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.