My Compassion
July 12th, 2008 § 0
The Narrator
July 12th, 2008 § 0
He is tall, British. His suit is impeccably devised. He is standing, looking off, one hand in pocket. He turns to face us. He smiles, “Hello. Didn’t see you come in.”
He walks to us.
He puts both his hands about a foot from his body on each side, palms facing out. “Welcome. This is a place for hash and bits. Slash and hits. Stash and tits.”
He stops, looks off. “Words have become boring, eh? Stories too predictable, eh? All the usual complaints . . . ”
He walks away a few paces. “Not that we can do anything about it.”
Turns to us again, “But we can try.”
He motions to something or someone out of our sight: “Cue the donkey lady.”
He looks, “Sorry?” We hear mumbling. The Narrator nods and looks back at us. “No sight gags, today, I’m afraid.”
He points in all directions. “But in these areas, here, here and here. But mostly above us, in the future, and below us, for the past, several wannabe wordsmiths will come in here and try and share their wares.
“Obviously, you are a tough audience.
“We are prepared for that. But don’t worry–when we say we know you’re a jaded audience and we’re prepared for it, we’re not thinking of anything gross or purely scatalogical as an antidote for that. No, no, for the record, we here–this ensemble all–are one hundred percent opposed to the new genre known as ‘torture porn.’ Yes, and even for a 420 wannabe flick like the latest from Harold and Kumar - also known as the Wackily Ethnically-Diverse Potheads - to begin it with a bathroom joke is . . . disappointing. Why does modern movie pot humor have to be so low?
“What will we attempt to do to ply you out of your media-engorged sophistication?
“Frankly, I have no idea. But it won’t include any dream sequences with midgets, that’s for sure. Think of this as a big tent dedicated to the exploration of anti-cliches. Or, something like that.”
A bar appears on the right and our Narrator sidles up to it. A bartender appears behind. “Lemon Drop, please,” our narrator sez.
The waiter pours the Stoli and assorted parts into a stainless steel container and begins to shake. The narrator waits. The bartender finishes shaking, opens the top of the mixer and pours the contents into a waiting reverse pyramid glass. He puts the mixer down and pushes the now brimming glass across the bar to our narrator, who picks it up and takes a big sip.
“On second thought,” he says to us. “I’m not promising anything.
“Stay at your leisure and browse . . . or not.” He goes back to his drink, his shoulders now slumping. “I could really give a shit.”