259. Failure in Communication

“I hope I never have to explain your species to an alien.”

“What?” This took me by surprise. C.W. and I were watching Fourth of July celebrations on television, he in the shape of an American-Asian teenager and me in the shape of a senior citizen on tranquilizers.

“Your species,” he said. “The abode of god and the angels forbid that I should ever have to explain it to an alien.”

“You are an alien,” I said, “and heaven forbid anyone should have to explain anything to you.”

“I’m serious,” he said. “How would you like explaining things to someone who wasn’t from here?”

“Uh, C.W.,” I said, “I’ve been trying to explain things to you for five years or so. Don’t you remember?”

“Well,” he said, “you have failed miserably.”

I bristled. “I’ve done a fine job,” I said. “Where have I failed you?”

He thought, then turned to me. “You haven’t explained hot dog-eating contests.”

That took the wind out of my sails so to speak. My stomach rebelled and I had to stifle a series of retches. “No,” I said, “I don’t suppose I have.”

He nodded as if he were teaching a class in astro-physics. “Care to try?”

“No,” I said. “You have to understand that there are, as the Good Book says, ‘things that passeth understanding.”

“Speaking of that book,” he said, “please reconcile ‘Suffer little children to come unto me,’ and ‘Take this kid up on the mountain and kill him for me,’ if you will.”

“Are you purposefully trying to make my hair fall out?”

“Hate radio,” he said.

“Stop it,” I said.

“The preoccupation with Kate Middleton’s womb.”

“I said stop.”

“Golf.”

“Quit, please quit.”

“Tattoos.”

“I’m leaving.”

“No wait,” he said. “I need you to help me.”

“You’re making my circuits smoke,” I said in a reference to a phenomenon unique to confused Falloonians.

“Care to explain NASCAR?” he said.

“Oh please,” I said, “don’t start again.”

“Okay,” he said. “I was going to mention dog shows, but I won’t.”

“Good.”

“Or skiing.”

I didn’t respond.

“Or video games.”

I ignored him.

“Or bowling.”

I'm hoping to use this image as the cover
on my final report on your planet. - C.W.

I studied a spot of poison ivy inflammation on my hand.

“Or banjoes.”

I jumped up straight. “Now wait,” I said. Actually I screamed it this time. “Wait just a damned minute. Let me tell you a thing or two, you, …you, … you ungrateful interloper.”

“Yes?”

“Just because something lacks vast appeal doesn’t mean that, for selected members of our species, it doesn’t provide peace, tranquility, a moment of distraction from a troubled world, an appreciation of nature, or a contributing factor to human development. What do Falloonians do to relax?”

“Oh,” he said, “the best analogy I can think of is that it is a game involving the ability to solve matrix algebra problems in one’s head.”

“Sounds like a load of fun,” I said, still smarting.

At that point, he began to whistle the tune from the movie “Deliverance.”

 

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184. Reviews

Poor C.W. I almost had to feel sorry for him. In fact, I had never seen him like this. “Crestfallen” would best describe it.

Here is what happened.

I found him at the computer desk in the form of a young man in grey, loose-fitting sweater, baggy pants, and black, lace-up tennis shoes. His hair was rumpled and he was going through a pile of papers he had printed. He seemed on the verge of tears.

“What the …?” I said.

“Failure,” he said and began to explain.

It seems that, unbeknownst to me, C.W. had written a poem and posted it on a website for aspiring writers. It was called, “Soaring Silently Through Stars in Splendor,” and you don’t want to read it. What he was holding were some reviews posted by others. With tears in his eyes, he began to hand me samples, such as

“Your poem saved my life. I had been on the verge of suicide when I read it. Now, I resolve to live in the hopes that I may yet read of the self-immolation of someone who would have the (censored) lack of taste to write such drivel. – Angstyinaustin.”

