In Bloom by Andrew Knox

This section is for several chapters, in varying stages of drafting, whom I have decided are good enough to be put on display. Some you may need to read the book to understand, and some are nonsequiturs, which even I don't remember the reasoning behind. Good luck! Please send comments to [email protected]

A Bag of Fiddly-Sticks

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I woke up, nothing special.  I showered, nothing special.  I got dressed, nothing special.  I ate some synthesized Wheaties, breakfast of chimpanzees, maybe sweeter than usual, but not that pleasant or special.  I turned on the Noozocrohn (Tokelaui for TV) and it's volume knob/on-off switch turned especially not special.  The momentary color phasing was unique and substantial but not important to or even noticed by most humans.  What I saw was something special.

“Martial Law declared by Supreme Order of Justice.  Stay in your quarters and do not turn off the unit or change the channel.”

I flipped it from channel 7 over to channel 13.  The unit silently yelled at me:

“DO NOT CHANGE THE CHANNEL!”

A few seconds later, it started audibly yelling at me.  And it wouldn't shut up.  I tried changing the channel, it was locked up.  I tried ignoring it, that never works, it just yelled louder and louder.  I tried flicking the volume knob down, then tried turning it off.  That worked great, the words went away from the screen, the one problem was:

“DO NOT CHANGE THE CHANNEL! DO NOT CHANGE THE CHANNEL!”

It was still yelling.  I did sneak a glimpse at that wonder of nature known as the electronic phosphor organizing, so beautiful, all the visible colors on at one time for less than a second, it was a prize that only I appreciated and even could see.  It wasn't like that with televisions back in the day, you see, we had different systems, more efficient ones.

“DO NOT CHANGE THE CHANNEL!”

It was still yelling out of the midget speakers.  Although the safety was supposed to prevent things like this.  I grabbed for the power cord, yanked it and the cable broke, the unit was not connected to the wall anymore, and never would again as the plug was still stuck in the outlet.  Something was happening that I knew defied nature and every machine law on record.

“DO NOT CHANGE THE CHANNEL!”

Although it was physically impossible for this to be happening, I still searched for alternatives.  The plug had three strands of former wires coming out of it, emitting a beautiful rain of instant death.  For an ant.  I believed that the removal of power would send my aural sensory units on the road to recovery from a world class ass-whooping, but it did not.

“DO NOT CHANGE THE CHANNEL!  DO NOT CHANGE THE CHANNEL!  DO NOT CHANGE THE CHANNEL!”

I take a quick blink and I am out of my quarters.  I was in the complete darkness.  I say “THE” complete darkness, as there is no darkness that compares, it is like complete blindness, you can make it through an area better with your eyes closed.  Well, I was in the darkness and I was just standing there, when a super bass note was played.  I jumped, and out from the ground came a phosphorous white and green smoke, too dark and bleary to see through.  There was a far away sounding, heavily distorted and completely indistinguishable electric guitar being played by unseen hands.  I closed my eyes, I knew that I didn't want to see what was coming.  Another bass note played and my eyes shot back open against my will.  Then, I saw what there was to be afraid of.

A thin man, very short.  Old, also.  He had a limp on his left leg and a cane to compliment it.  Had one eye comically larger than the other.  And what would be described without dignity as a diaper, but with dignity as a loin cloth.  His hair was peculiar as well, it was silver and yellow highlights matted over brown straight hair.  It was pretty hilarious, but slightly intimidating.

Nothing compared to that big-ass eye he had, it would stare a hole through you bigger than a tank shot.  A dead on hit to your soul.  It could read your mind and see malice, greed, kindness and any other form of intent before the thought reached your brain.  He stood there looking at me from his comfortable position of about thirty feet with the white and green smoke shining his ankles up so well that they could win themselves a blue ribbon at some hick county fair or something.  His face was familiar, not:

“Hey, I saw that guy on the bus the other day.”

It was more like:

“Hey, I saw that guy in the newspaper this morning!”

Kind of familiar.

He lifted his right leg up into the air as if he was about to take a long step over some feces on the ground.  He slammed it down on the ground and the bass note played louder than ever,  as if it was right behind me, but I didn't have the balls to look right now.  Well, he had slid forward several feet.  He raised his foot up again as if he was a caricature of a pacific islander cannibal shaman practicing a dance. Slam, boom and several more feet.  Slam, boom and even more feet. Slam, boom and he was right in front of me.

If there was a moment that I was any more scared than this, I could not remember it.  He just stood there, analyzing my reaction to him ice skating on sound.  When he was done, I saw the fragments of words forming together into wholes on his extensively cracked and chapped lips.

“Boo.”

I laughed, he laughed, she laughed, we laughed, he laughed some more.

Wait, she?

