Book #2: Chapter 8 - Prairie Fire

My sock just moved. I swear to God, my sock just moved. Fuck you, it did. Fuck this. I fucking hate life. What am I supposed to do about this. I'm terrified. I can't take care of myself. When everyone is gone, what am I going to do? Who is going to drive me to the mechanic? To the doctor? The dentist? Who is going to make sure I'm ok? I already wonder what would happen if I hit my head in the bathtub. If I got stranded on the interstate. Who would I call? Who's going to come and save me? So far, it doesn't seem like anyone is going to. Or that much of anyone really cares.

I mean, they'll say they do. You ask a person if they care about someone else they know, of course they're going to say they do. They wonder what they could have done if that person dies. Commits suicide. Gets set up into looking like they committed suicide. Perhaps by a rogue sock. Some other inanimate object that springs to life. That hates them. Hates the way they go about the day. Hates the way they carry themselves.

What if objects around your apartment could come to life. What would you do then? Would you feel safe at home? Would you line up your quarters, to break the curse? Sometimes I make sure the salt and pepper are next to each other, so they don't get lonely. Then I wonder if they're mortal enemies. Maybe they're going to conspire to give me bad luck for the rest of my life. Maybe that's where it comes from. Once upon a time, maybe I insulted the wrong window blinds. Yelled at a loaf of bread that didn't deserve it. Broke a perfectly good pencil in half out of spite.

Sure, thinking that lifeless objects are watching you is probably a pretty crazy idea. But a lot of crazy ideas have turned out to be true. I know this one is just a weird product of some compulsions. Like how I feel like jumping off a cliff if I walk near one, or pushing someone into traffic when you walk down the street. Driving over them just because they exist. The scary part is, I know everyone else could be thinking these same things. Maybe one of these days, they'll take themselves up on the offer. I try to duck behind light poles, and stay away from steep cliffs and sharp edges. But one of these days, man. One of these days, some crazy guy is going to give up trying not to be crazy.

So, once upon a time I lived in a shack in the woods. My name was Walter Riverbottom. I didn't get my name from living in a shack in the woods, or wanting to live in a shack in the woods. I decided on it beforehand. Actually, when I went to live in a shack, my name was still Armistread Hossennfeffer. A couple of months after I went, I ventured back to the city to change my name. I did so, and went back to my shack. To find myself, figure out my life. Whatever you want to call it. Four or five months. It got really old really fast.

Anyway, I used to go scavenging for berries in the wilderness. I didn't need to, but it was something to do. It turns out finding yourself is really boring. One time, I accidentally stumbled into a herd of deer after twisting my ankle on a hike. The mother came up to me, looked at me for a minute, and left. I went back in the other direction as fast as I could, and sat down on a fallen tree for a few minutes to rest my ankle. She suddenly came up behind me, carrying a pair of only slightly worn moccasins. They were a couple sizes too big, but I thanked her and she snorted and went back to her children.

I really don't want to know how she got them.

Another time, I tripped on a big tree root and hit my head on a rock. I woke up with a sore head that was also wet, with a squirrel hissing at me. I guess he splashed some water on my face from some plants nearby. Or something. I'm not quite sure, how he managed it, but he kept poking me, and shaking a plant. Then when I sat up, he ran away. Well, thanks squirrel. Wherever you went. I hope you got some acorns. Or whatever squirrels really eat. Who knows.

The real reason I went to live in the woods was I was sick of being watched. There's this fundamental force in nature that seems not to affect anyone but me. All hours of the day, it feels like a million eyes staring into me. A million alien beings from a parallel universe; a universe that is watching me. Maybe they have my best interest in mind. Maybe I'm their savior. Maybe I'm their anti-christ, the devil. Maybe I was born to destroy their universe and I'm the only one that knows about it. Maybe I won't even realize it when it happens. Until it's too late. But maybe it'll be a good thing. Cleaning out a bad dimension. A prairie fire. Fusion, supernovas, comets, entropy, nebulas, strings, black holes, wormholes, heavy water, and yours fucking truly.

If I got stranded on the interstate, like I fear every time I get on it, I'd sit there for hours and hours, and eventually some serial killer who's looking for his next victim will come along and take off with me. Nobody around to help. What are the squirrels going to do? Throw a nut at him? That's not going to help. Serial killers are nut-resistant. That's the worst case scenario of course. The best case is that I walk miles and miles home - I've done it before - and try not to get hit. I call for a tow truck I can't afford, and a towing guy that hates me takes my car to a mechanic that hates me, overcharges me, doesn't fix it, and it all happens again. Meanwhile, I miss a couple days work since I don't have a way to get there. I get fired, catch a cold, get an infection, gangrene, a horrible pain in my back. Can't go to the doctor, I die. And the aliens and their eyes rejoice.

Then, a couple of days later, after they flag my car a few times, they'll take that away too. And all that will be left of me will be memories of people that don't really notice me; don't know me. Don't know how crazy I really am. Just think I'm some kind of crazy they've conjured up; some kind I'm really not. Memories.

Memories, and the words that I'm writing right now. So, you see, writing is really about immortality. If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself. I think about killing myself an average of three times a day. But truthfully, I'd like to stick around for a while longer. I'm trying as hard as I can. I promise. I'm trying really hard to not be crazy at all.

None of that can happen. It's not supposed to happen. That's not how this plays out. It can't be. I didn't come all this way. I didn't come all this way for this to happen to me. This can't be happening. I can't be alone like this. Not anymore. It has to stop. But I can't stop it.

It's not supposed to happen like this.

I moved back into an apartment after a while. It's a step down, but I've gotten used to it. But still, I don't like to meet new people. I don't trust them. They don't have my interests at heart. They might help out, if they could. If they felt like it. If they weren't preoccupied. But they won't, really. I don't know how to meet new people. They won't like me, and I don't trust them. Really, most times I'd rather take my chances with the deer and the squirrels.

Labels: A Book for Oprah's Book Club