March 1998


I've got this funny feeling, like I've been here before. Like we've been sick like this before. Like I've seen you naked a million times. I know what it looks like and it's not pretty. It rarely is. There's this guy eating a sandwich on the top floor of a parking garage. He has a rifle. The sandwich is ham, lots of mayo, no lettuce. He finishes the sandwich and swallows the remains of a milk. He picks up the rifle, still chewing. Below him there is a busy corner. Below him there are a hundred people with featureless faces. A little red light dances from person to person, unnoticed. He breathes shallow. His palms are sweating. There's water running into his eyes from his forehead. Lightning flashes, the air stops, somebody drops. Somebody starts screaming. Somebody drops. Thunder claps fly around like giant fists hitting the buildings, hitting the cars. Somebody drops. Sirens pop up in the distance.

You know that feeling you get when you've eaten something really good and you want some more but there is none? There's just an empty brown paper bag, an empty zip lock bag, some crumbs, an empty milk. The last supper. People are starting to run into shops and office buildings. Somebody drops. Empty clip. Reload. The sirens are close. Someone is pointing up. Somebody drops. The mayonnaise was good. It was miracle whip. Miracle Whip is much better than traditional mayo. Somebody drops. The little red light dances. People are looking out of windows across the street, pointing. A window breaks. Somebody drops. The police cars pull up down on the street. People are pointing up. They get out of their cars. Somebody drops.

There's a picture you keep in you wallet. Take it out. Someone you love? The wife and kids? Just rope and cement shoes? Salvation maybe? All those years of salvation. The red light dances. All those years of moving towards something always far away. Somebody drops. There's a picture in your wallet with one less person. It doesn't taste like miracle whip. Wait for it. Breathe. Somebody drops.

Tomorrow everything will be the same as it was yesterday. Today is just another two minutes on the news. That picture in your wallet, salvation, they won't bring that up. Will they? There's a million different ways to say I Love you. It's choosing the right one that's the problem. There's a million different ways to lose sight of the fact that eventually everything is comparable to a bad dream. Club Med is one. What are the others?

Your Questions. I have no answers. Dail 1-900-Idiot Savant