Zen In The Art of Absurdity

by Carla René

  Jack just drank her in, counting himself the luckiest man alive. Right now, he wanted to eat her up. "You really are beautiful."

  She smiled, and leaned her head back so the sun kissed her face. I'm happy here. Things are so peaceful and orderly."

  "That's because René knows how to write a book. And, she's cute."

  "I'll ignore that," said Jill, smiling.

  Just then, there was a snap in the woods directly behind them, and they both stopped, straining to hear. Jill mouthed the words, "What is it?"

  Jack raised a hand to her, and rose from his chair. He motioned for Jill to stay put and she complied.

  Another twig snapped, this time closer. Jack found a large stick and raised it, ready to strike. I'll be damned if those two get ahead of us, he thought.

  Suddenly, Em dashed toward him, ready to call attention to any parenthetical information it found.

  Jack raised his stick and sliced through the air with such force that it whistled. And, he missed.

  But before he could raise the stick for another whack, Em disappeared, and Jill screamed. Jack turned to find quotation marks attacking her on both sides. They were relentless in their overuse, and in no time he was standing at her chair, smacking the daylights out of the unruly punctuation.

  "You okay?"

  She nodded. "Just a little out of breath. Where the hell did that come from?"

  "I can answer that," said Dick, as he stood proudly, just feet from his antagonists.

  Jack and Jill stood agape. But it was Jack who spoke. "How did you get he… "

  "… ever heard of an abbreviation?"

  "I thought that was just an urban myth," said Jill.

  "Well you'd be wrong, tart," said Jane. "I'm guessing you took the avenue. Well, hidden just behind it, was its abbreviation, ave."

  "So," said Jack. "You found a shortcut. How quaint. But it means nothing. You know as well as I, that if the writer wants us to win, then it's her bidness and there ain't nothing you can do about it."

  Dick nodded. "Yes, that's true. And so far, you two have indeed, garnered the most points."

  "Damn straight."

  "But, that doesn't mean it's over. You're not across the finish line yet," said Dick.

  For a moment, the two men faced each other as if preparing for a duel. Their eyes steeled, studying each other's faces for a clue that would tip their hand. But both men were experienced characters, and gave away nothing.

  The women had now walked up behind their husbands. The four stood in the sun-lit clearing, wondering which would make the first move.

  With a swift, calculated movement, Jack pulled a hyphen sword from his costume and threw it, javelin style at Dick.

  As Dick ducked in time, Jack and Jill saw that as the perfect opportunity and took off in the direction of the finish line.

  Dick and Jane ran after them. They had one more chapter to go.

  As the distance between Jack and Dick closed, Jack pulled a book from his cloak, and an Oxford Dictionary glanced off Dick's right cheek, jarring him so that he had to stop and gain orientation.

  Jack and Jill both laughed as they galloped along the course, certain of their victory.

  Dick and Jane resumed their run, both sets of lungs burning from lack of oxygen and hyper ventilation. With 100 yards to go, both couples were now dead even, as they had been at the Introduction.

  Just as Jack thrust a hand forward to cross the finish line first, the world went black and he and Jill were losing ground. The faster they ran, the farther behind they got. They fought harder to run, but their legs were like jello, unable to hold their bodies upright.

  Both screamed out in frustration.

  "We're gonna do it, baby! We're going to win!" Dick shouted to his bride.

  She gave an indian whoop and cackled as they both crossed the finish line at the same time, then fell into each other's arms, joyous and exhausted. They lie there, still embraced as the applause from the editorial staff washed over them. They watched Jack and Jill finally cross, and they stood as both Jack and Jill walked over to them.

  Jack just stared for a moment, as if he'd forgotten how to speak. "I… I… don't understand. We were ahead of you. Not by much, but we were. What the hell happened over there?"

  Dick laughed. "Ever heard of a last-second revision?"

  SleepWalker

  The way I remember it happening:

  "You want me to use what?" My voice came out as a quack.

  The physician stared at me. "You heard me, Missy."

