TIMMY ON A TRAMMY
‘Hello mister tram conductor! How are things today?’ I am particularly cheerful and I pay no attention to the ‘Do Not Talk To Driver’ sign or the layer of bulletproof glass that separates us.
‘Who wants to know? If you need a ticket, you should buy them in advance. OUTSIDE!’ His voice sounds slightly annoyed, and just as I finish writing that his voice sounds slightly annoyed, he releases a sigh of irritation. No doubt he is rolling his eyes as well (which is something you can freely do when conducting a tram - it’s not like you need to pay much attention anyway).
‘My name is Timmy and I was hoping you and I could have a chat. You seem like a pretty interesting and attractive person.’ In truth, it is only after I say this that I start looking at his physique. As far as tram drivers go, this is quite an excellent specimen. I don’t hesitate to tell him this: ‘as far as tram drivers go, you are quite an excellent specimen!’ My voice is loud enough for the old woman who’s sitting near the door to overhear this. She strengthens the grip around her purse as if I were some kind of violent thief (as older women do whenever they want someone to steal something from them).
‘Well, Tim-my...,’ he utters my name in a pronounced mocking manner, ‘what makes you think I would even want to talk with someone like you.’ Just to complete more of your image the tram driver, he’s about 40-ish, not really tall, balding, has a slight beer-belly popping out of him that he’s trying to conceal by having a head that looks like it’s about to explode. That’s what I call an excellent specimen of a tram driver.
‘Well, mist-ah tram driv-ah,’ my tone mocks his, ‘I know you chose for a job that’s as lonely as this, where you don’t have to carry a lot of responsibilities and maybe even because you hate people. You may have a degree in philosophy and use the time between pressing your two buttons - brake and drive, isn’t it? - to think of a worthy reason for your existence. Or maybe you’re just here, dimly unaware of life around you; a modern-day hermit who only took this job when they said you could be rude to people all the time. Or maybe you were once kind and cheerful - oh I remember The Happiest Tram Driver in the world: he lived in Melbourne and sang through his microphone entertaining a packed tram, something that brought smiles to so many people’s faces (and he was like that every day of the week) - but then you found your mistress sleeping with your wife only to find out they’re getting married now. Now these are all valid reasons for not wanting to talk to me, but I am here to seduce you.’
‘Seduce me? What are you talking about, are you mental or something?’ The fact that he is now asking questions shows that he wants to talk to me. And that I have won.
‘Mental?... No. When I say I want to seduce you, I don’t mean I’ll physically make my way through this bullet proof glass and materialise on your lap with your half-erect cock in my hands. No. I want to seduce you mentally. Challenge you, if you will. Convince you to live life that little bit more adventurous. I can show you how. I know what you should do. And I know you know it too.’ My voice has become soft and sensual, the old woman is trying to follow the conversation, still both hands firmly entangled in her purse that only contains a used handkerchief, some coins, a senior’s bus pass (also valid on trams, but the word existed before the first tram was invented, so linguists decided to keep it that way and make a pass you can use on both trams and buses - but that’s also another story), and hopefully some sort of vibrator... I want old women to surprise me - the reason I don’t steal old women’s purses is because I know I’ll get disappointed with what’s inside of them.
‘Is this some sort of game or what?’ He’s uncomfortable in his cockpit now. ‘Listen, I don’t... I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Oh, but you do....Fred...’’ I pronounce his name carefully.
‘How do you... how do you know my name?’ Fred is becoming insecure, sweaty even a bit, has he seen there’s a gun in my pocket that’s happy to see him? I wonder when he’ll realise I only read his name on the stupid nametag he’s wearing. I’ll let him believe I’ve got supernatural powers.
‘Fred,’ I whisper, ‘I know your name because I know who you are. You cannot escape from me now, Fred. Do you want me to tell you where you live as well, or do you believe me?’ Life is a poker game. I am bluffing and I’ve got nothing to lose.
