even though no one was around, Joseph Salinger walked off the dull-green train. The platform was smaller than the one he had been on earlier. The sky was becoming less gray and more black. The people at the train station seemed less anxious and blind, and more calm and melancholy.
He went to the coffee shop across the street from the train station and checked his watch as he crossed. He was feeling his face with his right hand as he walked in - the four-blade razor is doing a nice job - so is my aftershave - one day there will be seven blades and someone will cut their throat open because of it - why have they been introducing an extra blade every few years it's not some revolutionary concept - to profit from marketing them separately - maybe capitalism isn't perfect - I guess that way they know how efficient it is to add one, which is less radical than suddenly adding three.
The person behind the counter looks 16 - that's Andrew in seven years - they both have short hair too. "Can I have an extra-large English-Toffee?" he asked. The boy thanked him as Joseph handed him the money, and Joseph thanked the boy as he handed him the cappuccino - the kid sure is polite - so is Andrew when you humor him and speak to him like an adult - this teenybopper's probably the same way.
He walked out of the coffee shop optimistically - coffee is much better here - only 1.73 too - 23 cents went to the government - looks like I rented the sidewalk I'm on now - an example of tax money well spent. He went to sit at the unusually clean bus stop with his laptop case on his lap, and a coffee in his right hand.
20 minutes until I get there, once I'm on the bus - frequent service 'every ten minutes or less' - I'll be there in 20-30 minutes - five minute walk - 25-30 minutes - afraid to take out my laptop, or even a book - bus might come and the driver would have to wait for me to reorganize; hate situations like that - good cappuccino - drinking hot caffienated drinks - professional like a writer - a man making six figures rides an elevator downtown holds a seven-dollar coffee and likes the image that he doesn't mind doing so - I would like the image too, so long as the coffee isn't actually worse - no Starbucks here though - no elevator either, or potentially envious
co-workers or janitors - I'll be making six figures soon - my job's probably a lot more interesting than his - not that he in particular is real.
Once the bus arrived, the sky was slightly but noticeably, darker than it had been when he'd left the train. As he got on, the bus driver seemed like the most anti-social person Joseph had ever met. He could tell by the way the middle-aged man looked at him as he put in his two dollars. He walked to the back without making eye contact with any one, but noticing them each peripherally - a half-hour ride - have enough time to do something.
He sat down and wedged the newly emptied coffee cup between his shoes. He knew that it would bother him if he put it any where else - we all have weird things like that that would make us seem obsessive-compulsive - maybe only I have them really - either way, it would be funny to see what it would be like if everyone someone knew was aware of his secret obsessive-compulsive habits.
After opening the laptop, he debated whether he should do the conservative thing and perform his normal job, or work on the fiction that he had going. I'll do the extra unnecessary work that I like better - seeing as this is an extra unnecessary time for me to be working - I really want to be a successful fiction writer - that would be great - I'm finally really satisfied with how well I'm doing it - I can't wait until I have enough done to show someone I work for - doesn't even matter if I start making any extra money - it matters that I'm good, and I think that I am, and so does becoming really good - it's all on this laptop - the most valuable laptop in the world.
There weren't many people on the bus. He worked away without giving much thought about the rest of the world. He loved feeling productive, on his computer, spending time on things that involved English, as he was always doing.
This is the sort of thing I'll remember when I'm famous, moments like this - that woman nearer to the back will never know she sat on a bus with a famous writer at such a key moment - insignificant people we see during the course of our day seem important to us until ten minutes after they're gone - the feelings and memories I have at any moment feel like the climax of my entire life up to that point - they are, in a way - we all have that, probably - a writer gets to save them - a selfish person gets to appreciate them for what they really are - these little realizations and moments and anecdotes that no one else will ever hear of or understand - one of the few things that are ours, really ours and only ours, forever.
He didn't notice when the empty coffee cup rolled out from under his legs and to the back of the bus. The bus driver did, through the mirror. The bus driver didn't appreciate that. He took it as a personal attack.