  "But why? Lots of people lose use of their legs all the time, it certainly doesn't mean they need a walker." I was getting good at that high-pitched, nasal whine. I'd used it on my mother for years.

  "C'mon, let's see you try it. You're not going home until you walk from here to the wall."

  Hmmn. I wonder which medical journal that little test was in? I moved to the edge of my bed in slow motion, hoping he'd simply lose interest and go away. But it didn't happen; he just flapped at me to move quicker. So I upped the degree of difficulty by putting a scowl on my face—just to prove how much I detested this.

  "So noted, now will you please get your butt up and walk?"

  Walk. That was funny. For the last two days my legs had been jello—and if you count the cellulite in my thighs, then jello with fruit. One afternoon while going to the bathroom, I felt them suddenly give out—like a date does at the end of a bad evening when he doesn't want to pay: I felt deflated. But, being the stubborn cuss that I am, I put up with it for another two days, until last night when I could no longer stand. Then I figured it was time to call someone; or else, sell my Monolo Blahniks and that wasn't going to happen in this lifetime…

  The EMTs were nice. They escorted me out of my house as if I were Janet Jackson at the Grammys and had just delivered my, "It was Timberlake's fault," speech.

  What is it about men in uniform that make me go all weak in the knees? I can tell you, Scott, on my left arm, certainly didn't help my condition. Luckily he was the one who remained with me in the back during my transit. He felt comfortable with me, as he began asking me all of these personal questions. Well, I'd never been hit on by an ambulance guy before, so this cheered me.

  "Name."

  "Missy Motion."

  "Age?"

  "I must be in my mid-thirties."

  He grinned.

  Yes, good sign. I turned on the charm. "So, what's a guy like you doing in a place like this?" Aren't there times when you wish you could just suck back in the words?

  "You called me."

  Okay, fair enough. But I had to know more. "What's your name?"

  "Scott. And yours?" He caught himself, and we both laughed.

  "How long have you been doing this?"

  "Six months."

  At that moment I winced in pain and became frustrated that leg movement was near to impossible.

  "It's okay, just hold on, we'll be there soon." He placed his hand gently on my own.

  My heart skipped.

  "You okay?" he said.

  Damn that heart monitor. Usually not the standard for calls with muscle weakness, but I had also been suffering chest pain for days and they wanted to make sure it wasn't a heart attack.

  I nodded. "Yes, fine." This man's sensitivity was unnerving me.

  "I love your glasses," he said.

  I hate it when I do this, but I dipped right into coy. "Really? Oh, thank you. They are one-of-a-kind. Yours are dreamy, too." Ack. Did I just say dreamy? I think I threw up a little in my mouth.

  "I'm sorry to have to do this, but I have more questions for you. What do you do for a living?"

  "I'm a professional actor, stand-up comic and writer."

  The look of awe and worship on his face was priceless. "Wow! So have you done anything I might know?"

  "Yes. I did a sit-com on NBC a few years ago," I said, as my ego swelled to twice the size of my fruity-jello thighs. When I told him the name of it, he nodded his head.
r />   "Yes! I remember that show—very funny."

  Time to be bold. "I even have a web-site. Why don't you e-mail me when you get back to the station?"

  "Yes, I was just going to suggest that. Y'know, I thought I recognized you."

  I gave him my autograph as we neared the hospital, and he escorted me into my ER exam room, holding my hand the entire way.

  "You're gonna be just fine, so don't worry. We have to get back to the station now."

  "Thank you, Scott. E-mail me!" I called after him as he exited the building, and he nodded his affirmation.

  When the nurse entered the room to hook me up to the machines again, she said, "So. Scott's going to e-mail you, hunh? Pre-tee impressive. He's cute. No one's been able to pin him down for months now."

  My heart soared. "Yes, he is very sweet. I guess I just have what it takes."

  *****

  The way he remembered it happening:

  "Did you hear the way that chick was coming onto me, man?" Scott said to his partner, Mike.

  "No, what happened?"

  "As soon as I began asking her the standard questions, she started offering personal information—y'know, stuff I didn't even ask for."

  "Like what?"

