The Tip

Steven did not like being made a fool of.  He did not like to be singled out, to be made an example of, as it were.  He could not shake the feeling that this was precisely what was happening to him right now.  His companions were oblivious.  They were too engaged in some inane conversation about how so and so was dating what’s his name, Steven fumed.  There was a conspiracy afoot.  He was sure of it.

            They had not seen their waiter in some time.  That lying, grinning, harlequin with the ill-fitting tie had disappeared into an abyss somewhere in the kitchen.  Usually, Steven would not care if the goon took his loud guffawing and terrible puns and disappeared from his life completely.  Sadly, Steven needed something from him.

            The other one came by.  But this one seemed only capable of imbecilic greetings and offers of water.  He didn’t want more water dammit, couldn’t they see that?  They were surely trying to drown him.  Like Noah he was, except he was floating in a sea of idiocy.  He picked at his food.  He had lost his appetite early and did not have the desire to try and force this overcooked slop down his throat.  He feared he would starve to death sitting here, waiting.

            His friends laughed at something else.  He did not care to know what.  They were not truly his friends anyway.  They were people he tolerated when he wanted people to think he cared about going out and being social.  The truth is, he did, mostly.  But times like this, when they were at the mercy of some unseen antagonist who for all Steven know had fallen through a worm hole somewhere behind the bar, these were the times he hated people.

            The lack wit came by again, trying to give Steven more water.  Steven sighed and acquiesced.  They would hound him endlessly if he continued to resist.  He might as well accept his fate at this point.  He would never leave this restaurant alive.  This kitschy theme diner would be his tomb.  Steven did know one thing for certain.  That waiter would not be getting a tip.  

Rental

            Steven was not having a good time.  The others were, apparently.  Their laughter sounded to him like the braying of mules.  Their guffaws and snorts only served to highlight their own stupidity.  Like primates with a new toy they could not disguise their revolting naivete and immaturity.  This also made them clueless to his own suffering.  But this was for the best, Steven thought.  None of them could possibly understand his pain in the least.

            Steven was stimulated by thoughtful discourse, by interesting events.  He wanted plots that excited and surprised him.  He desired characters that were fluid, not static in their behavior.  What he was getting was hellish.  This drivel was not art.  It wasn’t even entertainment.  It was pretty lights for morons.  It was the lowest common denominator. 

            But strangely, he could not look away, like Alex DeLarge he felt as if someone had fastened his gaze upon what was before him, and he was unable to close his eyes.  This frustrated and shamed him.  Apparently he took some kind of joy in the sophomoric display before him; there could be no other explanation.  This of course meant that he was no better than those Cro-Magnons he shared a home with.

            They exploded with laughter yet again, these chirping magpies, these shrill harpies.  The object of their amusement was some person on the screen.  This person was apparently quite clumsy, and their lack of coordination somehow resulted in comedy of the lowest order.  Steven had made many suggestions for an alternative to this, but all had been shot down.  He did not understand.  He had even lowered his standards and suggested titles that were not his usual fare, but in an attempt to compromise he had made an exception just this once.  Even this olive branch he had extended had been set afire and overruled.

            Steven sighed.  It was one of this big, obvious sighs that drips with boredom and frustration.  Sadly, the others were too engrossed in their own pleasure to even bat an eye.  Fools, he thought. He would remember this injustice for as long as he lived, which considering what was currently being presented to him as entertainment, might not be very long.  This was the last time he would ever let his roommates pick the movie.

Mittens

Steven despised this creature.  He knew the loathing was mutual, as well.  He knew by the sounds emitted from this loathsome pest every time Steven attempted to dislodge it from its home deep beneath the massive, four posted bed.  His forearms bared the scars of many previous encounters the two adversaries had shared.

            Mittens was not of this earth.  It was a creature out of ancient lore; the kind that would destroy entire villages in its wrath.  Great warriors would go off in search of its hide, only to end up as bones, fertilizing the plains of some foreign land.  Its dough eyes and disarming looks belayed a savage nature.  This was a creature ready to kill him, Steven knew.  It was only waiting for the right moment to strike.  He could not dare to let his guard down, even for a moment in this place.  He was the prey here, never the prey.

            The food lay nearby untouched, precisely as he had left it the day before.  This was a message he knew.  The beast wanted to undermine Steven, make him seem irresponsible, like he had shirked his duties.  Steven had not prepared to face a creature that was not afraid of harming itself if it meant getting what it wanted.  He spoke to the beast defiantly as he refreshed the stale food and fetched new water.  He wanted it to know exactly what he was doing.  He would not be intimidated.