Joseph's typing became almost violent. I should look over what I've done - I should slow down, calm down - I should go through it and verify its coherency - don't feel like doing that - creative moment is gone - I should stop - I'll continue a little - I have to finish this thought, or else it will be lost for all eternity - that kind of thinking made me have to force my self to shut off my laptop at 2 AM last night - this morning - both.
In what could have been seconds later, the bus was approaching where he had to get off - I don't have time to stop early, it seems. He packed up his laptop quickly, and, concentrating on how uniformly he did so, stood in front of the bus's back doors.
After literally - almost literally - hoping off the bus, he noticed that night had come in its completeness. He walked along the suburban street - my writing career my writing career my writing career - I'd like to take that Tom Clancy novel out of my bag - the war and terrorism stuff is cool - he's also the second best at writing about love - no one sees that - most women are bad at writing about love - they make it a cliché, a stupid cliché - maybe many of them don't do so, but the ones famous for being of that subject are the ones who do it - it shouldn't be the central part of a story - love isn't a physical event - it needs physical events, which need a plot, to show it - never thought about that - my writing career my writing career.
Every third block of sidewalk had the year that they were made on it. That one was a palindrome. He walked by a generic suburban park. It was hard not to imagine children in light-up running shoes running around. It would be obvious which ones were the annoying, mean, obnoxious ones, and which ones weren't - empty
drink-boxes and Pepsi cans scattered every where.
The houses them selves acted as street lights. The odd numbers are on my side - my side is the south - I'm walking east - five minute walk - I've been walking for three minutes - three's a magic number - 10/3 - 3.33333333333333 - I could be counting like that in my head forever - I should, or not start at all - 8-based system would be better - 10/3 - 2.6666666666 - then a seven, where ever you end it - five and over, you round up - 12/3 - 3.33333333333 - a circle has an infinite amount of sides - a circle has no sides - 0 = infinity - movies with god let him have power over every thing physically - he doesn't have power over logic - can't show that in a movie - can't conceive it - 'else we'd have power over logic - then logic would be different - logic is all I'm using here, any way - god - just a word - 'god, would you hurry up in there!?' an interjection.
He reached a relatively small white house, with two visible floors - I know it has a basement - never seen a house with more than one basement - probably have, didn't know that it did. The pathway hardly showed any slush or puddles left over from early spring. The doorbell button wasn't plastic, but it was electric, and annoying - waiting - no answer - I'll walk in.
His sister noticed him as soon as he entered. Sarah Relva walked up and smiled and shook his hand.
"You kept your last name, Relva, for your son, right? I thought of that the other day, and it's been bothering me." he asked, the first solid thing Joseph said.
"Yep. I did. C'mon, you should know that."
He was prevented from responding by Andrew's coming up the stairs to investigate the new noise that wasn't the TV. Automatically, the boy hugged him anxiously, and Joseph hugged him back.
"Wow, Joseph, what an unusually unselfish gesture!"
"I don't see any thing the least bit unselfish about that." he grinned and pulled him self back up all the way.
Sarah told Andrew to go back down stairs, almost as though he was something that she was hiding. Andrew complied reluctantly, not wanting to have a scene in front of his uncle - I'm nine - I'm not smart enough to be up here - I don't exist - I don't think - I must be taken care of - so, I'm a plant - to her, I am a plant.
Joseph didn't react to this at all, knowing that it was best not to. He followed his sister towards the kitchen table. She sat down, staring at the paper she was doodling on.
"How's the job going?"
"well." He didn't know what else to say.
"I'm wanting to write fiction, actually. A novel, with any luck." He continued, after a moment.
"You do that?"
"I love to" - I got my job when an editor from a newspaper saw me doing fiction on the Internet! - And you thought there was some thing wrong with my not being certain whether you kept your ex-husband's name or not! - "That was my original main interest in writing. I got my job through a web page I had." he said, with out having his syntax broken by his thoughts. He only noticed that he slowed down slightly; she probably didn't at all.
