RD
July 12th, 2009, 08:06 am
It feels weird posting these stories online. I hope you all enjoy them, :D It would also be easier to read if you copy the text into a documents program because the forums makes long text with a lot of breaks a bit funky.
Still Don't Know What Love Is
Bas-Relief
I woke up frightened, gagging and coughing. It’s as if the world didn’t want me anymore, but was kind enough to try killing me in my sleep, in a slow, creepy torture. It was warm and muggy this particular morning, with the curtains wide open uncharacteristically. Light sifted through the frosted glass, dancing across my bed sheet, plain walls, aching body, changing slowly as the sun rose at a placid pace. It must have been a sight: a large, young man, stumbling his way across a morning room to the bathroom with eyes swollen shut, all the while coughing up a storm. A sight, but not so much an uncommon one to be had these days, I must say.
Lumbering towards the bathroom, I managed to make it before vomiting. Just as a wave of nausea overcame me, I pulled out the culprit for my troubles: the retainer in my mouth. My dentist said I should wear it every night because it helps against the wearing down of my teeth. I grind my teeth chronically, loudly, like a sleeping saw, but not. I got the retainer to keep my teeth straight after wearing orthodontics nearly a decade ago. It all seems ironic to me, how a chunk of plastic worth no more then a few ten dollar bills is used to retain the perfection that thousands of dollars, dozens of hours of expertise work, and ages of pain, had created.
The face that appeared in the mirror is so worn and tired, shaggy with facial hair, thick in skin and thought. I almost couldn’t believe that I let myself become what I was looking at… but all at once it made perfect sense that to why and how it happened. I was a living testament to what happens to characters living in the game of the universe, of modern society. A lumbering freak with not much more to his name than his soul, rent, and a little sanity left over from his childhood.
That is what I saw in my own reflections.
I spent my afternoon and evenings working in a carving station at a wood workshop. I worked hacking away at hunks of fragrant oaks and vivid cherries, scraping away existence into beauty. I usually did the designing and work. I felt especially weird when I was given specific orders to head a project because I was the youngest in the workshop. They kept telling me I showed the greatest talent they have seen, and a lot of potential, but I don’t think so. I was still the youngest, and there was so much to learn from the people who have been carving wood for longer then my dad’s age. They told me, talent is talent, and I had what ever that was. I tell them, I’m still so young and naïve, innocence and pliability run through me like green bark. I tell them, praise me any more and I fear I may snap like a piece of wood that was asked to bend farther then it could.
The boss, Stan, is this man with a wife and kids. A real family oriented person. A bit young to be so situated and settled, I used to think. But at the same time, I envied how ready and complete he was; a thirty nine year old man, and he already knew who he was. So ready and braced for life, and I thought he was a saint. I first came to him looking for work three years ago, I think. He asked me, “Do you have any experience?”
“I’ve been carving wood with my dad and mom for a lot of years now, but I don’t have any formal experience, no, I don’t think so.”
Stan asked me to come back with some examples of my work, because he didn’t want to give me the boot just yet. I’ve been backpacking across the continent since the end of college, or since I last went to college, seeing how I dropped out. And because I’ve been pretty much a vagabond for the past two years, everything that I have carved since Manitoba, my home, is in my bag with me. I carried everything I could with me up until just around then.
Stan hired me on the spot when I showed him a bowl I was carving from a knot on a tree. He asked me, “Do you have a place to stay?” after noticing that I didn’t look like I’ve seen the best of days.
“I’ve managed, but I plan to find a place after saving some money. Maybe be a little more permanent, just for a little bit, you know. That’s what I hope.”
“What about are you going to do until then?”
“The same thing I’ve been doing up until now, I guess.”
He looked me straight, and told me sternly: “I would really appreciate it if you would get some rest, clean up, and eat some proper food before coming to work each day.”
“Yes sir.”
“I’m not telling you this because I want life for you to be any harder then it has been, and I don’t know what is going on in your life, and it isn’t any of my business. But this here,” he said gesturing around the large studio, “is my business, and I need you to help us keep an image that we have worked hard to gain while you do work here, do you understand?”
“Yes sir.”
“So, until you do save enough money for a proper home, I strongly recommend you stay with me. My house is warm, large enough for one more body, and lord knows my wife makes the greatest meals.”