  Scott considered this. "Like, she had a web-site, said she was some big hot-shot actor from Hollywood, and wanted me to e-mail her."

  "No way! Man, how is it that you get all the women? So? You gonna do it?"

  "Are you kidding? If my wife found out, she'd kill me dead."

  *****

  The way it really happened:

  "Name?"

  "Missy Motion."

  "Age?"

  "40."

  "Profession?"

  "Actor, comic and writer."

  "Oh yeah? Anything I'd know?"

  "Sitcom on NBC. Nothing special."

  "You've got something on your glasses."

  "Oh, thanks."

  "If you have e-mail, we need to add that, and I need your signature for treatment."

  "That's all?"

  "Yep; take care."

  The Tokyo Kens (An exercise in writing bad fiction)

  "Tokyo, we have a probrum."

  Commander Ken sat smilingly at his console, twisting dials and watching the lights blink on and off, until they gave him a headache. Turning the dial on his headset, he could now hear DC101 and began jamming out to Nirvana.

  The Crew of the Ken Six endured six days of intense training in order to be selected for this JAXA mission, and no one at Mission Control thought anything could go wrong, except that the guys at Mission Control who DID think everything could go wrong. They took odds that Commander Ken would miss the landing site by 100 nautical miles, land in the ocean, blow the hatch too soon and cry like a girl.

  Commander Ken, now losing DC101 in his headphones again, tried Mission Control again.

  "Herro? Anyone dere? Over."

  He waited.

  Navigator Ken rundled with courage. "Commander, have you seen the croud cover over our randing site? It’s getting worse."

  Commander Ken looked out the port side window. (That’s the left side? For those of you reading? K?)

  "Rook out the port side window," enjoined Navigator Ken, seriously.

  Mission Specialist I Ken snickered.

  "Stop fooring alound. It’s getting bad down dere." He tried Mission Control again. "Mission Control, dis is Ken Six, do you lead, over?"

  The silence literally deafened them all.

  Just then, the space craft began orbiting on its axis and thus in turn, turned them toward the sun.

  "We’ve rost all navigations systems, and thus, we’re frying brind!" screamed Commander Ken.

  Mission Specialist II Ken spoke up, also with courage. "Commander, it’s getting hot in helre. What do we do?"

  Mission Specialist I Ken agreed. "Commander, if we can’t navigate the space claft away from the hot side of the sun, at 800 degrees Kelrvin, we might get kind of hot."

  Twenty minutes later the space craft got kind of hot. Commander Ken began to orate to his team with even more courage than his team had verbalized to him. "Now risten up, Ken. We’ve not come dis far to be leally hot, so calrm down. I need sirence to think."

  Again, the team was literally deafened by the silence in the cabin. They watched as Commander Ken turned his office chair toward the dials in the cockpit. He began to hesitate. He was having trouble deciding between two, so he was undecided. One marked, "Hot side of the Sun," and the other marked, "The other side."

  Just as he moved his gloved hand toward the "Hot side of the Sun," dial, Navigator Ken spoke up really loudly. "Commander, wait!"

  There was a hushed silence that fell on the cabin. The drama began to unfold and get really dramatic.

  "What if you choose the wrong diar?" he queried.

  Commander Ken averred in a deep voice, "I’m going to do evelyting I can to keep this ship afroat. Now holrd on!!!"

  He slowly reached out for the diar. I mean, dial.

  All the Kens in the cabin swallowed hard.

  With the temperature reaching over 90 degrees centigrade, and sweat pouring from the Kens’ faces, Commander Ken did the impossible: he chose the dial that said, "The other side."

  A collective sigh of relief was heard in the cabin from the Kens.

  Slowly and with deliberation, the space craft began to adjust itself automatically to rotate back on its lateral axis, righting itself, and rotating the way it was supposed to be.

  A cheer went up throughout the cabin.

  "Uh, Ken Six, this is Tokyo Mission Control. Is evelything aright up there?"

  Commander Ken winked at Navigator Ken. "We’re leady to come home, Tokyo. We’re leady to come home."

