Sunday, February 12, 2012

Tetris 3/3

a short story cont'd and finished:

I was explaining how I would love to slam the cat’s tail in the door and put a hidden camera in my girlfriend’s office when Medusa36's chat came through. I imagined Medusa36 taking a look up from her screen of carefully stacked blocks and noticing the news that everything was on fire.
A nameless anchorman with the stoic face of someone who only dealt in facts. Tragedy had no meaning other than how it helped ratings. He would hold back a snicker as the sides of his mouth suppressed giggles. He would get a pulitzer, he would get a daytime Emmy, he would get the high class groupies usually reserved for the likes of the latest greatest rock band.

And Medusa36 shed a single tear, took a long drag from her cigarette--now barely more than a butt--and typed in the words that would forever characterize the tragedy unfolding before my eyes.

And that’s what I was doing when it happened. But that story doesn’t have the pizazz or gravitas that people expect. I shouldn’t have been taking a dump. I shouldn’t have been desecrating the moment with my own personal spite. Instead I should have been doing something regular. I should have been doing something symbolic.

So that’s what I do when a fun conversation drifts to ‘that moment’. I get real sad and talk about how that was the death of innocence. I talk about how I had just discovered the cat dead from eating rat poison behind the fridge, and how in the midst of my mourning I got the distraught call from my true love about the disaster in all of its earth-shaking magnitude.

Then I pause quietly for a moment, careful to avoid eye-contact with anyone at the table. I lift my glass to my lips methodically. And I take a sip that says, “I’m in pain.” When I set the glass down against the table I look around and change the subject, “does anyone play tetris?”