“I don’t know, sir…”
But Stan insisted. He looked into my eyes with his piercing irises, which spoke for him when his mouth made no sounds. He looked at me without blinking for what seemed like an eternity, and in the sound of silence, I broke and replied, “I would love to stay with you sir, if you insist that I won’t be a burden.”
Stan radiated so much kindness I never actually left his home, always insisting that if I save up for just a little bit more that I could get something more. My bank account only grew and grew, but never going to any of my American dream homes.
What puzzled me was how generous some people can be even though you don’t know them at all. It’s like, society can teach someone to be wary, fearful, and very defensive, that keeping is far better than sharing, that hate is somehow appropriate for achieving love. But miraculously a few rough diamonds are shaped, and only shine brighter then the brightest stars. I’ve been sheltered in homes on blizzard evenings by people I’ve seen for no more then a split second before, been given an untouched meal bought with the intention to be eaten by someone else, been told I love you by complete strangers.
But then again, I’ve been beaten by people I’ve known for years, been run out of towns like a village ogre, been looked at as if I were a runt scarring some sacred and beautiful land no one even really knows about.
Apart from Stan, one of the best persons I’ve ever met was this old lady who took me in after a year of foot trekking. She lived in an ocean border town in Virginia. Her name was Edna, and the last time I heard from her she was in the hospital, with a bad case of lung cancer she wrote in a letter to me.
“Been smoking since I was sixteen, and if there is one thing I can’t do in the world, it’s get over this addiction. It’s going to kill me, I guess I must admit, and if I catch you starting to smoke I’ll make personal care to see that you stop,” she told me.
Her sons are far away, and her grandchildren aren’t any closer. Her husband is long gone also, and I guess all she had before I came around were just some really generous people who came around to make sure she was fine. And the one thing that made me love her so much was how she lived her life. I was her in-home handy man I guess, fixing faucets, patching roofs, mending furniture, in exchange for a home, meal, and company. I would take her into town to shop, entertain her with stories and songs, make sure she was at least good during the days and nights I was living with her. But at the same time, I wasn’t there to help her, as much as I was there to give her comfort and a soul. She would watch me fix one faucet, and then go fix others on her own; she would send me up shingling on the ladder while I patched the roof; she would mend her gardens while I mended her living room armour out in the lawn. She lived her life for herself primarily, learning to fish at opportune moments, just to ensure if she could survive if anything turned for the worst.
That attitude lent itself to me. I could come and go, from life to life, easier then before. It wasn’t like I had become detached from human nature and people, or self centered. But in a way, I could say my fleeting nature was a child of me becoming something like self centered, but not quite. Life seemed so fragile when I met Edna, yet so strong and full of will. She lived without fear, but only because she lived with caution instead. But more importantly, I realized that she lived for life. She lived for the next springs blossoms, for her next grandson’s graduation, for the winter storms to roll in over the Atlantic. Edna knew that death was a natural part of life, but she also knew that she wasn’t ready and that she had the power to stop it, or at least postpone it. Edna lived to feel, and I came to the conclusion that I have been living too long without truly feeling for myself. And I could only do that if I attached myself to only myself, in order to at least feel strong.
Edna understood that when I told her I was leaving for the road again.
A wealthy man asked for thick, nine foot doors for a house he was building in some up-scale neighborhood. A bit excessive I think, but it was my job to work, not question. On the doors, too many to count from memory, we were to carve scenes from mythology: parts of the Rig Veda where Rama thunders down from the sky, scenes of Athena seeking refuge with Apollo, the epic final as in Ragnarok. One door that especially caught my interest was one that showed Prometheus, in a small fight to make some good out of all crap in the universe, created the first people, these small, insignificant things to carry on life, the pursuit of happiness, freedom. He sheltered them under his fig tree; Mother Nature and Father God was all they needed.
The magnificent tree, showing wear from time with bark grooves carved as deep as wrinkles up and down its body, arched its limbs from each end of the door. The limbs split into boughs, boughs turned to branches, and branches into small twigs, so insignificant alone like the unknowing people who danced within its shade, but together, it all created a complex fractal of chloroform into patterns like the heaven’s Milky Way. The people picked up twigs that fell underneath, feeding the fire that Prometheus stole from the gods, still ignorant. They didn’t realized that they were slowly raping Mother Nature of her purity, that Prometheus had been snatched away to be tortured for eternity, that chaos has been released amongst them, that soon their only great enemy will be themselves.
It’s only when you have self realization that you become something of any significant.
