Another Three-Act Play (Act II)

Upon scratching his arm to the point of surprise, he woke up faster than intended and to roll out of bed.  Getting dressed and gathering his things, he walked downstairs to open the door to the outside snow globe that this world–this neck of the woods at least–had become to much surprise.  There was a great anxiety similar to that of Beetlejuice–(Beetlejuice! Beetlejuice!)–upon opening the door to a new, familiar world filled with gigantic sand worms living beneath the surface.

As he steps outside, he utters nothing obscene, but a statement of–

“I think that I’m cursed…”

–as his bag drops the the snow-dusted porch.  This all happens before he notices the shovel to his right, and this is the very shovel he uses to plow a path to and around his car.  This is the first time in a long time that he’d have to dig himself out.  The memories are nothing less intense than the definition of tedious, but he gets this done.

Throwing Knives, Loose Cannon Elephants

The text message temporarily ignored pertained to a pre-birthday karaoke outing and the debate wavered mentally on attending or not.  Attending was the appropriate answer, but the game of amateur singing proved itself as gaudy kryptonite to him, and knowing how the river would unveil itself seemed an unlikely inevitability.  Drinks would’ve catalyzed others’ unflattering encouragements while causing reluctant and delusional tolerance to the coaxing.   It was better off sitting aside, and this would be unproductive, but superglue would have been applied to his backside to keep him in place.

The hatchet was buried in the flesh of the hundred-some-odd year-old tree with branches still strong, but the soul confidence is mightier, yet delusional.  A comment received, the blow and the hatchet wound combo, the alone within the name of it came unprecedented and unappreciated enough to generate second thoughts and result in the overall dismissal of the plan of attack attendance.

The next part was carrying on with the day, checking on the cat and grabbing coffee before heading out for the college basketball game.  Friends were in town, and since moving made Mandatory Manly Monday Madness monotonous minus the muchacho, seeing this basketball game without the group would have been monstrously moronic.

The corner Irish pub was the idealistic spot to watch the game, grabbing the corner table and staking a claim in the boisterous atmosphere.  There were an elite eight in the group, and the winning team glowed a brighter orange after the second half, burying the team in a pit.  He was skeptical, however, since forgetting to don the appropriate attire to celebrate the winning side.  The win is a win regardless of wearing or not wearing what.  Consideration of attending other events clouded the mind of the wanderer, and taking the highway westward for 20 minutes in the cooling temperatures had been the next step in the day’s agenda.

The wheels kept pace with the instrumentals.  The drive was faster than anticipated and smooth.  However, the destination proved rough with arriving at a vacant house.  Stepping up closer to the dimly-lit abode, the house’s animalistic alarm growled and howled through the glass, testing the panes with clicking nails.  A phone call made enlightened the notion the party was downtown, and the eastbound highway was revved upon.  Faster than an 80’s movie montage, the arrival crossed the fashionably late border into the just-plain-late.  That was after the cars’ left front tire took a dive into a grand canyon of potholes, causing the car to shut off for a brief moment, the life of an inanimate object flashing before its eyes, and the driver’s head hit the ceiling of the vehicle and hard enough to see stars.  Blinking back into reality, he checked his hair in the rear view mirror.  The desire for food made itself apparent by a concerned stomach.

Greetings–waves and handshakes, hugs and cheek kisses–came with introductions to [a girl], who was essentially and nothing but obviously younger.  The angst from the stomach was siphoned to the face, utilized appropriately to brighten the cheeks and dizzy the mind.  The family patriarch and matriarch sat at the bar for greeting.  The introduction to this track was fine, but then the this record began skipping with the matriarch telling to the point of boasting her son’s tardiness, going to the wrong venue.  You asked if I was going to [cousin]’s tonight, he said.  She replied, I asked you where [venue] was, and you told me.  He defended with, Yes, but that was simply that, and directions were given naturally, but there was no clarification that [venue] was the venue.  The record continued to skip as she boasted her son’s going to the wrong venue until a fed up verbal eye-roll kicked the playing machine to normal.  The patriarch stepped in and defended his son.

As the chorus approached, it was clearly the chorus and not a skipping segment, the introduction to the same [a girl] was revisited with conversation blooming between the two individuals.  [A girl] had a kid, which isn’t a put off, and the age difference wasn’t as significant as anticipated.  Going back to personal duties, conversation about literature and writing and life came between him and another much older woman, who gave him a golden ticket of an opportunity to personally connect with a generous position.  Only once and briefly was moving brought up, and that did not derail the conversation; in fact, restorative hope was budding.

The chorus revisited with the bridge:  details of writing, improv, personality boots, and future endeavors.  Finally, conversation between he and [a girl] blossomed, but that’s where it would stop.  He’d leave, say goodbye, and they’d get back to their regular lives and respective homes, of course.

*     *     *

The snow upon the ground began to get crispy in preparation for another onset of bitter cold temperatures that would make the Central New Yorkers with the thickest skin to wince.  It was easy to shuffle his feet in order to move his person to the neighboring house to check in on a couple friends.  A De Niro movie played in the background.  The shame revisited his mind, arcing from a new year moment yet to be spoken about face-to-face, but that was ignored; as it, the elephant, was ignored the larger it grew to the point where the roof was popped off from the pressure.  No one enjoys an angry elephant with impenetrable skin, because it creates havoc while stomping over everything.  Fortunately, elephants do not have the capability to scale tall buildings.

However, the mammals do have trunks.  The larger the elephant, the larger the trunk; the larger the trunk the stronger the trunk, which increases the ability to swing from skyscraper to skyscraper, but this ignores body mass.  Physics cannot be considered at this moment, nor will trying to explain it be plausible.

Regardless, the mighty feet can crush a car with a simple flick.  As the flames erupt around the Sequoia-thick legs of the elephant, it does not wince.  The cold temperatures quickly ease the flames to forgettable smoke.  As a result, the elephant builds, develops thicker calluses, thickening its skin even more, and the mighty grey beast invokes terror upon the region.

But this thought process stops as food enters the focus’ mouth before traveling well-masticated into an eroding stomach.

But, no, I’m not better yet.

*     *     *

Playtime with the cat.  Mouse on a string wire, which is connected to a plastic wand.  The cat follows it, anticipating and leaping at the fake prey.  Floor to couch to counter to cabinet to counter to counter to couch to floor, and up-and-around again.  Tiresome.


*     *     *

Eyes open to another morning.

3 thoughts on “Another Three-Act Play (Act II)

  1. Sometimes I think the elephant is felt only by you. The others did not let thoughts of said New Year moment grow past an annoying little mouse on a cat-toy.
    I await part three, Chris.

    1. I think that is absolutely true. It’s a personal effort to over analyze an aspect of life. I tried to capture and showcase the metaphor by having that elephant march “out the door” and get out of control.

      As always: thank you, Mark. Switching it up a little bit for part three.

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