Weightless (work in progress)

[JaceSan]

Yesh, the mythology tales fit well in the entire work. Put in more.

[erisesoteric]

sorry it took so long to get back on this one... I like it.

the spider story fits... who's wrong, the one who doesn't want to suffer, or the ones that force him to suffer because they have to?

[Chilimuffin]

(sorry it took me so long. I've been.... amazingly... doing some research. and I'm just a slow writer sometimes. It's a long bit, tho, so thanks for your patience ..... I don't have an order to these, but here they are)

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I am not the man I was. Ha. It would?ve been impossible to remain unchanged by those days. Everyone thought the world was turning upside-down, you remember?

I did a good job, though. I had things to think about, dark rooms in which to strain my eyes over ancient texts. I had my masters to think about, the universe to unfold.

It?s all your fault. Why... No... When did you think this would be a good idea? When did it occur to you to trap me like this?

I?m sorry... I?m sorry... It?s not your fault... It?s no one?s fault. But it should be! Then I could make them correct the mistake, turn back the clock, leave me to my studies. You could?ve met someone else, someone less demanding... More caring. Then I wouldn?t be stuck here with school clothes and diapers and instant formula. But then it wouldn?t matter because I wouldn?t have met you. But then I could?ve been happy..... I can?t win this one, Eve! Not without you! Look at them! They?re tiny and frail and all my responsibility! Didn?t you want them? Didn?t you want me?

No... wait... I?m sorry. It was just one of those things. One of those damn events that no one can control; not doctors, not me. It seems so small, now. This tiny piece of marble, the fine print engraved. Is this all that?s left? Where?s the rest of you? I miss you, Eve. I miss you, and I can?t do this without you...

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At some point, I must?ve thought they were endearing. My clients, I mean. I don?t remember. Now they?re all the same. A few are honestly nice people who?ve been screwed over by the system. Most are just angry because life didn?t turn out the way they wanted. I always want to tell them that no one?s life is their perfect dream; that would be too easy. Instead, I take notes, gather evidence, make phone calls, and then dance in front of the judge, trying to make both of us believe my clients are innocent victims.

Sure, I remember believing in ?The Cause.? Everyone?s a victim of our society, right? Someone?s fired because they?re a fat asshole and they?re a victim of weight prejudice. They?re still an asshole, though. It?s hard to blame the manager who had to put up with that person day in and day out, now matter how well they did their job or how much they weighed. But it still stands that the manager didn?t have the guts to say, ?you?re an asshole,? and dropped too many fat people jokes in the hall. So the guy?s a victim, and you?ve got to defend him on the grounds of weight, not personality. But you can?t believe in what you?re doing, because it?s just not worth the belief anymore. It does make you a lot more careful around the break-room coffee pot in the morning, though. Maybe that?s why I got so burnt out before hitting middle age ? too many people tiptoeing around with their morning caffeine boost, half decaf because we?re all ?trying to cut down for our health.? That same damn miserable joke every time someone spills ? ?Too bad we can?t sue McDonald?s over this one.? Now that I?m middle-aged, I?m not burnt out anymore; I?m on automatic.

You know, I remember visiting this building as a kid, back when it was important, when it was a good spot for field trips and talks about Bobby Kennedy. Dad was on the PTO then, and he pushed things like this through, playing on the white guilt of most of the other socially correct parents. We all marched off the school bus leaving the school-provided bag lunches and orange drink cartons in their milk crates in the back seats. It was a beautiful building to me. People were really doing things then. Racism, sexism, hate crime cases, the big stuff. All the lawyers were sincere, eloquent, ready to face the Supreme Court to defend the downtrodden masses. The linoleum floors gleamed righteousness back in our awed faces.

Since then, it?s all changed; you don?t hear about those things anymore. There aren?t anymore pro bono cases either; they don?t make news or money now. Hell, I?m the only minority in the department now, and I?m only half black, once again classified as ?mulatto? on the census. There?s something you never saw in the 90s. Back then, poor minorities still had a chance for help; they still existed in the law.

I remember when my colleagues all started leaving. Switching careers, or moving to different law firms ? corporate law, government jobs. One of them even became a Buddhist monk in Northern California. I couldn?t blame them; none of us expected to make a difference anymore, and the benefits were better.

I should?ve changed careers then. Margaret would?ve liked it, so visiting Dad would?ve been easier. But here I am, and now I?m stuck, I think. I?ve got ?law firm tenure? inside the skeleton of the ACLU, where there?s no such thing as becoming a partner. Bigger than ever, the institution?s like a supersized anorexic supermodel, with all the bones jutting out in a towering monument to how everything can starve. There?s no meat on the bones, nothing really worth fighting for.

I planned it all out as a kid, one day when I was skipping school again. The cops were out harassing the street men, so I stayed indoors. I lay on the living room floor with all my colored pencils and a pad of graph paper. I built my house in color, hundreds of rooms, each one for a different activity, for all the other freaks like me to live in, all the people I was going to meet as an ACLU lawyer. I remember making a sign that said ?No Normal People? and hanging it on my bedroom door. Dad usurped it later when I went to college, but I kept it for all the years until then. He hung it in his office, next to the picture of him and mom before she died. I think Margaret took them both down when they got married.

I remember the last time I saw Dad, right before he died. I remember his prematurely senile face, the original tabula rasa, completely free of thought. I remember thinking that he was finally peaceful; he?d finally forgotten mom, forgotten all of us. I remember why I got around to leaving this stagnant office building of forgotten justice, that last moment of lucidity in his eyes as I was leaving. A slow sort of chuckle, a preening pride, ?There?s my daughter. She fights for the freaks, you know.?

