Her Favorite Color Was Lavender
Even after
the newly built capital city of Prusk
had been officially declared open for business, hardly anyone came to
Kigathega. The climate was the main
reason given for the lack of either colonists or tourists. Except for a brief period in the summer, most
of the new continent was uncomfortably cold.
And even then it was only on the small peninsula on which Prusk had been
located that the temperature reached an average of 50º F.
“What’s
that in centigrade?” Elaine wondered as she stared up at the Prusk city hall
clock tower.
“I don’t
know,” Dirk replied. He glanced around
the empty central square. “Why did they
stop called it ‘Celsius?’”
…
After I
metaphorically close my eyes I see that I am in a room much like the back of a
small store in a strip mall, only the room isn’t full of balloons awaiting
inflation, each emblazoned with best wishes for a happy birthday, but cardboard
boxes stacked to the ceiling, approximately ten feet high. These boxes can be cut up into shapes for
gluing onto other pieces of cardboard for making artistically satisfying
prints. In order to reserve the boxes
for my own use, I write my name on them.
I always have a couple of markers with me for such purposes. The stylized tofu press drawn on the back of
my right hand was done with one of these.
One of the giraffemen standing guard asked me earlier if I was
ambidextrous; I told him that, technically speaking, I approach true
ambidexterity, but would never be fully accredited as such.
…
After I had
glued together a vague depiction of one of the lost temple complexes far to the
north, I left the piece in a safe place to dry.
I see that the chunks of tofu in my stomach are making me sick. They are stacked like boxes up to the
ceiling, each printed with best wishes for a satisfying bowel movement, but the
symbol stamped on their bottoms urges me to vomit.
I leave the
store (or shop, for those of you in
the UK ). My giraffemen follow me outside, where the
walking car awaits. Dr. Seuss called
these vehicles crunk cars, but, as
this term is quite possibly under copyright, I use the generic. I don’t want his greedy family suing me.
“Because
his family did money crave,” one of the giraffemen quotes, “Dr. Seuss is
spinning in his grave.”
I nod in
acknowledgement, but do not chuckle; it is not good to become too familiar with
one’s employees. They will only take
advantage of such familiarity in the long run.
Standing on
the manuscript, which is huge, like something a village elder would read from
while standing at a lectern in the renaissance, I climb into the cockpit of the
walking car. The giraffemen cannot join
me, big as they are. I can barely fit
inside myself. In these cold, cramped
conditions, my knees will soon begin to hurt.
We must reach our destination soon.
I signal to the giraffemen to climb aboard their lizard-camels.
…
“Where are
they going?” Elaine asked Dirk. Standing
in their heavy winter garments in the depopulated square they looked like
Russians waiting for the next strongman to come along and bring them
much-needed guidance.
“North,”
Dirk decided. He shielded his eyes with
his gloved hand and watched my entourage and me gallop away.
…
“Jesus,”
Elaine swore with the freedom of the newly transplanted. “In this weather? Who’d go north?”
I see them
having sex in their palatial quarters in the Kumquat Building
…
The movie
is called Barely Enunciated Summons for
Help. Humphrey Bogart is a
wonderland of Christmastime savings. His
best friend, played by Frank Sinatra, is a clown with a drinking problem. Depressed about Sinatra’s upcoming trial for
murder, the two decide to jam their olive forks into an electrical socket
simultaneously. The socket, being
necessarily schizoid, debates aloud with itself over the merits of
suicide. Albert Camus, in muppet form,
holds up a mirror so that the two equally muppet-crafted faces of the socket
can see each other. Later, during a
musical interlude in which the singer for Eyehategod and Page Hamilton try to
kill each other, Lauren Bacall rummages through Camus’ pants looking for his
muppet penis. Robin Williams’ corpse,
hanging by a pair of rainbow suspenders, swings in time to the music.
“I think
this song was written by James Taylor,” I tell Elaine and Dirk, “But this isn’t
him performing it.”
“No, it’s
the Fox News Nativity Choir,” Dirk explains.
“I thought
you left town,” Elaine exclaims, gathering up a couple of cushions to cover her
nakedness. She glances around wildly,
trying to discover how I got in.
“Town,” I repeat in a sarcastic bark.
…