I never fully understood the unhappiness I was feeling up until one particular day. The storms, rain and snow, booming thunder and thick sheets of heavenly ice… it all just stopped, and that’s when I realized how unhappy I’ve made myself.
It was the Pacific North West, and you only learn to get used to weather that wasn’t warm and sunny. And I was growing restless feet, a strange sensation of warmth and socializing, and a slight bronze nature was beginning to overcome my complexion. The weather became humid and warm, and I was automatically put into a situation where I was uncomfortable; it was like I was getting used to the weather so much that I never really thought about it, until it was gone, and only then did I realize how ungrateful I was, and how poorly I’ve let society shape me.
And I was feeling odd, like if I staid any longer, doing a two to seven on a regular basis, going to bars and art shows and feeling like I was smart for accomplishing exactly what millions of others had done before me, that I would lose any strength I had. I was already feeling the loss of optimism, a lack of individualism. I was caring about what I looked like, how I held myself, if my teeth were straight any longer. So on a whim, I picked myself up again and left.
I was at my work bench, carving the last details of Odin asking man to extend their kindness from beyond the gods and to each other, when I realized I was done for good. My heart raced, pounding against my ear until I could hear little else, and I kissed my last piece goodbye. I’ve never been one to cry over leaving somewhere, so I just put my tools away and started to walk. I walked and walked, went into my car and drove. By the time I got home, the sun was at it’s apex in the sky. It shone a rainbowed rhombus onto my quilted cot in the attic room, above Stan and Joy’s room, that I’ve been living out of for the past numbered years. I packed some clothes into a backpack, and a few other essentials like toothbrush, books, photos and my retainer. Joy heard the oddly timed noise, and curiously, poked her head into the room.
“What’s going on?”
“I’ve got to leave.”
“What do you mean, leave?”
“I can’t stay any longer, I’m sorry. It’s definitely not you or Stan or anyone, but it’s everything else and more. I’m so sorry, I just can’t stay.”
“Wait, just wait please, let me call Stan to come over here.”
She rushed to the phone, and I heard her dial, pleaded something inaudibly, sorrowfully, into the microphone. Obviously near tears, and I hated to break her heart, but I just couldn’t stay any longer. She kept talking, and whipped her head around when she heard me walk by towards the back door. I heard her scream a whisper, a “Please wait,” and I paused for a moment, just enough of a moment to mistakenly play with her fragile heart… but then I kept on through the back door, and onto the gravel drive that lead to a wooded route. I decided North today, and set off, foot in front of foot, walking tirelessly for hours. The light waned slowly, pulling mare tails through the sky in magnificent oranges and purples that rippled across the heavens in a chilling mink jacket of sorts. The night didn’t seem any cooler than the day, if only muggier and thicker, and tiny frogs croaked from off in the woods as if to give me rhythm to keep my pace to.
There were a spotted few times that an overwhelming feeling rushed over me, and for a second I wanted to go back to Stan and Joy, back to my two to seven, back to society. But each time I turned back to look, a small road turning into a point horizon, I would hear a car. Instinctively, I would jump into the ditch, hide within the forest, in fear of rapist or murders, Stan or Mom and Dad who came to pull me back in and take me home. And in each passing car, I saw people, miserable that they are lucking out, driving on a road that they should want to walk on instead, and missing something they don’t even know yet.
The night was really beginning to approach, when a slow moving truck appeared from the south. If I went just off the shoulder and just past the first trees, the driver would surly see me as the sun creating a spot light for me to hide under. The brambles and thickets were also far too thick for my backpack and I to fit into, so if I planned to conceal myself, I had to dump my backpack just behind the railing.
I ditched my backpack and quickly ran my way into the flora, crouching like some idiot in the forest scared out of his wits for no good reason. I was freaking out like I had left nothing to fear but losing my life too soon, heart beat pressing to escape up my throat, the back of my head itching with anticipation and anxiety. The car drug itself in front of me as slowly as possibly, and I realized that the driver was turning his head around and around slowly, looking, I felt so exposed and so, so scared. I closed my eyes, choking on air, pretending that blindness in fear helped me think better, faster, as I was trying to pull a way to get out of this situation quickly.
“I can see you,” a distinctively familiar face sounded. It was Stan, and completely relived, out of breath, I drew myself from the brush of the trees. I was still shaking, near tears, a fragile thing tinkering on the brink of twilight, swaddled close to a soothing voice, comforting presence.