"So, you want to be an artist through your work now. Well, not an artist artist, like a painter. Would you like some thing to drink?" she got up and started making her self tea as she spoke.
"No, thanks, had a lot of caffeine today." - Want to be? - and I just made it clear that I've always wanted to write fiction, if that's what she means by 'art' - "Any form of intellectual creation is art. Anything that has value that isn't material. A person making hot-dogs on an assembly line isn't an artist. The person who designed the format for making them is. If the person making hot-dogs has an intellectual basis for doing so, then he too is an artist, for that."
"So, a non-fiction writer for a newspaper who doesn't even get to write opinion pieces like a columnist, is a true artist?"
"Yes."
"Just like say... Da Vinci?"
"In the validity of his being an artist, yes. In quality, probably not." He paused for a second. "Um, would you happen to know what it was that Da Vinci did?" There was an other pause.
"Ah, and I bet you don't know what I've done either. So, as far as you're concerned, neither of us are artists!" he made a grin to try to make certain she that took this light-heartily. She smiled back, sarcastically.
"I'm.. going to go see Andrew, okay?" Joseph said and got up to walk downstairs.
The stairs were carpeted. That, accurately, set up the precedent for a well-furnished basement. He turned to his right once getting downstairs - it seems like I shouldn't have my shoes on the carpet - I know it's okay though - how is it this clean? This led him to a couch in front of a small TV with a stereo beside it, and a two-seater on the far side of the room, which faced the empty space between the TV and the couch.
Andrew didn't notice that his uncle was there. He was sitting on the two-seater, with a book he wasn't reading, day dreaming - he seems discontented - Joseph thought.
"How did it feel to be exiled?" Joseph asked him. Andrew looked up and laughed, and then stopped short.
"I dunno. It's not funny really."
"I didn't say it was. You were the one who made his sides hurt." A temporary silence came, and Joseph sat down on the two-seater, facing him.
"You argue all the time. And you're good at it, you know that?" Andrew said, smilling.
"I'm not particularly good at arguing. I'm good at choosing where to argue from."
"Do you think you're right about every thing you argue about?"
"Of course."
"Then why do you argue?"
"Well, Andrew. If I didn't argue, then how would I know that I was right?"
This was the sort of explanation that had made Andrew become fascinated by his uncle. The literal, egotistical responses that held equal respect to one he would have made to an adult he was arguing with, and more than he would have held in a response to his boss.
"You wouldn't know it." Andrew finally said, with a grin.
There was an inaudible call from above. Andrew knew by instinct to go upstairs. He gave Joseph a look of fear-lacking-surprise as he got up and walked by, which said more than he could have with words in those few seconds.
Joseph turned the TV on - construction site - businessman with a briefcase walking by - seven-dollar coffee in his hand - downtown is busy - full of people - most of them are selfish - lots of cars, traffic, noise - tranquility - the ones who call themselves enlightened say they see beauty in things that serve no one - and in not being immoral enough to acknowledge that they have virtues, such as enlightenment - ironic - no, not ironic, contradiction - I can hardly hear the dialogue on the television - I don't even have a TV - don't need one - will when I have kids - I'd like to have kids - I'd need to get married - I'd need a wife - I 'd need to find a real human - I'll never have kids.
He could hardly hear any thing from the floor above. After a few minutes, Andrew came back down stairs. He had an expression like the most angst-ridden teenager in the world, as a nine year-old. He went and stood in front of his uncle.
"I hate her."
"Your mother, I assume is who you're talking about."
"There is so much wrong with me, so much that's happened, and it's all psychological. I've had food my whole life, so I'm automatically evil, so every thing that ever happens is automatically my fault."
"So they'll say."
"How many nine year-olds think about suicide every day? I know it's not literal, but unlike for older kids, the word is just scary to most kids my age, too scary to think about. Just now I seriously, or I was feeling it seriously, thought about killing my mother. That's a much bigger deal." Andrew was in a cold sweat.
