The Morning News

Final imitation project for Short Story class. It might not make any sense unless you were to read the piece I'm imitating, but suffice to say that it's basically a surrealist work of fiction that plays on the themes of media desensitization and the over-stimulated American culture. It's not really something I'm planning on taking any further than this class, but I hope you enjoy it regardless.

"The Morning News"
by Cameron L. Maris
an imitation of “Reading the Paper” by Ron Carlson

All I want to do is watch the morning news, but right now, I’ve got a wolf to shoot. The damn thing killed my dog last week, and before that a domestic goat, as well as several guard dogs before that. The state has authorized us to kill the entire wolf pack, and killing wolves is not an easy or a pleasant thing to do. I’m a pretty decent shot, though, as my father took me hunting when I was a kid, so I don’t fret about it too much. The wolves are always coming around the yard, looking for squirrels and rabbits, so it’s easy to get a bead on him and take him out. Then Mollie’s alarm clock goes off, so I throw a bagel in the toaster and brew us a pot of coffee before work. She drinks two cups with me, and as her car pulls out of the driveway, before I can even pick up the remote to turn on the TV, I hear the squeal of tires and the gnashing of metal and glass. Some kid has been huffing Dust-Off like we used to do in the basement of the old house, and the kid’s so high that he can’t pay attention to the road, and he’s t-boned Mollie’s car and killed her. There are two cans of Dust-Off on the floor of his passenger seat, and one of them has his DNA all over the fucking thing. So, I’ve finally got the news on and I’m halfway through the leadoff story, and there’s a loud crash from the backyard. It’s so loud and so early that I know it’s got to be something big, and I’m right. It’s a huge branch that’s fallen off the tree in the backyard, the tree that’s being destroyed by the beetle epidemic from the news, the beetles that’ve been killing trees all over the Rocky Mountain region. The critters have been slowly migrating from Yellowstone to other parts of the state, and sure enough, here they are, in my backyard, tearing my tree apart, grain by grain. After surveying the damage, my bagel’s cold, so I pop it in the microwave and am about to sit down when I see Gabriel, my friend from Casper, walking up the sidewalk in his dark grey peacoat, so I pour another cup of coffee. Gabe’s cough seems to be getting worse. She started coughing about a year before the EPA started regulating emissions of greenhouse gases from cars and factories and whatnot. Our senators and congressmen have been working to prevent the legislation, bless their souls, or somebody might have done something sooner. But now, Gabe’s purchased a handkerchief to cover his mouth to catch the phlegm and spittle, so that makes it a little more tolerable. He says he heard about the wolf thing, and he asks “What color was that wolf, anyway?” I barely pay attention to him, because I see through the window two Muslim guys down the block, hanging out at the courthouse with bulges under their robes. If the explosion’s too big, it’s going to get debris all over my yard, which I just raked yesterday. The bombs go off, and most of the shrapnel lands in the street; that courthouse had such nice big white pillars out front. I turn back to Gabriel and the morning news, and I notice the coffee-ring stain on the kitchen table is still there. Gabe’s cough is worse than usual, a little deeper and wetter these days. God damn it, as much as I scrub and scrub this lousy stain, it never really seems to come out.

He

“He”
by Cameron L. Maris
(an imitation of “The Man on the Stairs” by Miranda July, from her book No One Belongs Here More Than You).

He was just a dim, shadowy figure across the street, but it caught my eye because of the way He was staring at me. I rubbed my eyes, but it -- He -- just stood there. I narrowed my eyes, I whispered aloud, Jesus Christ, because that was his name. I timed my breathing in perfect whole notes, slowly and deliberately, in-two-three-four, out-two-three-four. I was trying to invent a new way of breathing that was more like composition, so that if someone happened to notice me, they would only think that I was conducting a pleasant artistic science experiment, rather than cowering from the religious icon across the street. But after a while I realized I was counting aloud, which I felt took away my scientific integrity. And he kept staring at me, Jesus of Nazareth. He was standing with his arms spread wide, sort of a “let the children come to me” pose. He was thrilled to be there, in my neighbor’s front yard, finally finding one of his lost sheep after all these years. He was glowing. I don’t think I’d ever been as pleased with myself as Jesus looked at that moment. That is my problem with life, I’m never content with what I’ve found, even after chasing a dream for however-long, like the girl who worked at Target. She was barely eighteen, long brown hair and braces, which were a quality unique enough to give her beauty sort of an off-kilter look. She was perfect as an object of desire, but desire leads to consumption and consumption to over-consumption and to contentment, then to boredom. Or if I’m broke, I get a job and work diligently and never complain. I’m the first to volunteer for cleaning duty. I only do this because I know I have to show initiative so I will be paid. The sooner you volunteer for extra cleaning work, the quicker you can call in sick.