“What are you doing Stan?” I asked, even though it was quite obvious what he was doing, eighteen miles north from the nearest residence in a random forest route.
“I just picked up some things for you, packed up some more things I thought you would like. You seemed like you were in a rush, from what Joy told me.”
I was stunned, and remembered how Joy reacted when I told her I was leaving. I truly didn’t mean to hurt her, and it wasn’t like she was the problem, she was just innocently in the cross fire of everything in the universe and I couldn’t just let anything be anymore.
“Oh, I’m sorry about that, I just-“
“No need to justify yourself. I’m not here to attack you, I’m just here to make sure you know what you are doing, what is ahead of you, and to see if you are ready,” he replied calmly, as he pulled out a larg backpack from the back of the truck. “Give me your backpack, everything should fit in here fine,” he said with a huff, gesturing for the bag that leaned brightly against the railing post. “I bought some things for you.”
Stan began to take things out of my bag, folding them neatly into small piles that tucked themselves into pockets and folds of the new backpack. No one really talked, but nothing was awkward. I could just tell that Stan knew what I meant when I said I had to leave, knew that there wasn’t much stopping me, and if he did, it would be wrong. He was quick at his work, and in no time he was tugging on the pull tie that sealed the top, and I heard a ringing click that finally broke the moment of peace.
“I’ll make sure to call you or send letters.”
“We would all really enjoy that, and don’t forget to talk to your parents sometime. I’ll forward your letters if you send me an address.”
“That would be nice, thanks.”
He stood there for a second, and then came up to me to give me a hug, tight and warm and strong. It was really comforting and kind even as my back crackled from the pressure. He let go after a few moments, and looked at me with the eyes that triggered my growth and downfall, eyes of knowledge, eyes of burden. He ruffled my hair a bit, and got into his car silently, backing into a turn.
“Take care of yourself,” were the last spoken words I would hear from Stan.
I tramped around for a month, taking in the scenery through sketches and pictures, writing and exposes. I first went north, but then I became tired when the rain and wind picked up, so I decided to go generally south. I sheltered myself naturally, under trees and inside caves, living like the rust that flowed through forest streams: here one day, and vanished by the blink of an eye. I enjoyed the complex ways of natural thought, and I seldom mingled with people in society for the month, trying to live a life of solitude to figure things out, to make plans, to make sense, of this life of mine.
One day, I was walking just before afternoon, looking for twigs to kindle a fire with. I couldn’t find many around my camp site, so I ventured out into areas I haven’t been to, had time to chart into maps yet. The twigs became sparser as I got farther from my start, by the time I’ve been walking for a good twenty minutes, there were none. Just green, bright trees, and the light danced through its spotty fortified canopies. And as the fallen, dried woods became scarce, light was just pouring and pouring through, a curious phenomenon. I wanted to find out why, a novice and silly naturalist in lieu of Thoreau.
So I tipped toed through the naturally crackling forest floor, until the light became so bright and intense I had to rub my adjusting eyes, tears overflowing the borders of my eyelids.
I realized after moments that I stood at the edge of a forested cliff, overlooking a wide and expansive valley of green, patches of color, and the spotted trees here and there. It was an unaltered area, so natural and organic, lacking human abuse and alteration. I was in awe as the light came from the high points of the sky, radiating downward like a powerful, plunging blows from the ocean. I looked closely, and I could see vivid flowers in spectacular colors, shimmering beneath the cool breeze that just barely retained the taste of the salty air from where it came.
I was paralyzed by the raw and natural beauty that presented itself just below me. I decided that I would be camping down there instead of up here, and I quickly hiked back to my camp, staunching the air from the campfire, packing my things into the backpack in an organized frenzy. I planned to get to the valley somehow before night fall. I decided, going back to where I first saw the valley was the best thing to do for now. I though might have been able to see a path that led me down, or a climbable cliff.
The sun was still generally high when I reached the outskirts of the forest. I looked from the cliff edge, side to side, and there weren’t any visible slopes that I could descend from slowly. About a few dozen meters west, though, the cliff face became spotty, and more than enough for someone to climb down the fifteen meter drop. I didn’t even hesitate to look around. I just turned myself, and laying on my stomach I pushed myself down, my foot catching on a ledge, my hands grasping for a rock to keep my balance with. It was simple to get down at first, but then sliding back and forth until I found a place to take a leap down a bit wasn’t working. I was stuck for a bit, moving back and forth between two ledges, looking for a sturdy and safe way to get down, or even up. But there only seemed to be paths leading down, but none seemed very solid themselves.
