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Triggerfish (116 hits)

Category: UberMadness! Entry

Rating: 2 on 4 reviews (Rate this item) (V)

Submitted by charminglybeef (View user info) at 2006-11-07 01:06:29 EST

This post was an official UberMadness! entry. Click here to view the original matchup.

Arizona meets the Mid-West. Solitude meets company. Silence crumbles. Peace finds turpitude. And to think, I was enjoying so much the cold ruby yip of the coyotes; the icy glow of those stars -- glorified by the departure of that early-risen moon; the human silhouettes of the saguaro cacti, and the opportunity then presented to use that ridiculous word. And doing it alone.

But a crunching of gravel and a marching of headlights and an invasion later, I am no longer at peace with my surroundings.

Bright bulbs and below: Scenic Idaho. Not "Breathtaking Idaho", not "Amazing Idaho" -- "Scenic". Then a combination of letters and numbers and finally, Famous Potatoes.

Even knowing nothing more of it than its intrusive license plate, I think I can say with guiltless conviction, that I hate Idaho, and by association, all Idahoans.

And here he comes, wandering over from his truck, Milwaukee's Finest in hand; greasy hair sprouting from beneath his greasy hat like weeds through the sidewalk. Shit, his glasses could start forest fires. Best not stare too deeply into the sun with those bad-Oscars, my Idahoan friend.

"How you doing man," he asks in that aged hippie stop and start. The verbal litmus suggests a pH of heavy acid -- urine burning holes in the toilet seat.

"Fucking fine," I say coldly. He just unfolds his chair and sits across from me, waiting on the normal, social progression. But in the middle of the desert. I surrender: "And you?"

He takes a long pull from his roll-your-own smoke, gasping at its termination and staring up into the night sky. "I'm alive, aren't I?"

"Dunno. Have you tried paying taxes lately?"

He laughs, smoke puffing from his nostrils. "I'm Robert," he says.

"Hi Robert, I'm the physical incarnation of the word 'uninterested'."

"You're a fucking dick is what you are," he says, laughing again good-naturedly. "You want a beer?"

"You know -- I do."

"Back of the truck; it's open."

"Thanks," I say, softening. "I'm Mike, by the way."

"Well Mike, I'd say it's nice to meet you, but so far it hasn't been, so how does a 'hello' suit ya?"

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that. Me and Idaho have a bit of a thing going. I'm a fan of the Alberta 'taters, you know?"

"Oh, I ain't from Idaho. That's my buddy's truck."

"Well, we're all right then," I say, collapsing back into my chair and raising my beer to him. He does the same and we both take a few gulps before falling back into the open desert silence.

"So why no fire?" Robert asks at length.

"I was enjoying the stars and the quiet," I say abruptly.

"Ah," he says, and with immaculate timing, farts loudly. I can't help but laugh.

"Ever read that book 'Ishmael'?" he asks, grinning.

"Afraid I haven't."

"Oh, cool little book," he says, sliding forward in his seat.

I humour him: "Yeah, how's that?" And a smile smears his face. Uh oh.

"Well, it's about this guy -- who has no name, but we'll call him Jonas -- who sees an ad in the paper," and he screws his beer into the earth beside him, that he may gesture freely. "Teacher seeking student -- must be willing to learn, and have strong desire to change the world. Nothing but an address, apply in person," he says, hands moving like a flight deck crewman's.

"Okay, okay," I say, curiosity piqued.

He scooches forward again in his chair, smile now lighting up his glasses. "So Jonas has a read, and figures it to be ridiculous. Crumples it up; throws it in the garbage."

"But the cosmic forces of fate have conspired against him," I conjecture, again unimpressed.

"But right -- the cosmic forces have conspired against him, right," he says, losing no momentum or enthusiasm, "and so the next day, curiosity gets the better of our hero, and he digs it out of the trash and wanders on over to the building." He pauses, nodding his grin at me. "So Jonas goes inside, but there's nothing in there -- just an empty room, save a bookcase and a window."

Suspense.

"He walks on in, and has a look through the window, and guess what he sees?"

"What?"

"A fucking gorilla!" And he shakes his head in joyous disbelief, then stares at me expectantly.

