American man sat hunched over on a park bench. American Man’s face was a pale white, his features accented a candy red. He had great big round eyes that held tiny pinpoint pupils suspended in oceans of pure white. American Man’s tears streamed down his face and made small red pools where they gathered on the concrete below him. American Man was crying because he was sad. American Man had never been sad before.
A small child ran up beside him and snatched his wallet from the back of his pants pocket. The thief blew a raspberry in the direction of his victim as he fled the crime scene. American Man didn’t so much as flinch. He didn’t have any money anyway. What’s a wallet worth with no money in it?
American Man’s father had been a wealthy man. American Man was bequeathed a handsome inheritance but quickly blew it on such frivolities as cheese burgers, scratch-off cards, as seen on TV products, and so on. It would take an act of God to lift him from his state of anguish because American Man was wholly irrational.
Naturally, the reason American Man was sad was because he had no money. That much is rational. Never in his wildest dreams, though, did it occur to him that someday his profligacy might cause him to go broke. After all, his inheritance was handsome. It only made sense to him that he could go on spending and spending and spending to his heart’s desire without fear of any comeuppance. The only thing that ever meant anything to him was the fact that he was the son of a man of great wealth and importance. Not only was that man dead, but his wealth was too.
So, here was American Man, red-faced and disgraced, reduced to a hollow log on his bench. After a while like this, he felt it was probably time to get going. Where to he had no idea because he was served an eviction notice earlier that morning and his home was now in the process of being foreclosed. When he got up, he took no more than three steps before he was surrounded by a group of diminutive and disfigured snarling men who had emerged from the bushes next to him. They wore tattered rags for clothes and spoke what sounded like an unintelligible dialect of English in low pitched nasal grunts that were more like the cries of a camel than any language spoken by humans.
The most porcine of the bunch, the one American Man assumed to be their leader, held in his hand a metal rod affixed to a small round base. At the top of this rod dangled a piece of loose electrical wire that sputtered and sparked every so often. The rod was thrust in American Man’s direction and then the men started to form a circle around him. They stood there entranced, holding out their arms and pointing at him while they hummed something he couldn’t make out.
A few confusing minutes went by until American Man reached out his hand and grabbed the rod. This gesture shook them from their stupor and sent the strange little fellows into raptures. They hooted and hollered and ran all around American Man slapping each other merrily on the back. Although he had no clue as to why they might be doing this, American Man started to feel a bit better about himself. He took his hand off the rod and the men went immediately back into their trance. He straightened himself and once again took hold of the rod. Same story. Shouting, screaming, laughing, all of it.
American Man went on with this for a considerable length of time. Each time he grasped that peculiar device, they went delirious. Each time he let go, they froze like statues. Each time he felt better and better. He stood there triumphantly as his new acolytes went mad around him, went mad for him. American Man was back. American Man was powerful. American Man smiled.
When I was six years old I drew Michaels. Now I am 23 years old and I still do Michaels but in a different way. Michaels can be anything. I assign to Michaels certain characteristics that they’re allowed to be. Michaels can be melancholic. Michaels can be normal or weird. Michaels can be bald but can also have some hair. Most Michaels are bald though and they don’t really have bodies, so they are sort of just a face and a head. The primordial Michaels used to have legs that stuck out from their heads kind of like blades of grass. I imagined them as spiky, pointy, and uncomfortable. Michaels don’t really have appendages anymore because they are more refined. It's less refined to have appendages. I didn’t ever let them have hands because they might grab something that they weren’t allowed to grab. I made a Michael yesterday. Michael has a long nose, a long face. Michael has a large, sort of misshapen head. Michael has a scowl plastered on his face but his eyes are scared. Michael is probably scared this time. I hope that maybe Michael can try not to be so scared but that is the way he is right now so he’ll probably be that way for a while. Michael is also bald because most Michaels are bald. I considered adding a hair piece to Michael but it just didn’t feel right so he’s got a chrome dome, a pate, a shiny head. Michael’s going to go in the oven soon. Hot! He needs to dry off before he can do that. He could explode in the oven if he’s not dry. I hope Michael will be okay because he felt so nice in my hands. I wonder if Michael liked or somehow knew what my touch meant. Michael, please understand. It’s all that you can do. Don’t be scared, Michael. I love you, Michael.
Hi my name is Jeremy and I am thirty-seven years old with two teeth and one big hair that sticks out of my head kind of like a lizard tail but on my head and not actually on the backside of my body. I work at Target, sorry, I work at Super Target where everything is super(b). You might procure some bread, socks, shirt, item, and even candles. Working at Super Target is an affirmative occupation because it aligns with my core values of bringing joy and positivity to the world while delivering excellent customer care and service and anything a patron may or may not want in their shopping experience. I love to drive my car with the wheels on the pavement moving miles per hour into the parking lot and take small or large sips/swigs of coffee that I drink out of my coffee mug every morning before my shift at Super Target. People like to stare at me because I am weird and I have a weird horn-like hair that sticks out of my head, kind of like a lizard tail but not on the backside of my body. Sometimes I will allow a customer to touch my large hair but only if they've earned it--only if they've bought the right toy. I can always tell when the customer purchases something that affirms their identity as a person that exists. When I notice this, I let them touch my hair. Everyone smiles at Super Target.
I took one hundred showers yesterday. I took one hundred showers because I did things that were so ignominious, so vile, so derelict, that I had to rid myself of their stains one hundred times. Each time I stepped into the slippery tub, I methodically applied soap to the region of my body that I defiled. A ritual of ablutions, a penitentiary of suds. The shower transmogrified into a monastery of clotted hair and grease. With each stroke of the bar I began to feel cleaner. I began to feel pure, juvenile, and thoughtless. That was my ultimate goal in taking one hundred showers. I wanted to return to an infantile state of complete ignorance. Man's first state. Existence before the Fall. For a split second, during each of my one hundred showers, a solemn placidity fell upon my mind. Paradisiacal elation--completely nude and vulnerable, yet contented. One hundred showers every day, I thought. I could get used to this. I love to be clean. I love to stand under the synthetic deluge. One hundred showers can bring you closer to God, on account of being clean.
I stepped foot onto the field where I first fell in love with the game. My parents say that my first word was ball and I believe them. when they all left, I broke down into tears. An overwhelming confluence of emotions struck me. I was incapacitated. I lay in the grass with my face to the sky, remembering how it felt to be small again. We ran as fast as we could. we raced and I won. I left my gasping breath in that vast green.
My grandfather cut his finger when he came and visited on monday. When he started licking his wound, I became implacably uncomfortable. It is a wholly naturally response, but it felt extremely off putting. I didn’t know why until something came to me yesterday at the store. Consumption of the self is a young person’s pursuit. In our youth, we all know that we chew up and spit ourselves out. We remake and refigure our identities nearly every day. But, seeing my grandfather, in his senescence, literally consume himself in the flesh was an entirely different experience, one i cannot fully put into words. I like to think it was a reminder that the effervescence of young adulthood never fully dies. God willing it doesn’t.