            Only 2 more days, he told himself, then it would be over.  He and Mittens could get back to merely tolerating each other.  They would pretend they got a long for appearances, but at least then they would not have to rely on each other.  They could just pass each other like strangers in the night, neither having to acknowledge the other.

            Steven howled in pain as he pulled his hand back again, this time fresh with new marks.  It had broken the skin this time.  Steven raged.  He roiled, he cursed the creature and whatever black mother had birthed it onto this earth.  He shouted curses until his vocabulary was utterly exhausted.  All the while those cold, yellow eyes stared, unblinking.  Finally, Steve calmed down enough, to clean his new wounds and finish his duties here.  He locked the door behind him, leaving the demon behind.  And he thought about how much he really hated his girl friends cat.

Torment

The Line seemed to stretch on forever.  Steven contorted his body around the large woman with the stained Mickey Mouse t-shirt in front of him.  His temporary new view afforded him no relief.  He glanced at his watch for what seemed like the four hundredth time since he began this long, slow, death march.

                As he moved forward, slowly, painfully dreadfully slow.  He saw that the line did not end, but veered off in another direction like some sort of Sisyphean torture.  Perhaps those far in front of him, those heads that were barely visible by the top of their sunburned heads, felt as he did.  But he doubted it.  They surely achieved some level of understanding by their long captivity and had accepted their fate.

                The metal bars that divided him from his fellow travelers on the river Styx mocked him.  They were close and yet so far.  He dare not bond with any of his fellows lest they be forced to move in and he would be left alone, yet again.  Better to be alone, he thought.  He did not want to make human connections here.  Connections were dangerous here.  Bond with someone and before long they are crossing the sacred lines, bypassing others.  This is not what Steven wanted to be a part of.

The video monitors mocked Steven.  They spoke of a joy and happiness that he was beginning to doubt he would ever see.  He could hear signs of it, certainly.  As the metal beast roared over his head he could hear the faint cries of those who had weathered the journey and made it to the Promised Land.  That spurred him on.  For if there was a prize at the end as glorious as he hoped it would be, all would be worth it.

                He glanced at his watch for the four hundredth and first time.  The hands mocked him.  He could swear they were going backwards in defiance.  How long had it been?  His sanity was in question now.  His vision was lying to him.  He could have sworn this was the end of it, around this corner here.  Instead he only saw more humanity stretched out before him.  The huddled masses pushing forward, all praying that their torment was at an end.

                Steven smiled, looked up to the heavens, and began to laugh.  Others around him actually joined in, assuming they were missing out on some unseen antic.  A rolling mass of humanity laughing at nothing except their own misery.  And Steven thought, this damn ride better be worth it.

Pain

            The pain consumed Steven.  He doubted he would ever again be the same healthy, cheerful person he was before.  This was the end for him.  This agony he was feeling was beyond what any mortal man was able to take, he decided.  He deserved a medal just for staying conscious this long. 

            This white coated beast mocked him.  That color was supposed to be a sign of peace, and harmony, not drills and pain.  He would remember that.  Never be fooled again, he told himself.  He would never let the reassuring words and gentle voices disguise the true terror unleashed here.  This was a place of death, and discord.  This is the Stuff of Hieronymus Bosch paintings and hell mouths.  Children whisper of this place at night, under the covers, after their parents have told them what happens to bad little girls and boys.

            This is why he hated going to the Dentist.  He loved living in denial instead.  As long as he did not know about it, nothing was wrong.  He could rationalize that pain in his jaw of that black spot on his molar as normal, or imaginary, or a symptom of his ever growing, self-diagnosed hypochondria.  Most of this was just a scam anyway; another effort to pump more money out of him like he was an ATM wearing a polo t and khakis. 

            The fact that he was in all likelihood perfectly fine did nothing to lesson his suffering, however.  He would have creamed if he could; if this sadist had not forced a dozen metal instruments into his mouth like it was the silverware rack in a dishwasher.    He wanted to run, he wanted to break free and liberate his fellow captives.  Together they would escape and never return.  He would be his own man, beholden to no one and free to do what he wanted, when he wanted, with no men in white lab coats telling him what to do.  Sadly, this would not come to pass, and he was forced to sit here, eyes watering, as his dentist told him again, that he should really floss more.