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In truth, I never started floating. I?ve always been floating, just that I couldn?t see it, so no one else could either. You think you?re going to learn something new in this interview, but the fact is that there?s nothing new to learn. It?s always been this way; I?ve always just been working towards this point, and now I?m here. Zen had it wrong, you see. I don?t reach out and become one with everything, I remember that everything is inside me already, and I listen to it come pouring back to the source. The Universe becomes one in me, I do not become one with the Universe.

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Before he starts drinking, Rabbit?s always scared, that crazy skin. He never talks to nobody and he always keeps his head hunched down, in case someone wants to eat him for lunch. He never breaks up a fight, never sticks around for trouble. He?s the most terrified skin you?ve ever seen.

He smiles at his woman, though. And she smiles right back as she smooths away his worry-wrinkles. He?d do anything for her, and she knows it, too. Rabbit, though? Rabbit has big ears. He hears things no one says, hears whispers in the night. He hears in his ears that his woman might leave him, and he?s terrified. He sees her smile, sees the smile on his new son. His ears tell him the new son might replace him in the woman?s heart. Mad with fright he scampers into the open.

His friends see him, they say, ?Rabbit, you crazy skin, calm down, no one?s left you.? But he?s all messed up with fear, that crazy Rabbit, so they buy him a drink. Rabbit likes it so much that he stays in the bar all night, until he can?t feel any fear at all, and he starts to like his new son. After all, it?s his; it can?t ever leave him.

Rabbit laughs all the way home with his new bottle. He doesn?t need the woman anymore to be brave. He laughs when she closes her door on him, laughs at her tears. His new son will never leave him. He takes his son, and he leaves, because he?s brave now, that Rabbit. Crazy Rabbit.

He us boys all about how brave he is, and they all laugh, ?cept Billy, who says, ?But Rabbit, you?re son?s gone too.?

But Rabbit, that crazy skin, he just laughs and says, ?That ain?t my son, Billy, it?s just a story.? We all know different, but we pretend. No doubt, that?s one crazy skin, Rabbit.

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I am standing in front of the mirror. I spend too much time here. But today I am not moving. Today I am not busy hiding the blemishes. No control-top pantyhose to make me feel one size smaller. No cover-up on the acne that still pursues me into adulthood, no clippers to trim the hangnails, no tweezers between my brows. No push-ups, tuck-ins, smoothing-outs or blending-aways. I am staring at me, ugly. Ugly and brilliant. This I know; this, my new job, my salary, and all my friends tell me. This is why I am alone.

To be honest, in the mirror, alone is not so bad. There?s no one to make messes but me. There?s no one to see me standing here, ugly. There?s no one to tell me I?m wrong. And I am ugly, but I want to be beautiful. And I am brilliant, but I want to be stupid; I want to stop thinking. But in the glass there are rolls of fat. In the mirror, there are wrinkles, sagging muscles, the aging of out-of-shape youth. I am not that old, but the mirror shows me that everything is still wrong, and I am untouchable.

Every day, I stand before judges, masked and calculating and brilliant. Untouchable. I would win more cases if I were beautiful. The mirror tells me what they see, even with the hose and the make-up.

I want to smash the mirror, bleed till someone notices, create a new image of myself in a new piece of glass. I cannot lift my hands beyond myself, cannot reach beyond my own frustration. I touch the counter, pick up the nylons fresh from their packaging, wrinkle them with impotent gentleness, and lean over to slip them over my toe.

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It?d be nice to walk down the street without the homeless guys. Just once.

?Hey baby, c?mere? yeah... What?s your name? You got a good smile, yeah, a sweet smile.?

?How old do you think I am? For you, baby, I?m always 30.?

?C?mon, work wit? me here; I jus? want yo? number.?

?I?m clean, Baby, I swear. You know I?m a real man.?

?C?mon home with me, and I?ll get you so high I?ll have to carry you home, I will??

I?d like to explain that all I want is to walk. Just walk. That I?ll talk to them tomorrow when everything?s quiet. I just want to see the sunset. I just want some peace. I don?t care if they?re clean, which they?re not. But I?m not either; I?m just a cheap cunt who?s no better than them. They respect hookers more than me; hookers have a price.

Damn me.

I try and sleep on the rich side of town sometimes to avoid them. Cops don?t bother mostly normal looking women napping on a bench outside the park walls. I sleep during the afternoons, like I?m someone?s lazy maid slacking off.

I mean? I have a place, if you count the abandoned remnants of lost industry a place. I even have an education. It should be a sweet deal, a place with no rent and a good vocabulary. I could get a job, even. A sweet deal, except for the damn noise the minute I step out the door. I spent a lot of time making that door secure; no one gets into my room. All those men just outside though. And my head.

I haven?t seen Crow since I told him to go to hell. He just said, ?okay? and left. I haven?t seen him in weeks. It?s funny how you never think of someone until they?re gone. If I didn?t want to see his face, maybe I wouldn?t look at people on the street so much. Maybe they?d leave me alone then. Then absolutely no one would want me for any reason, and I could just be me, in this place. I could?ve left. I should?ve left. I didn?t.

?I love you.?

?Go to hell.?

?I mean it.?

?And so do I. Go to hell.?

?Okay.?

Damn me.

I see the instant replay in the mirror Crow found for me when I found my place. I don?t see my fist smash it, but I watch the blood smear across the glass, across my hands. There?s one thin sliver standing like the steadfast tin soldier, embedded painlessly in the thickest of my arm?s needle scars. I sigh, and the breath of air makes it quiver, and fall, bloodless, to the ruddy mess on the floor.

Damn me. Now I need a new mirror.

[JaceSan]

No hurry Chillimuffin.

[erisesoteric]

Agreed. This is worth waiting for.