  It's All Just Water Under the Fridge

  "Look, Dolores, I need you to do this for me, please."

  Dolores took a bite of her toast with one hand, slipped the other into her tailored jacket and stepped into her Prada pumps. "Martha, I'm already late for work, I have two meetings this morning, and fourteen pages of copy to go over before sending it to the web-master, and every person I have to deal with in between thinks that just because they have an IQ slightly higher than that of a cookie, that that's the only pre-requisite for accepting a pay check. My life runs on a tight schedule. We all can't just flop out of bed and into our jobs."

  "My God, girl, you need to get laid."

  Dolores went silent.

  "When was the last time you had a good hog-tyin' to the bed?"

  "Excuse me?" Dolores said.

  "You know, got the engines tuned up—had a gardener care take the bush; sent the beaver to the river."

  Dolores was flustered. "I don't… "

  "I know. That's half your problem. You need to loosen up, honey—have some fun."

  "I don't tell you which spatula to buy, you shouldn't tell me how to live my life."

  "It's money, isn't it?"

  "What?"

  "I'll pay you. How much? Will $200 cover it? Would you like cash, or can I have a wire sent directly to one of your Swiss accounts?"

  "Now you're being stupid."

  "Okay, have it your way, but don't come crying to me when you're sittin' in the floor one afternoon, broken up cause you can't get the lid off the pickle jar."

  "Hunh?"

  "You're headed for a breakdown, babe. You're too stressed. I'm just sayin'."

  Annoyed as she was, Dolores steered the conversation back on track. "What happened to that nurse you got before? Can't you get her now?"

  "If I could've done that, don't you think I would've? I know how much this inconveniences your play-dates, but please don't make me whine. Oh God, I feel it coming on… "

  "… don't… "

  "… it's getting bigger… "

  "Martha, I mean it… " She held the phone away from her ear. Some girls slept with the teachers for grades—Martha just whined it out of them, before they put a fork between their eyes.

  "DoLORESSSSSS
SSSSSSSSSSSS. Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease sit with daddy while I take care of my business downtown. Pleeeeeeeeeease?"

  "Do you realize each time you do that I have to clean the earpiece?" She took an antiseptic WetNap out of the top drawer of the bureau and wiped the phone.

  "I'm all broken up. Be here in fifteen."

  "Do you promise you'll be back in just two hours? If that's true, then I'll move my appointments back."

  Martha sighed. "Yes! I already told you. Two hours."

  "Fine. I'll pencil him in."

  Dolores cursed Martha in the car. Didn't she realize how important her life was? With this position at Finkle & Dinkle, at twenty-seven, she was the youngest publisher of Children's Books that had ever graced their offices, and it only took her six months from when she was hired as copy-editor. Plus, thanks to her, they had recently stolen the René account right out from under the noses of their competition, Penguin books.

  Yes, it was all going according to plan. In three years, she would have enough money to begin her own company, and then begin dating—she had given herself six months to find Mr. Right—then after a year's courtship they would become engaged for one year, get married, move into their own apartment, then after two years' time, begin having the family she knew she should. Two children, named Lowel and Joel; no girls, they were too difficult.

  So why did it feel like something was missing?

  "Get the hell out of the road, you fool!" she shouted, after laying into her horn. My God, they needed to shoot men drivers.

  She could feel her insides tense up as she neared the freeway exit to her childhood home. "You're being silly, he's your father," she said.

  Talking to herself didn't help. She loved her father dearly, but since he had grown senile within the last year, she had become ill at ease around him. "I'm never quite sure what to say to him," she told Martha once. Martha poo-pood it, so Dolores dropped it. Besides, he was Martha's responsibility, at her own insistence, so Dolores didn't interfere. She had wished she'd been closer to him though—now, especially since he'd been diagnosed with cancer and given up to a year.

  *****

  Within minutes, she was sitting in the driveway, reluctant to get out of the car. Her breathing had become labored "My God, you're being stupid. You run a very successful publishing company, you should be able to deal with a sixty-six year-old man who's old enough to be the dirt between Methuselah's toes. Now get in there!"