I looked around in the infinite blackness for the feminine laugh, one more thing familiar.  I turned around and saw the image of the guitar player.  I blinked, I wish I didn't.  It all faded to black, then white, then I was back in my apartment and heard the friendly greeting.

“DO NOT CHANGE THE CHANNEL!  DO NOT CHANGE THE CHANNEL!  DO NOT CHANGE THE CHANNEL!”

I tried blinking and I was rewarded with a two second glimpse of a reddish-brown negative.

“Come to me...”

Her face was not like the:

“Hey, I saw that girl on the bus the other day.”

Or at all like the:

“Hey, I saw that girl in the newspaper this morning!”

It was a more personal, almost as if...

I heard a knock at my door, and I was fully back in reality.

Movin' on up!

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A knock came at my door.  I was back in reality.

“Package.”
“Door Unlock.”

My door opened up, sliding upwards in to the ceiling and out of reality.

“Come in.”

The new delivery boy came in, as green as possible for one his age, fresh from the academy.  The delivery boys at our facility had a pesky habit of dying.  If curiosity killed the cat, then delivery boys are straight up pumas.  They are usually the ones who try to escape, to see the sky.  They are the ones who we find in several pieces in the maintenance floor.

“You are Dexter Baker, right?”
“Yes...”
“You got a package.”
“Okay.”

He handed me the package.  It was about the size of a shoe box.  It was wrapped with Christmas paper.  I looked at him, as if it was a joke, and he looked back into my eyes with great excitement.  I tore the wrapping paper off briskly and crumpled it up, tossing it into the proper receptacle.  He was still standing there.  It was a shoe box, an Adidas running shoe box.  The box had writing on it.

“To: Dexter Baker
From: Yer secret admirer.”  Said the box.

It was very sloppy handwriting.  The delivery boy was still standing there.

“Well, are you going to open it?”

I opened the flap of the lid and saw the contents.  There was a yellow folded square of plastic and an envelope.  I took the plastic out and threw it onto my bed, then I took the letter and opened it up. Reading it aloud, it went like this:

“Dear Mr. Baker,

You have been selected for promotion by the High Official Council of Mining.  You are now being assigned to a supervisory position at the Eureka Mining Facility.  Enclosed is an access card to be used to safely exit your facility through the supply corridor.  When you are past the security systems, wait for a shuttle and then insert your access card into the input matrix and you will be swiftly transported to Eureka!  Should the shuttle not arrive within the time bubble, you may need to don the yellow safety suit included in this package and walk to the transport terminal along the path outside.  Take special care in putting the safety suit on, as incorrect usage can lead to instantaneous death from the toxins of the outside environment.  We have found you to be a reliable worker in past situations and we have placed our trust in your abilities.

Signed,
Donald Smith
#2654543857”

There was a look in that delivery boy's eyes that told me he was up to something.  A look that was a mixture of jealousy and the culmination of the planning of an assassination attempt. He would kill me without remorse if there were less security here.  But I had a feeling that he would try anyway because of how green he was.  His skin looked as if it was turning purple from me reading that letter out loud.  Everybody, young and old, wants out of this place.

“WHAT!”
“What?”
“How long have you been working here?”
“Too long, kid, too long.”
“How could someone with your record and low ability scores get promoted?”
“That's usually how it works.”
“This is bullshit!”
“You want out of here, too?”
“Yeah, it's too cold here.”
“Where are you from”
“Uh, I was born in Antartica.”
“Oh.”
“Will you take me?”
“Sure.”

This guy was pissing me off.  I decided that he would never make it past the door guards, but it would be an entertaining scene.  I kept reading.

“Transit Schedule: 1400 to 1600”

I looked at my watch.

“1353” It said to me.
“Okay, let's go.” I said back.

I grabbed the plastic off of the bed and placed it back in the box, went over to my desk and took out some personal trinkets and records, some money too.  I would never come to this room again, so I was taking everything that I wanted to keep.  I walked out the door.  The delivery boy followed me out.  We left the door open, free game for kleptomaniacs.  I was walking towards the Supply Corridor, and he started talking.

“I always wondered what it was like outside.  So you're Dexter Baker? M'names Andrew, Andrew Knox.”
“You look a little young for a delivery boy.”
“Got in the academy at three, don't remember my parents.”
“Okay.”
“Do you remember life before the revolution?”
“Of course, how old do I look to you?”

As I said that, I was reminded of an old bootleg called “Old Age”.  It reminded me of so many things.  I have a theory.  That theory states that the real memories kick in at around five years old, and things you remember from before then like songs or TV shows or games, are acknowledged as familiar. They turn into something that reminds you of home.   Any Nirvana song has the power to do this to me.  I will stop here to avoid another copyright suit.

