Nasty Conjugation

We had a birthday party for Buddy today. He turned eighty-seven, which he swore to us is the oldest he has ever been, though sometimes I think he seems even older. We decided to believe him because he would probably know better than us, and besides, we didn’t want to argue on his birthday.

Good old Buddy has been working at the Pump and Go gas station on the corner of Maple and Oak in Verboort, Oregon since he was just sixteen years old. Oregon has a little old-fashioned rule that says gas attendants have to pump your gas for you. Call it history or pride or angry union folks, but there you go. Buddy reckons Verboort is just about the only place in the world worth living in. It could be because Buddy’s been pumping gas here for seventy dang years, or it could just be that he’s more old-fashioned than any gas pumping law. It could be a bit of both.

Read the rest of this entry »

I picked the wrong time to start a new website! Too much madness swirls around me to even think about making up things to write. I am working on a few things, but as the pace of preparation increases I expect very little will be accomplished. I have dug out a piece I started quite a long time ago that I intend to rewrite with renewed energy. I’ll go ahead and post it after this.

One week until Japan! Christ.

It has been a little while since I posted, but oh! dear reader! Do not fret. Work has been continuing in the background. There are six (6) episodes of Dr. Whitaker’s Ramblin’ Steamboat Adventure Hour (working title) sitting on my desktop. As soon as the last two have been written and the whole deal has been editted for continuity, I have permission from my co-conspirator to post some of them here for your greedy eyes. Your filthy, gluttonous eyes.

In non-writing news, Holly and I today found out that we will be living in Yokohama, Japan during our tenure with Nova. It has a population of roughly three and a half million people and is about half an hour south of Tokyo. I hope there is room left in the city for two young Americans with the spirit of adventure burning bright in their hearts.

Tonight I went to Pizza Hut. I just wanted to lay down and sleep. I’ve been to this particular Pizza Hut location since I was nine or ten, I think. Maybe it wasn’t built until I was fifteen. It doesn’t matter.

The music here is safe. There are no sharp edges, no unexpected turns. It’s all been worn by years of easy listening stations, eroded down to Phil Collins, any non-socially conscious Springsteen song, Ninety-Nine Red Balloons (but not the original version, in German).

Music like this is not made to be heard on its own. As a culture we have worked hard to indoctrinate it into the background hum, ground it to atoms so we can breathe it in and out. Easy listening music was made to be heard filtered through a crowded restaurant. It was made to accompany the buzz of fluorescent lighting in elevators, to provide counterpoint to the tap of the dentist’s tools. Only then is the song complete.

My booth at Pizza Hut is warm red leather, like a womb. I know that if I spread out in the booth and sleep that they will take care of me. My waitress, Heather, will see that I have drifted off and come wake me by softly stroking my hair. The manager, Dave, will come and ask if I had nightmares, whispering soft comfort as he eases my head to suckle at his breast.

Everyone has something that is amazingly funny to them and totally inscrutable to the rest of the populace. To be fair, I think I have more than one of those things, but here’s one for posterity: iced tea tureens at restaurants that stand next to each other, one labeled SWEET, one UNSWEET. It doesn’t even make sense to me why that’s funny. It just is.

I was still thinking about sweet and unsweet when I left the buffet. I like buffets a lot, but not in the same way as iced tea tureens. I think the distinction is self-evident.

Squeezing into my tiny German car, my gut came ever so slightly nearer the steering wheel (the sign of a good buffet). I backed out, already intent on unloading my precious cargo at home in the comfort of my own bathroom. Maybe my reasons for loving buffets are not entirely self evident, after all.

My car lurched violently. I slammed my foot down on the break and looked behind me. Shit. A silver Honda Civic with two people in it, one of them gesturing wildly at the other. Whose fault was it? Probably mine. I was so busy thinking about the magical world of digestion and didn’t even notice that they were already backing out. I got out of my car, prepared to lay my soul (and insurance provider) bare.

When I got to the Civic there was nobody in the car. This was odd; somebody had to have been driving, plus I was sure I saw two people in the car when we collided. Someone tapped my shoulder, so I turned around.

Oh my god. It was a ninja.

Trying to play it cool, I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my wallet.

“Listen, I’m really sorry about backing into you like that. Let me give you my contact info. You can call me if I need to compensate you for any damage.”

He took the business card and stared at it so hard that I was afraid I’d done something wrong. Was there some sort of etiquette for dealing with ninjas? Had I made a mistake? Thinking fast, I bowed slightly, hoping that would help. It didn’t. He dropped the business card and fixed me with the same intense stare. I stared nervously over his shoulder at the sword strapped to his back and immediately imagined how many knives or throwing stars he could hide in that black coat. Probably a lot.

“Um, is there something, I mean, did I do something wrong?” I asked, trying to look very casual about moving towards my car. “Besides backing into your, ehm, Honda Civic?”

A sudden pain burst in my side. You never think about where your kidneys are until one of them gets pierced by a katana. The world started spinning and I fell forward, blood gurgling in my throat. I’d made a rookie mistake: never forget about the second ninja. Darkness closed in.

The two ninjas got back in their Civic and pulled out of the parking lot. The driver ninja was chuckling to himself.

“I’m always too hot or too cold,” said the passenger ninja as he adjusted the air conditioner. “What’s so funny, Dave?”

“Did you see his license plate?” he asked.

“Oh god, this again,” the passenger ninja, whose name was Albert, said.

“N45 TY1. I bet he didn’t even know,” Dave said, changing lanes and looking to Albert for a reaction. “Come on. Nasty one? I love when license plates spell out weird things.”

“Yeah, I know you do, Dave. You’re pretty much the only one.”

They drove in silence after that.