I was exhausted, the sun descending faster then I, his rays brightening up the cliffs into great walls of fire. I looked to the side, aiming for an indent for my foot that I wanted to try out. I gripped the cliff face with my hands tightly, assuring a place for me to latch back onto if I decided not leap at the last moment. I reared for momentum, taking charge to blast left, when my backpack shifted, and I lost balance, grip, and I fell. And as I was falling, I saw Prometheus on the cliff, chained to the rocks as the sun blinded him; it wouldn’t really matter, though, because his head was limp from his own exhaustion, pain, blood dripping down his side, an eagle circling above us both.
I fell on my back, staring straight at the eagle, until the night overtook me.
I've been sitting on these smooth, grassy hills, staring at the rolling clouds for who knows how long now. I don't even know when I got here really. After I fell, I was a bit weak and sore, but thankfully nothing bad went wrong with my body. I just set up camp, and rested. I’ve been taking pictures and samplings of nature around me since then, which was a week ago I think. I’ve stopped taking time of things since my fall, other then the time of the day. I just think it’s pointless since day one is just the same as day two or day seventeen.
I’ve also been sketching and taking pictures of clouds. The clouds in the valley are different from the clouds everywhere else. They hold colors that radiate and shine like a rainbow, but pulsate and shimmer with wind and time. I sometime loose myself so deeply in thought, just staring at the skies, that I would pass a whole day without eating until night fall, and I would have to rush to make a small fire.
Today, I woke up, stretching wildly with a grunt. I went outside, made myself a cup of coffee, and set to sketch some more things into my journal. I looked up at the clouds to see their shapes and colors, but there were none. I was confused, and I thought I was just looking at the sky in the wrong way, looking in the wrong place. The clouds were always dancing in the skies, even if inconspicuously, but always without fail. I began to panic, and I looked through my journal too see other sketches I had done of clouds… I prayed that I just forgot what clouds looked like, that I’m just over looking them. But there were simply no clouds in the skies.
I went down on my back, the soft grass cradling me in its southern warmth, as I bubbled completely destroyed. I cried, and cried, and cried, thinking that everything is unfair, that nothing is truly right in the world. The bent are praised, books are burned, the evil are loved, the kind are beat, and leather goods are only more common even though synthetic material that is cheaper and stronger is readily available.
But I sighed in relief after having wet my eyes out. I think and think, finally realizing that nothing is truly eternal, nothing is for sure. I realized that I have put an emphasis on too many things that are irrational and dynamic, basing my life around them as if I can go back on my endless numbered days and find everything exactly the same, again.
I don’t stop crying, and I start to cough wildly, gagging on life and air and love and hate and thoughts of paper and Prometheus, and too many experiences in years too short. I pull out my retainer, and I brim a wide smile, and I say:
“A crying man… what a sight, but not so much an uncommon one to be had these days, I must say.”
This story was written for an English class project. It's a short inspired by Catch-22, and from the view of Mudd, also known as the Dead Man.
Mudd
It was illogical reasoning that led Mudd to joining the air force:
Foremost, he couldn’t swim. The navy was out, for the idea of a sinking in a sinking ship frightened him. Entrapment and claustrophobic settings were also things that he wasn’t too partial for also, but he felt it was bearable at the least. He still didn’t like the idea of being trapped in a ship.
Or in a tank for that matter. He disliked the idea of guns pointing directly at you, or, even worse, a tank. A tank pointing at him frightened him the most, especially if he was in a tank itself for you can’t run away too fast when you are trapped in the claustrophobic tank. Because you can’t run when you are trapped, especially in a tank.
Mudd, however, was excited when a friend told him the stories of flying in a plane. The majestic landscape of the glorious world, it was all condensed and compressed and molded into a toy doll house where people were just ants in the being to be looked down upon. That’s what he was told. Mudd was intrigued, for he had always had a superiority complex: he lacked any sense of confidence. He wanted to feel confident, he was confident of that, but he didn’t know how to go about it.
He tried changing his wardrobe, but that only made him feel awkward in public. He tried changing his personality, but he couldn’t figure out how to go about that. He tried entering competitions, but his orchid wasn’t nearly as tall or big as everyone else’s. Mudd ended up burning his new clothes, tossing his orchid Mary into the flames licking upwards to the sky. The one thing that he did succeed at was changing his personality, because he now became morose, dark, and angst ridden.