"At least one thinks about it, I guess. I grew up with your mother. I probably know her better than any one else. She's one of the most irrational people in the world. You aren't. Have an ego."
"It's like.. every one else just lives from slogans, repeating things they were set-up to repeat, with no conscious thought, no natural pattern, just a system that doesn't allow for any variation in their thought, or accuracy either." He stopped for a moment. "Like every one else is digital, and I'm analog." He continued, and the thought of the analogy had made him calmer "Does that comparison make sense?"
"Not really, kind of. You look like you have more to say. Go on."
"There's no one to talk to here. It's like I'm alone every where, no matter how many people I see, no matter how many of them seem friendly or interested in me. I'm crazy. I'm becoming crazy. I need.. change."
"Rightly so."
"Can I live with you? Seriously. I don't cost a lot."
"Wouldn't matter if you did."
"I don't need a lot of attention. I don't eat much."
"Wouldn't make a difference. I'd love having you."
"Can I, please?"
"Andrew.. no. You can't. It's not that you'd be a problem to me, and it's not that I'm too selfish. Looking out for you is one of the most selfish things I can do. But I would be a problem for you, in the long run. I would set up this ideal that your life is going to be as easy as that, but it won't. One day, you'll have to live off your own energy, you'll want to, you want to now, and that's not some thing I can make easier for you, now or then. You're going to have to deal with people you shouldn't have to deal with, and your experience here, living your life like you do now, will make it much easier. You need to stay here, so that you can have real power over your life one day. I do, and I almost didn't, and now I can ride the train just to read whenever I want. I have the money and the freedom." - I wonder if he knows what I'm talking about - I wonder if he'll ask.
"Uh-huh.. I understand." Andrew paused and started blankly - that reminds me.
"There's a question no one else could really answer for me. I really need to know it."
"Go for it."
"What's the meaning of life? I mean it seriously. I'm not trying to sound all like an intellectual or those guys who write books made up of nothing but questions. I really want to know, what meaning is there in life?"
"There is no thing called 'life' in general. We, 7 or 8 billion people, don't all share a collective life as an entity in its self. Assuming that life overall has a purpose is assuming that some one consciously created it, which didn't happen. Only an individual life can have a purpose."
"Then.. what's the meaning of my life?"
"That requires me to ask you a question. What do you, you as an individual, enjoy, what is your happiness, and what makes you feel accomplished?"
"Just real accomplishments overall... that do some thing for some one, which by being there does some thing for me. Writing things... reading things... being smarter. By writing I don't only mean like stories, but that most of all. Doing something." He paused for a second and looked down at the papers on the table. "And.. Allison, or more vague and most of all, another thinking life, that can have worth for other things by only looking at its self."
"You just gave me the meaning of life, kid." Joseph said, and smiled proudly.
User Reviews
Submitted by d_prime (user info) at 2005-07-11 23:09:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Ah, this doesn't bother me, seeing as the little number doesn't bother me, and I only care about what interested people thing and their judgements. But, fair enough.
Submitted by HadToBeDone (user info) at 2005-07-06 16:25:16 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
[General] The Analog Kid : II (Rating: 2 on 3 reviews, last by ThineJericho 49 days ago)
Submitted by Derick B <dprime.at.hotmail.com> [Authenticated] (View user info) at 2005-04-20 21:47:51
[General] You know Scott, I've always liked you. (Rating: -0.69 on 19 reviews, last by stevie_says 69 days ago)
Submitted by Derick B <dprime.at.hotmail.com> [Authenticated] (View user info) at 2005-04-20 12:33:37
Since we're punishing PAST double-posts....
Submitted by ThineJericho (user info) at 2005-05-17 23:00:53 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
:nods: Good.
Too bad it didn't get more attention.
Submitted by d_prime (user info) at 2005-04-22 21:03:01 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Fact: 99% of all -2s given on Uber are from people who don't read.
You'd think he'd have read the first one, and once hating that, would have badly rated that instead of only the second one.
Submitted by gtz (user info) at 2005-04-21 09:03:38 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
How the hell did people skip this?