‘No, please,’ Fred begs his ‘please’ like a slave begging not to be whipped, but knowing it’s going to happen anyway, ‘what do you want from me? Money? Is that it?’ Poor old Fred, his tram didn’t stop at a stop and two people are giving him the finger in his rear-view mirror. He must be nervous.
‘Don’t insult me, Freddie-boy. If I wanted money, why would I rob a petty tram driver such as yourself, whereas that old lady at the back not only has more money in her purse, but there’s also a chance she’ll carry a vibrator around with her. What I want you to do, Fred, is to stop at the next stop, work through the rest of your day and think about what I’ve said about you. Choose. I take this tram every couple of days. If I see you again, I will talk to you again, try and explain things to you again. If that doesn’t help, I’ll come to your house and visit you there.’
Fred is afraid to look into my direction as I step out of the tram. I wonder what he’s so afraid of.
FORESTRY
Walk with me through the forest. There are trees, bushes, grass and empty condom wrappers all around. Try to make the best of it. Wander about and ignore the presence of all humanity. For now, we don’t belong to them. Only you exist. Only I exist. When one of the trees in this forest collapses, we will hear it fall harmoniously, as if we had already been expecting it.
Show yourself to me. There is no hiding in this alternate reality. No point in telling me you are a fungus, because the spores you release clearly show otherwise. The forest we are in seems like it is located high above the entire world. Almost like an island in the sky, unreachable to most.
‘Baby, I am tired.’
‘And I am a suppository!’
‘Say what?’
We can shape the forest. There are traces of history here, but we can ignore them if we want. We SHOULD ignore them. In the Before Time, I was arachnophobic, now I still am, but I want to hold my fears in my hands and rather than mercilessly crush them by urinating all over them with my sulphuric urine (that’s right!), set them free and coexist. (I realise that in my previous sentence, it almost seems as if I now take spiders and hold them in my hands so that I can urinate on them and in doing so, also urinate on my hands, but I can assure you, I DO wash my hands afterwards!).
‘We shall make soup of this branch!’
In the gentle forest, you and I, we are alone. There are no hunters, no mindless madmen who will tease us into our graves. Here, we can find an open space and lie down in the dead centre of the place. Curious bees might come to investigate but they will ultimately realise that our nectar is not for them. In gratitude, they may give us some of their honey (after we burn the nest, naturally).
‘We have been walking around for hours! Can’t we take a break?’
‘No, baby, no! We cannot lie down too long here and let ourselves be masturbated by insidious bugs. There is a time and a place for that, and they are Never and Not Here!’
‘Those poor little creatures...’
Did you know that all of this used to be desert? All this soil was just dry sand before I realised I could store a year’s worth of saliva in an oil tanker and fertilise this soil instantly. So think of this whenever you use any of these trees as masturbatory aids....
‘Sleep, my baby, sleep tight and I will watch the grass grow for the both of us...’
CONVINCINGLY
‘I want you to sedate me, insert a syringe in my veins, release millions of chemicals in my bloodstream and just let me be.’
‘Sir, this is a bakery! Wouldn’t you just like a croissant or something?’
‘Words, words, words! But tell me, are you alive?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Yes, are you truly, really alive at the moment?’
‘...’
‘No, you aren’t, which is why you might as well inject me with all the sedatives you sell, and do yourself a favour and give yourself a shot too!’
*takes out syringe, unwraps the sterile bag for the needle and hands it over*
‘Sir, I don’t know what to do with this.... Boss! Could you come over here?’
(whispers:) ‘We’ve got another crazy one...’
‘Oh, what’s it now? What do you want?’
‘Hello, I was just asking your lovely employee if she could sedate me.’
‘Listen! There won’t be any sedating here, not today, not tomorrow, not ever!’
‘Well, if you put it that way, I might just have to pull down my trousers and urinate all over this queue of wonderfully unhappy people...’