“Before reading your (censored) drivel, I had imagined that the worst fate in life would be to have a root canal performed without the benefits of Novocain while sitting on a pile of flesh eating maggots and listening to “Jennifer Hudson’s Greatest Hits.” Now I know there are worst things. – Puttermouth”

“I read your (censored) entry after attending my weekly Bible study. What a (censored) piece of (censored). I hope you choke when your severed (censored) is crammed down your (censored) throat. –Hedied4me”

“To Hedied4me: Why don’t you die for us, you (censored) moran? –Agapeluv

“I would like more information on your writing habits. In particular, I would like to know where you go to be alone and write. I would like to sell the exact coordinates to the next terrorist bomber I meet. –Right2me”

“Thank you so much for your work. My English teacher assigned us the job of reading a poem in class. When I read yours, she grabbed her throat and collapsed. After they took her to the hospital, I began trying it on other people I hate. You have been so helpful. –Angelofvengeance”

“Saying your poem sucks would be like saying that (censored) into an electrical outlet is a bad idea. –Puppykillr”

“Where did you get the idea you can write? Did Satan himself ‘soar silently’ through the filth and ooze that is life on earth and plant the idea in your (censored) empty brain? -Luvoflife”

“To Agapeluv: If Jesus had ever met you he would have made Charles Manson look like a Sunday School teacher you (censored) imbicell. – Hedied4me”

And, finally:

“Here’s a suggestion for your next poem: ‘Thoughts soaring silently through my brain just before I blow it away.’ The world awaits it eagerly.” –Luvangudness”

I think I can get this poetry stuff down
if I can just get a better computer.- C.W.

“What now?” I said.

“I don’t know,” he said, stopping as another message began appearing on the computer screen.

“To: Hedied4me,” it began. “you make my (censored) crave applesauce. And …”

C.W. switched off the computer and we sat in silence, our thoughts soaring.

105. Matches

“Intergalactic travel. Should I put that under ‘hobbies’ or ‘job description’ I wonder?”

I considered it. “It might sound less intimidating as a hobby.”

“No, wait, I already listed ‘making crop circles’ as a preferred passing of durations.”

While he pondered the most appropriate pastime, I fixed us a couple of Mexican Martinis. I love the way they affect him and he tends to forget until it is too late.

C.W. was spending Saturday evening filling out a questionnaire for an on-line dating service. It’s one of his favorite, well … ‘pass durations’ if you will. So far, his respondents were all English Majors except for the owner of a Christian bookstore in Seattle who was passing himself off as the widow of a Nobel Prize – winning physicist. (Readers will have to wait until the statute of limitations has run out on that one.}

Anyway, he was trying to broaden his constituency, so to speak. You should have seen him. He resembled a model in a men’s magazine, without that constipated look they tend to assume.

I handed him his drink and he sipped. “Marvelous,” he said.

“Just wait,” I thought. “Enjoy it,” I said.

“Cute puppies, Céline Dion music, and long walks in the spring rain,” he said as he wrote.

“That is so awful.”

“What?”

“Why don’t you put the truth down?” I said.

“Such as?”

“Analyzing String Theory literature, making homemade pasta, and buzzing around town on your Vespa.”

“I did that once.”

“And?”

“Don’t you remember driving her back to the bus terminal?”

“Oh, yes,” I said, shuddering. “But seriously, how can you expect a meaningful relationship to develop from such an orchestrated scenario?”

“As opposed to what?” he said.

“Chance encounters,” I said. “So spontaneous and romantic. Don’t you pay attention to any of the movies we watch? Consider the happy little accidents of life.”

He thought for a moment. “Such as yours?”

It was my turn to think. “Exactly,” I said.

“So you happened to meet your wife on the parking lot of your apartment complex.”

“That’s correct,” I said.

“Nearly 40 years ago?”

“Seems like the blink of an eye,” I said.

“Purely by accident?” he said.

“Purely.” I saw him cock an eye. “What are you getting at?” I said.

“She just happened to walk by?” he said.

“Just happened to,” I said. “I was working on my car.”

“And it was parked by the door of her apartment?”

I thought back. “No, I had parked it in a far corner, out of the way.”

“And she just walked by dressed in jeans and a sweater.”

“No, she was dressed for a date,” I said. “Really dolled up.”

“And just happened to walk by.”

“Just happened to,” I said, with less confidence.

I can't understand why I don't get
better matches on E-Harmony with this great photo - C.W.

“Did she stroll by, or did she do that ‘Lauren Bacall’ thing.”

Realization struck me like summer lightening, and my mouth dropped. “Why that little …”

“Hold on, pal,” he said, finishing his drink. “That’s your life-partner you’re talking about and she’s in the next room.” Then he banged his glass on the table.

“Put some music on, Big Dope. I’m ready to do the Merengue.”