"So the gorilla took out the ad -- the gorilla's the teacher?"

He nods profoundly, eyebrows raised. I glean nothing. Unless --

"A banana-eating gorilla, or a gun-toting guerrilla?"

"A banana-eating gorilla," he says, eyes shining. His enthusiasm is infectious, and I strain to find meaning.

"So, I hazard, "the gorilla has something to teach," and I pause once again, fingering my stubble. He leans closer, eyes wide and smiling. "Maybe the virtues of a simpler life? That the gorilla, a lesser being as far as evolution is concerned, would have something to teach seems to suggest the virtues of a simpler life. If the gorilla has any wisdom greater than our own it would be in its harmony with nature -- its life less complicated." I narrow my eyes. "Is it the idea that we have evolved to the point of being overly-complicated?"

"I dunno man," he says, "I ain't read it!" And he laughs uproariously, eventually calming himself with a series of deep breaths. "But that was some heavy shit right there man -- some heavy shit indeed. You're a smart cat."

"Hey fuck you," I say, detecting sarcasm.

"I'm sorry man, I'm sorry. I really ain't read it, but it is an interesting idea. Some philosophy shit or something -- I just like hearing what people think, that's all. You weren't the butt of any joke," he assures me. It sounds simple and honest enough. "Hey, tell you what, how about you grab us another beer."

I sit awhile. "Yeah, okay," and I drain the can. "I sure can dish it out," I observe, leaving the rest to hang on the cool night air.

"Ain't no thing," Robert says as I rise. "Hey whatchu got in that sketch book there?" He points to the spiral-bound pad beneath my chair.

"Drawings mostly. Some watercolours."

"Ah, fancy yourself a bit of an artist then, do ya?"

"Got no illusions of grandeur, if that's what you mean."

"Nope, just giving you a hard time again."

"I do it for myself mostly. Documenting my travels, you know," and I shuffle slowly to the truck.

"Yeah man, they're good to remember 'cause they ain't often that great to experience."

"You said it -- all the uncertainty and discomfort; pushing yourself outside of your comfort zone -- it sure makes you feel alive, which isn't always the most pleasant thing, is it?"

"No, it sure ain't, but that's what makes you look back with pride, and that's what makes you a stronger, more capable person."

"That's my take on it, yeah," I say, handing him his beer and falling back into my seat.

"And we're really lucky too, man," says Robert, his beer punching a hole into the night's calm. "We got the opportunity -- both financially and culturally -- to go out and do this sorta thing," and he sweeps broadly at the horizon with his drink. "Go to Cuba and they'll ask you, what about the greater good? What about your country? Go to India and they'll ask you, what about your future? What about your family?"

"And they would be right, I think -- it's a very selfish endeavour."

"You really think so?"

"Well yeah. I mean, living my life as a travelling bum certainly isn't helping anyone but myself, and even that notion is debatable. But at the very least, not building a strong financial foundation for my future children seems irresponsible. And stupid."

"But what you're doing is building a strong moral and cultural foundation for your children, and some might argue that's a far greater gift. All the wisdom and perspective you gain will one day be passed on -- not only to your kids but your community, your country, the world at large. I think it's great."

For a moment, silence pervades. Real, country silence. I sit there, digesting, and Robert nods his head slowly, off in another time and place.

"You know, I used to paint. I used to paint a lot."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, I went to art school in New York and then lived like a bum on the streets for three years, begging for change and dumpster-diving. I only ever had enough for painting supplies and the twelve dollars a month for my storage locker slash studio."

"Wow."

"Yeah, but that got pretty tiring."

"So, I'll be a dick and guess you never had anything in print, or on exhibit?"

"Nope. Not a thing. I never even tried though."

"Why's that?"

"I never thought anything I did was worthy of sharing."

"That's exactly how I feel. But you gotta figure, there's a lot of shit out there -- surely you could do something that would at least get looked at?" I can hear the hope in my voice, and it embarasses me.

"True enough, but do you really want to share something that's not great? I mean, how depressing is mediocrity in art? An entertainer -- his goal is to entertain; you entertain, and you're satisfied, but an artist man -- an artist," and he trails off, sipping at his beer. "An artist wants to affect people."