You got to find a new outlook on life, a friend told him.
What do you mean?
Well, maybe find a new purpose… or a purpose at that. Find a reason other then work and paying rent to get up in the morning. Put a little zing in your life. When was the last time you went out and drank some?
I’m not sure… two years ago?
There is your problem. You need to do something exciting, get out and go explore, meet a girl, have some fun.
I don’t know…
Trust me! Mudd’s friend nearly yelled at him as he was pushing him out the door. Go out, get drunk, and if you need help someone can come get me to get you, or something.
The door slammed behind Mudd, and locked.
Mudd went around town for about twelve hours, trying to find bars or even a hooker, but nothing seemed pleasing to him. He went into a fancy restaurant in his messy jeans and untucked shirt, and ate the most expensive pasta dish they had. Pasta was Mudd’s favorite. The other diners stared at him, sniffling at his mess. One lady did remark on how he at least smelled good. Her happiness in scent was short lived, as she shrieked when she found a fruit fly dancing on top her soup.
There is an insect on my food!
What may be the problem? The Maître D’ asked.
I think there is a fly on her food, said her husband in the most polite and calm way. Can we get another bowl of soup?
No! The wife shrieked. No, no, no! We need to leave this pig sty, this place is filthy!
Darling, there is no need for that.
Madam, I will gladly get another bowl of soup for you, no charge…
You accuse us for being cheap? She bellowed again. The Maître D’ sighed.
What is your name, sir?
Washington Irving.
What kind of name is that? German? She snorted.
By eleven, Mudd decided to call it a failure of a day, and went home. The taxi dropped him off outside his neat, little hovel. He stepped inside to find that his friend and many others were playing cards drunk all around his house. The alcohol was thick and dampening in the air, and Mudd got dizzy at even the sight of all the empty cups and bottles.
You all gotta get out of here, Mudd exclaimed, pushing out those nearest to the door.
Everyone stammered and stuttered as Mudd tried to get people out. Everyone was as confused and jittery as a goat. Some left easily, and one man vomited when Mudd got him to his feet to walk out.
What is all of this? Mudd asked his friend when he found him.
Oh, well it was going to be a… party! Yeah, party. A party for you. We got the people, and we got the place, he gestured around, and all we needed was the alcohol and you! Yes, you. We just got… tired from… waiting so we sort of started without you…
By the morning, everyone was gone, the house was as clean as it would get, and the smell was nice and masked.
Mudd decided later that day that the only way to build up confidence was to do something radical, do something daring, do something crazy. He decided that if he joined the air force, he could maybe fly a plane, and then maybe he could feel better about himself, having at least one reason to look down upon others.
Mudd went to the downtown recruitment center; he waited at the bus stop near his home for six minutes next to an old man who smelled of death, paid his exact change, and sat down next to an old lady who smelled of death for twenty three minutes, until the bus reached the building where the recruitment center and the ten cent book store were located.
The receptionist lady was the first person one would meet if they went into the recruitment center. She wore a linen dress in the spring weather that fluttered in the blowing pressure of the room as Mudd opened the door. She was huddled over a pad of yellow lined paper that highlighted her chin jaundice yellow, like buttercups and people who like butter. Mudd sat down, and filled out a questionnaire she gave him.
Are you a homosexual? Mudd whispered to himself as he marked no. He decided that he was a male, five foot eight inches, had never been convicted of a felony, had no children or spouse and a bad case of no confidence today on the paper. He hurriedly filled out the rest with paced carefulness, realizing much of it was basic questions about his existence rather then about his being, and gave it back to the pretty receptionist, who took it without even giving him a glance of the world.
Go to the first door on the left, she said to Mudd. He looked down at her, and noticed that she was concentrating on a letter that had randomly blacked out words all over, with the intent of trying to decipher something out of it. Mudd was intrigued, but went on.
Door on the left, first door, on the left, he said to himself over and over. One step, and two steps, and after about five steps he was at the door. The door wouldn’t open though. He looked up and down the hall, at first thinking he was at the second door on the left or maybe the first door on the right by accident. But despite his confusion, he was at the right door. It just wouldn’t open. The plaque on the door even said Lt. Apsen and had in white, bold etching, RECRUITING OFFICER underneath. It must have been the right place.
Mudd knocked on the door, and he heard hurried whispers inside, a jumble of muffled sounds going from the left and right of the door, and then just silence as the door creaked open.