‘What?’
‘It’s not difficult, either you help me get my kicks or else your clientele gets it... from the hose, that is...’ *looks at hose*
‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘Well, what’s wrong with you? SEDATE ME!’
‘I wouldn’t know HOW!’ (to employee, whispering:) ‘Call the police.’
‘I’m willing to pay! Here’s a thousand euro, now fill up the syringe and let me FLY!’
‘This makes no sense!’
*opens up trousers, lets trousers drop, slight arousal in the queue of customers*
(employee to boss, whispering:) ‘I wasn’t the tenth caller to the police, so I didn’t get through to the studio for my chance to win a police visit...’
(boss:) ‘LOOK, alright! What if I fill this syringe with some ketchup, would that do it?’
‘KETCHUP? How old do you think I am? FIFTEEN?’
‘OKAY, OKAY! What about detergent and bleach...? Mixed with... vodka? And some... ground up Xanax?’
‘Sounds de-Lish! Chop-chop!’
*pulls up trousers, injuring self on foreskin with the zipper*
*94 seconds later, syringe is inserted into protagonist’s veins*
‘There you go!’
‘Thanks! That’s much better.’
*falls to the floor and dies*
*money is quietly put into boss’ pocket*
THE IMPOSTER
I took a pretty nasty fall this morning. I cannot remember what I was doing, but as I came down the stairs, I remember stumbling and banging my head against the floor. I don’t know how much time passed until I regained consciousness. I checked to see if everything was still okay with me. Apart from the enormous bump on my forehead, I concluded that I was fine. I wished for Eric to be there in my time of need. But he was out working for the man or something, at least that what he said, adding that that man was I. I took some painkillers to get over the headache, but it wouldn’t really help.
I lay down on the sofa until I heard somebody come in.
‘Hey love,’ this guy entered the living room, calling me love and not looking the least bit like this wasn’t his home.
‘Who are you?’ I felt threatened and scanned the room for a weapon I could pick up to defend myself. All I could find was the remote control from the TV.
‘How was your day?’ this guy completely ignored my question. He came up to me and kissed me on the lips. I was too baffled to attack him with my remote.
‘Who the FUCK are you? Where is Eric? Where is my fucking boyfriend? Who the fuck are you?’ I spit the words out as strongly as I could. If Erik had been there, he’d have said he’d never heard me sound so stern.
‘Are you playing a game with me? You’ve never sounded so stern with me. It’s okay, Timmy, I’m here.’
I could see what was going on. This guy, this impostor, this actor; he had come here with the intention of making me believe he was my boyfriend. I didn’t know what was going on, if it was a government conspiracy or some diabolic scheme to steal my money, but all I knew was, was that that guy standing before me with his arms wide open wasn’t my boyfriend. No, Eric’s hair was blacker than this guy’s. I had to admit, the casting for Eric’s role was incredible. They did look similar. But I knew it wasn’t him. I could feel it in the kiss.
I sat silent for a minute, pseudo-Eric minding his own business in the apartment I was living in with real-Eric. He pretended like he was at home, something that unsettled me even more. This guy, he was really hot too. I mean, what were the odds of finding two people that looked so much alike? Then again, I had also been likened to a lot of people: from Kurt Cobain to Dame Edna. So maybe it wasn’t really that exceptional. But what did this guy want from me? Was I going to play along in his charade and act like he’s the real thing? I thought it was a viable option; another one was to strap him to the stairs and tie him up until he started talking. But I realised then that the people responsible for the change would soon realise that the guy’s cover had been blown, so I concluded it was best for me to wait it out. Besides, make-believe-Eric was also hot like the real thing; maybe there were some differences, I couldn’t tell. It was best for me that I played along in this, so that I could find out what had happened to Eric without anyone suspecting that I knew of the change that had taken place. I guessed that was the best way for me to ever get the real Eric back, wherever the poor guy is now, probably abducted somewhere, kidnapped waiting for me to rescue him.