My turn to nod slowly.

"So I take it then you paint for more than the humble documentation of your travels?" he asks.

I shrug. "I'd love to affect people."

"And so here you are."

"And so here I am."

He slumps in his chair, kicking one foot up onto his thigh. "And do you think that's in any way selfish then? Self-indulgent?" Robert asks, fishing through his breast pocket. He pulls out a loose bag of tobacco.

"Is it anything else?"

"Well, it's a common theme in art, and religion even -- the idea that you ostracize yourself from society, put yourself out there beyond the boundaries of widely-accepted, celebrated living, and you receive this gift," and he holds his hand up to the heavens, grasping gingerly something round in the air, "and with this gift comes the responsibility to share it. Sure, there's the desire for notoriety, but there's also the dream of giving people something great, and that strikes me as noble, at its very least," he says, returning his attention to his lap, and the birth of a fresh smoke.

"Isn't that what that carpenter guy did?"

He laughs. "Something like that, yeah."

"And is that what you're doing too?"

"That's what I was doing. Not anymore though. This -- this is my mid-life crisis. I'm over the whole profound gift business," and his lighter bursts in the darkness.

"You could always start again; dig up your old stuff."

"Trashed it all man."

"Why on earth would you do that?"

"A fish."

"A fish?"

"Yeah. It might seem an arbitrary moment to choose as the beginning of the end, but I like to think it was the fish."

"Care to explain?"

He sighs theatrically and inhales some cigarette.

"It was my third city winter. Depressed as solitary ducklings man, those icy buildings and road-stained snowdrifts. The people in the city get colder with winter too, you know what I mean?

"It was the first time I felt destitute. Alone.

"You can be poor and not feel poor man, believe me -- you can watch people eat steak and drink wine in front of the fireplace and not care -- but while alone the poverty really shines. Throw some serious physical discomfort on top of it all and it shimmers like dimes in the gutter.

"A tooth of mine really fucking hurt. Bad, and suddenly. Screamed obscenities like 'Root Canal' and 'Dental Implants!' But I was tough, and I toughed it out. Sleeping and surviving during the day, and painting at night. I ate little more than pain and despair and loneliness and shat out art. Not great art, but better art.

"In a word, I was inspired.

"And that inspiration numbed the rest of it, helping to stave off the urge to acquire insurance and a home and a wife to warm the bed therein. I opted to weather out the winter, cold lonely toothache and all. But I was closer than at any other point to living the life of the ordinary man. Teetering on the brink, I was.

"And then, I got the nudge. In the form of delicious, red, shining, fat-banded salmon; sitting frozen and by the pound in a bin behind the supermarket. A gift to me, from some benevolent being, I figured. Winter-frozen salmon. A Christmas miracle. I did what anyone would do: I barbecued. With all my hobo friends, man -- the crackheads, the drifters, the criminals, the artists.

"It was a fantastic night. It was a fantastic couple of days. Until the festering sick. I was blowing like a bat-filled cave at dusk -- out of every hole.

"Amplitude. It was the amplitude. The wonderful high to the pitiful low. The amplitude was great. Enormous. It crushed me. My certainty failed. Confronted finally with the reality of a life outside -- weeping alone and ill -- I made my choice.

"I called an old friend. A friend inside. He took care of the doctor and gave me a place to crash. The first thing I did when better was called the storage company and told them to trash it all, because I didn't want it anymore. I even paid a surcharge to have them do it.

"I was done with that shit, man. I wasn't a vessel and at that moment I knew it.

"And so you paid them to trash your stuff?"

"Paid 'em."

"Wow," I said, grounded and uncertain. "And all because of some stupid fish."

"Well, yeah. But I like to think that fish did some good too."

"Oh, like what?"

"Well, like providing you with what should be an inspiring tale, for one."

User Reviews

Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2007-06-04 23:47:53 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2

You should have a road-story-off sometime.

Well, ya.

Submitted by kaos-king (user info) at 2007-06-04 23:28:30 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2

No Comment

Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2007-06-04 23:10:35 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2

We should have a road-story-off sometime.

Well, nah.

Submitted by ghola (user info) at 2007-06-04 22:53:33 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2

No Comment