Who are you? an eye in the doorway said to him with the most amount of scrutinizing paranoia.
You are the recruiting officer, aren’t you?
Oh! Yes, yes I am, please come in.
Lt. Aspen ended up being the nicest man, Mudd realized, when he met him. He was young and talkative, and highly handsome. He had a curl in the front of his hair that wouldn’t stay tame, licking down at his face against the perfect grain of the rest of his hair. He smiled without a care of the world, a hint of jasmine on the collar of his shirt.
Now what can I do for you today? he asked.
I would like to join the air force.
Oh! You would, now do you? Do you know what that entails?
Flying, as I assume.
Lt. Aspen stopped at looked at Mudd with intent eyes. He was hiding something, but Mudd couldn’t figure out what.
I don’t know if that is possible. See, the air force is getting a bit full, no room for people now. Too many people already, not enough air planes to fly. No, not any good. How about the proper military? The army? Or maybe the navy? No? Swimming is nice. I can give you the address to the navy recruitment center, it’s not too far, just a bus ride away.
Mudd shook his head furiously. He didn’t know what he was to say to a military man who insisted he join everything else other then the one thing he wanted to join. He had no power to do anything, he just felt useless. He felt he had no back bone, he felt he was dumb, he felt weak.
A sniffle came from the left. Everyone whipped their heads left, and waited as if something were going to happen. It was about a minute until a prostitute sneezed her way out of the closet and onto the floor.
Sorry, it’s really dusty in there, she said, picking herself and her boa up and placing both back in the closet, with the latch making the last noise.
Ok, ok, you got me there, said Lt. Aspen. What do you want? I’ll try and do anything, just don’t use that information against me.
Mudd was confused, but proceeded forth. He told his story, about how he was the youngest and smallest, and how he never felt or thought too highly of himself and how he was scared of water so he couldn’t swim, but how he was excited to see the world from where God views things at, and how his brothers are in the war and how he wants to really bad (but not really at the same time).
Why didn’t you get picked up in the draft? Lt. Aspen asked him.
Mudd paused.
They said I was Mad, that I thought too much too madly. Mudd looked up at Lt. Aspen, with furious and wide eyes. But I’m not! They are wrong, I’m not mad. I just think a lot about a lot of things no one thinks about. That doesn’t make me mad.
No, it doesn’t.
I’m not mad.
No, I’ve known you for today, and I know you aren’t mad. So here’s the deal, you will take these papers with you, and fill it all out, top to bottom, every line. When it comes to illnesses, just leave it blank. Not a thing. You aren’t missing a limb or an eye or you don’t have a bad lisp, do you?
Not that I know of.
Good! Now, bring these papers back here, make sure you are in tip-top shape when you do, and I’ll make sure you get to fly an air plane in no time.
Everything went through perfectly after that. Not a skip in any paperwork, or doctor, or trainer, or even in camp and training. Mudd seemed to flow smoothly through the whole system as if nothing was even there to impede him in the first place. That, or everyone just ignored him and let him go on, a whisp of a person amidst a giant horde of young, restless, mad and angry young men who seem to only want to go out and fight and shoot and hunt and kill. Like monsters.
It was either that, or Mudd was so incredibly unspectacular and average that no one could ever be mad or angry at him. No one had even given him the benefit of the doubt to see him achieve any greatness, or even a pat on the back. It being said, Mudd did so incredibly average and did everything so spectacularly boringly, there was nothing to look down at, or anything to look up to. There was just Mudd.
And it wasn’t even just that. Mudd was so much like Mudd, no one really paid him any attention. Mudd might as well just be air, because he was just there, and no one see’s things that are just there. Like trees.
The ironic thing was that Mudd never cared that he was being unspectacular. It wasn’t that he stopped caring. Contrary, he cared more now then ever. He was just in a mind set that life was going to be perfect, and be believed that because a few things worked out wonderfully for him, everything else in life would be wonderful also. He thought that everyone loved him. He didn’t know that silence wasn’t love. He thought that he had confidence. He didn’t know that a gun didn’t raise confidence (it only made it seem like you were making up for something else). Mudd thought that he had gotten over his superiority complex. Contrary, Mudd just had to develop new complexes, and wasn’t able to identify the new ones. Yet.