Jesus Christ the Nazarene, of course, is the total opposite of me, his whole thing is being Love Thy Neighbor and Do Unto Others and such. He was smiling so genuinely that for a moment I forgot everything that had gone on between us and simply recognize an old friend, only to be shaken by a quick flash of a memory of neglect and ridicule. He was here to take me, or to kill me, or to damn me, or something, and He looked so fucking happy about it. I stopped trying to adjust my focus, because I didn’t want to make my eyes so squinty. It gave me a headache, and it also made me look stoned, which I was, but if Jesus saw that it would alert Him to what a disappointment I had become. He might even wonder what else I had done wrong, and He might start asking questions like if I have a girlfriend, and was I having premarital sex, and if I was in love with her. I did, and we were, and no, I wasn’t. Alisha was looking for someone to marry, and I was looking for someone to fuck. She loved me desperately, desperate like love so often is, and she wanted to have babies and buy a house and get married. She might have thought I had wanted some of these things, too, but I did not, and I didn’t need to tell her that. Alisha would later fake a pregnancy with me, and go on to cause a real one with one of my close friends, Jason. I apologized to Jason afterward for not warning him. I still feel bad to this day.

I didn’t want Jesus to know about all of these sins. But He would already know. The moment I crossed the street, He would try to embrace me or kiss my cheek or shake my hand and the moment he touched my skin, he would feel all of my crimes. He would feel it in my clammy palm, feel it on the hair standing straight off my arm: O Lord, I Am Not Ready to Receive You, But Only Say The Word and I Shall Be Healed. But when He looked into my eyes, he would see Eli, Eli, Why Have You Forsaken Me? Would He like that I used His own words? Would He be flattered if I cleverly quoted Him? Most people like that kind of thing. Sometimes, when I’ve had a big fight with a close friend, I find it useful to slip in a little situationally-appropriate phrase that I had learned from them, maybe even something that I had teased them about saying in the past. This way, they feel like not only am I sorry for having been angry with you, but I forgive you, and have maybe even learned something from you. People really like the vindication of being listened to, really listened to, that comes from someone else quoting them. Even more than that, I like to quote pop songs and films to people that I may have once listened to or seen with them. Obsessively quoting pop songs is the third-most endearing-but-irritating of all my traits, which are:

1. I get bored easily.
2. I procrastinate to a dangerous level.
3. I reference film and music in casual conversation.
4. I feel no shame for any of these three
things and it makes me seem self-important and elitist.

Being bored easily isn’t so bad, but it’s the procrastination that makes the boredom so awful. There are interesting and important things that require my attention, but they are the very things that make me bored in the first place. Perhaps they are only problems because of the way they interact, and if I could convince them to play nicely with each other, they would be charming, likable qualities. Maybe I am an unsuitable host for my own characteristics.

I first met Him in in the third grade, when my parents thought I should attend Catholic elementary school. He took an immediate liking to me because I was freckled and fat, and my parents were both teachers. I was an easy mark, most likely to feel a need for some greater answer, if only as a way to make friends, and for some time, He was right. Then I got older and discovered theatre and writing and good music and how to talk to girls, and Jesus kind of became and arbitrary figure, someone I only talked to when I thought I needed some sound advice, or maybe a penance or two. On the day of my Confirmation in the eleventh grade, I wore my best shirt and tie, and even though the shirt kept coming untucked, and the tie wouldn’t stay straight, I knew that this was possibly the last time I would ever make my parents genuinely proud, and I could do it by doing nothing more than walking down an aisle at church. As I knelt in the pew, I looked up at the heavy wooden crucifix painted with streaks of too-bright red blood, and I remember thinking If you’re really there, give me some kind of sign, anything, if not, we’re done, man.