“Well, I don't know.  They might have erased your memory or something.”
“Do you think they have that power?  No one can get inside your mind, that is the only safe zone someone has.  You're only in danger when you move, speak, write, gesture... the point is, this ain't the movies, kid.”
“What are the movies?”
“Damn, you newbies are dumbasses.  You don't know anything they didn't teach you.”
“Ok.  So, what was it like?”
“What was what like?”
“Before the... you know...”
“It was... heaven, I wish I could return, but there is no room on the train to the past.”
“Oh.”

Thank God, he was silent after that.  We were at the supply gate, the only border between the safety of the sheet rock and the mystery of the world outside.

“Insert Access Card!”

I put the card in the machine and it shot back out.  The doors opened.  We walked through them and we were in a place that I had never seen before, it was the Human Transport Station.  I sat down at a bench, he walked around in circles.  The clock said:

“1408”

We sat there, I at the bench and he on the floor for hours.  I looked at the clock and it said to me:

“1724”

I then looked over and saw a sign over a door that said:

“Tram Broke?”

I unfolded the plastic tarpy thing and saw that it was shaped like a nondescript human figure.  I read the instructions aloud.

“FUGIWARE INTERNATIONAL All-Purpose, Disposable Safety Suit.  Model FSS#4

Thank you for buying our products.  We offer the highest quality products in America.  This model is equipped with an Ultrasonic emmiter designed to ward off predators and do so in an efficient manner.  All non-human creatures within a 25 foot will run in terror when the wearer enters the area.  This suit is also designed to protect against unsavory chemicals and certain levels of radiation from affecting the wearer.”

Below this description was a diagram on how to put the thing on.  I followed this half-heartedly as I suited up.  Andrew looked like he was in a deep Buddhist trance or whatever.

“Yo!”
“What?”
“We're going up now.”
“But, I don't have one of those fancy suits done you got!”
“It'll be fine kid, stop bitching and get over here.”
“But, I'll probably die!”
“You'll definitely die when they find you in here.”
“Okay.”

I opened the door with the sign that said “Tram Broke?” above it.  It was an elevator, the one safe way to the surface was here. We got in and Andrew pressed a button.  The Button said:

“Surface.”

Justifiable Homicide

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It was cold, very bitter.  It was a beautiful but chilly February night in Seattle.  The grass was beginning to freeze, the mammals were wandering towards the heat of inside, and particles and pieces of water, five miles up, were forming into a well set pattern, ready to go ice.  Me and Katie were standing outside of a prefab building.  An orange neon sign glowed so brightly that we conjectured it was seen by those snowflakes countless leagues upward.  The sign was designed to make the outlines of the Roman Alphabet.  The shapes were interpreted by my lab coated scientists as saying:

“Hot Doughnuts Now!”

We were outside of a doughnut sales establishment, debating the ethical what-ifs of whether or not to enter.  It was cold  I wanted to go in because I knew a fundamental truth about indoors.  It is always warm.  My teeth were chattering an obscure tune I cannot name.

“Let's go somewhere else.”
“Okay.”

We got back in my car.  It, by the way, is nothing special.  A 1997 Hyundai whatever-it-is.  I have the misfortune of being a guy with a purple car.  The key turned and pistons roared.  Ancient corpses of long gone animals were being fed to them and they wholeheartedly guzzled down the slippery black goodness.  It starts so many wars, none good.  Before long, we were speeding down Aurora avenue, a highway the length of the state.  A very dirty place. I flipped a switch on my dashboard and my CD player came on.  It was near the end of a song:

“I must be getting older
I'm starting to eat my vegetables “

“Where do we wanna go?”
“How about a Ph? place?”

Ph? (pronounced 'fa?' in English) is a traditional Vietnamese noodle soup served in a number of meats with beef broth.  It tis quite good.  In Seattle, there are literally dozens of restaurants that serve it as the house specialty.  There are quite a few variations, but it maintains a similar recipe in each one.

“Sure.”
“Which one?”
“How about that one on Greenwood?”
“The fancy one?”
“Yeah.”
“You've gotta let me borrow this CD.  I gotta rip it!”
“Okay, why don't ya take it when I drop ya off.”
“Okay.”

I turned the steering wheel all the way to the right twice and the vehicle made a ninety degree turn almost immediately.  We passed through some red lights and other bureaucratic tape designed to slow me down and then we were there.  I'll stop your boredom and not discuss dinner.  If you want to know more about Ph?, then move to a city with a big Asian population.  That's the brakes, sorry.

When dinner was done, We got back in my car and I took her home.  I parked across the street from her house.  The lights were out, her parents were asleep.  We said our goodbyes, kissed each other, said some more goodbyes and kissed some more kisses and then she went inside.  The clock on my dashboard said:

“AM 1:25”

I don't remember if it works or not.  I pressed the on button on my CD player again, pressed shuffle

“She eyes me like a Pisces when I am weak.
I've been locked inside your heart-shaped box for a week.
I was drawn into your magnet tar pit trap.
I wish I could eat your cancer when you turn black.”

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