A dire mistake on Mudd’s part, for he was so wonderfully oblivious to the fact that he was just being over looked for being everything but wonderful on any extremes of the spectrum, he was as happy as the next clam. The most ironic thing was that Mudd even forgot his wishes of flying an air plane, too busy with his delusions of grandeur, too busy with a fantasy where he no longer needed any objects or events to measure his complexity or his competence or his happiness.
Over the next while, Mudd climbed his way up the air force ranks unnoticeably. He sank down into a hole of responsibility where he was told of nothing to do, had a lot to do, where no one would listen to him, but everything would always get done. If Mudd was ever not to open his mouth to command, he wouldn’t get in trouble, for there was not a thing to do. And if he spoke too much, no one noticed, as they were already doing what he was telling them to do.
It was almost fitting that Mudd become a second lieutenant. Everything seemed to get done, even if nothing was ever needed to be done. Everything was just perfect. Still, Mudd had no reason to suspect his life was nothing but perfect also, and sadly, he didn’t suspect. He instead saw it as a sign when he was assigned to Pianosa that he was meant for even more. He wanted to prove he could achieve and amount to a lot. He simply wanted to impress the world.
On the flight to Italy, he sat next to a strange man in a pin stripe suit. Neither of the two talked to each other, though Mudd tried to multiple times throughout the first half of the flight. The strange man declined any offers of a conversation, instead opting that he lay his hands neatly on top a briefcase and look either straight forward, to either side, or up or down. Mudd noted that the strange man never looked backwards. He saw it as a waste, seeing that he was lucky enough to have a small window that shot beautiful streams of sun light into the body of the ship. Mudd would periodically turn to his left, trying to take a peek out of the window, but the strange man always seemed to be obstructing most of the view to the point where it was useless to crane his neck just to see a wing and a few decals.
You’ve been bothering me for the past few hours, ya’ know?
Really? I’m sorry… said back Mudd, who for the first time in weeks began to recline and shy away.
Well, if you are going to cramp your neck and back up twisting every-which-way, might as well cramp it doing something useful. Censor these in going letters.
Why would we need to censor in going letters? Isn’t the only problem information going out that shouldn’t be going out? What could be in a letter so bad that a soldier can’t read it?
Something. Just things. Stop asking questions, and black things out.
Mudd took to the letters and his ailing neck and back a black marker. He was too scared to ask what exactly he should be looking for. So he blacked out very little, usually just notice about things that might ruin morale, such as a break up, or pregnancy. Things like that, Mudd thought, only mud up a man’s mind when he should be concentrating about other, more important, things.
After so many letters, a lot the same, arduous writing about ‘Oh I am doing lovely!’ and ‘I couldn’t wait any longer to dance with you that I found someone else to dance with!’ Mudd thought it was a good time to call it all quits. He gave the letters back to the strange man, who was soundly asleep before the landing, and made his way back to his squadron in the back of the plane.
It ended that Mudd was being quartered in with a man named Yossarian. He didn’t even bother taking in roll call, him seeing that he could unpack everything knowing which tent was already his. Amongst all the men neatly chanting their name, a position, and where they will be staying with a hut-hut¬ confirm, Mudd grabbed his neatly stacked, messily packed belongings to the tent. But just as he dropped everything down to the ground, a siren sounded, the siren that sounds only when there are enemy airplanes within the premise.
A blown up ego kicked in when Mudd realized he had a moment to fulfill his hero dreams:
Mudd ran towards where the fighter planes were manned. It was only when he was in the cockpit that he realized that he was lacking all the equipment and gear that a pilot would normally wear. Furthermore, he had no idea what a pilot’s standard gear looks like. He didn’t even know what a cockpit looked like until then, let alone know how to fly one of the things.
It was only too late when a German airplane shot down the only American plane that wasn’t in the air already. Mudd died a quick death, painless, virtually. Or with just little pain, as third-degree burns are painless for they eat away at the skin down to where the nerves simply die. Possibly, Mudd died a very painful death, a slow, second-degree death, but a quick, painful one if anyone.
Unexpectedly, no one knew where Mudd had come or went. They only knew that his things were located at Yossarian’s tent, and that they didn’t know whose it was all at once. No one even really knew what happened to Mudd, let alone knew who he was. The enigma was deep in the idea that his life was perfect, yet farthest from perfect. Either way, he died as an unsung war hero, distracting disastrous enemy plane fire from someone who had any real potential to do anything impactful. He also reserved the power to do so much and have so much done without really doing so much all at once, the only person to get what they ask but from people who don’t give what is asked of them.
Mudd, they said, was simply mad.
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