And now here He was, standing across the street as I slouch in a chair on my porch. Jesus stands so still that I almost wonder if he is so tired from his long journey that maybe I should offer him a seat on the step. Or maybe He wants me to come to Him, all prostrated and humble, or maybe He doesn’t see me at all, and if I hold as still as Him, I can melt into the shadows; he won’t see me, and I can start looking for a new place tomorrow. I can see His long white robes glowing in the purple summer night, the nail-holes in his upturned palms look like oddly-placed moles from a distance. I have a cigarette in my plam, but I don’t want to light it, for fear of attracting his attention. My roommate is gone for the night, as she is almost every night, so I’m not afraid of her coming home and getting freaked out that I was staring at The Lamb of God across the street. The only sound is of the leaves whispering softly in the trees, and a streetlight whirring and sputtering to life on the corner. He is so still that I begin to wonder if He is a statue erected during the day by that old woman who lives at the house, and I just hadn’t noticed It until now. What if I sit here until morning, hiding from something that’s not there. But lo. In the dim ambient light I can see His fingers start to move in a “come over here” gesture and what I feel is terrified vindication. Jesus is alive, He is across the street, He sees me, and He wants to talk to me, but He wants to do it on His terms. If, by the end of this night, I was spared eternal damnation, I would never forget this lesson in stoicism and tenacity. He was calm, relaxed, and perfectly content in staring me down from a hundred meters, while I was too timid to answer my phone when my parents called. And it was working, because it was scaring the fuck out of me. I don’t think I’ve ever been able to intimidate anyone that well, even when I was a starting lineman on my high school football team, or when I was elected to student council. Perhaps if I were more assertive and persistent like Jesus, I could have gone back to college and gotten that theatre degree, and I could be a famous actor, and I could even play Saint John in a movie about the crucifixion. Maybe the actor playing Jesus would look down from his CGI cross and say to me “Son, this is your Mother,” and I would quietly let a tear fall down my cheek. Maybe. Maybe He would come to the premiere and sign autographs and slap me on the shoulder, and I would lean into His ear and whisper: We couldn’t have done it without ya, Big Guy.

I slipped my hands in my pockets and stood up. I was still dressed in my untucked half-tux that I wore for work, bartending banquets at a local hotel, because what the hell. Maybe He would think I considered the chance to speak to Him for the first time in years a semi-formal occasion. I stepped off the porch, walked across the yard, and onto the sidewalk. I felt naked in the yellow light of the streetlamp, but I could see Him more clearly. For the first time, I noticed the red heart on His chest. I stood waiting for Him to motion for me to come closer, or for Him to smite me with a thunderclap, whichever came first. Finally, I stepped across the street to Him, and I could see his soft, brown eyes. They looked watery. I was right in front of him now; I cocked my head and furrowed my brow to see him better in the darkness. Our faces were parallel. I could smell musky incense burning. It was familiar, He was familiar, I felt safe in His presence. I stood there, and He stood there, and He spoke, and He made a sound that was not a human sound, but an ambient one, like a church organ squealing a wrong note. And I spoke human words, in a human tone, as only a human can speak. And suddenly I could see Him clearly, and I remembered all the reasons we had met in the first place. We were staring into each other’s eyes and suddenly I felt angry. Go away, I whispered. God damn you. Leave me alone.

The moment that Alisha finally told me that she had gotten her period and that she was not pregnant, I bought us a drink. I drank with her, tapped my empty glass on the bar, and told her to go to hell. I walked away smiling, and I took her best friend home that night. She had wanted to name the child ‘Taylor,’ anyhow, which is a silly and utterly pointless name. I began to fall in love with her best friend, and soon the whole matter became something that we just didn’t talk about. It became an amusing little anecdote, a story-often-told. But I didn’t laugh when I told it. I steeled myself against laughter; I would rather die than laugh. I didn't laugh, I did not laugh. But I died; I did die.