I glared at Evil-Eric who was busy typing an e-mail. I noted that this guy had even taken on the same mannerisms while typing on a keyboard. It was obvious that I was up against some pretty clever crooks here who had thoroughly planned this move. I wasn’t going to let them win.
Fake-Eric looked up from my Eric’s laptop screen and smiled at me, blowing a kiss.
I blew one back and smiled, letting him believe.
WISDOM – III
Three days now since the operation, two-and-a-half if I’m being honest. My saliva has stopped showing signs of blood, my headaches from trying to cope with pain. Take another painkiller, please. Voices scream to help me alleviate whatever strain on my body I am feeling. I am curious about what the feeling would be like without the pills, without the ice, without the drugs. A possible side effect of the antibiotics is that it can make one of my veins pop. That’s something to look forward to.
Five gaping holes in my mouth, from four teeth that had no space to surface and one casualty at the back a wisdom tooth created along the way. I ponder the Theory of Evolution as I wonder what possible use these teeth could have for my survival. Or is it that because my mouth is smaller, I am not worthy of survival; it doesn’t make much sense, because I could have procreated ten times before they would have really become a problem. And all my offspring would then have the same problem when they grow up, over and over again. So it doesn’t really damage our existence, does it? It only irritates it a bit.
And what can be said of the Creationist fairy-tale belief of God creating man with his infinite wisdom in his own image. So did that God badly install four teeth in one of its creations because he himself is imperfect, in his own image? Imagine God sitting in his sofa with a bag of ice over his head because of the operation he has just had to have his wisdom teeth removed. Of course nobody with half a brain believes in creationism, I just cannot let it go as to how simple a counter-argument for it can be sometimes.
I try to picture my operation.
‘Hi, there, put yourself on this, a bit higher yeah, with your head here.’ I am still awake.
‘Okay.’ What’s this wetness I am feeling?
‘Oh! Ha-ha-ha, the thing we put in your vein to feed you
has popped out! Ha-ha-ha! It’s dripping all over your legs!’
‘Here, breathe in this. Inhale deep.’
I breathe deeply and feel a tingling sensation in my head and I drop half-dead seconds later.
‘So, what have we got here? He’s not bad-looking, this one.’
‘No, he’s sort of cute, isn’t he? Check his penis!’
‘Ugh, they always shrink when they’re u
nder narcosis. Too bad.’
‘Turn him round, we could check out his ass.’
‘I could totally do that.’
‘Do you want to? I mean, we’ve got time? I can pull out his teeth while you screw him...’
‘You’re too kind, but no, I took the kid before this one, and at my age... ha-ha-ha!’
‘Alrighty, lets open up his mouth. How many teeth?’
‘Five’
‘Okay, scalpel... thank you... scissors... thanks... rocks... kidding! Ha-ha!’
‘Oh you and your jokes!’
‘I have an idea! Why don’t we put one of his teeth up his bum? That would be so hilarious!’
‘Oh my god yeah, and then he’ll go to the toilet later today and find his own tooth in his stool, he’ll be thinking he swallowed some of his teeth...’
‘And he can’t even feel them! HA-HA-HA-HA!’
‘Guys, seriously, can we get on with this?’
‘I have an idea! Let’s all spit in this guy’s mouth!’
‘YEAH! That’s so awesome!’
*SPIT* x3
‘Hey, you spit a green one! That’s so cool!’
*Proud*: ‘Thanks, I’ve been spitting in patients’ mouths for 20 years now.’
‘Okay, let’s get on with it, you crack his jaw open, I’ll cut his teeth out.’
‘Do you want a cigarette?’
‘Yes, please! I thought you’d never ask!’
‘There you are!’
‘Thanks! Ohhh, that’s the stuff!’
...
‘And that’s five teeth. Okay, put him in his bed again!’
Stop Talking To Yourself Page 5
