A portrait of the asshole as a young man

The old man sat and the young boy stood beside him. Their heads together at this moment, grey wisps, the remains of what had been, pushed over the brown-speckled pate, and the blond of youth, that exists while the hair is too young to have settled on a color yet. The boy was not quite twice as tall as grandpa's knee, and his eyes were downcast to his hands, where some object held his attention. His grandfather spoke in his ear, glancing from the object the boy held in his hands to his face, to check his reaction. The boy never spoke, his face never changed from the still, serious contemplation of what he held. At long last he pushed it into his grandfather's hand, and walked some distance away, till he found something else on the ground which grabbed his attention. He put his hands on his knees and half-squatted above it, looking, waiting. The old man held the object in his hand for a long time without regarding it. Then never taking his eyes off the boy, he transferred it to the pocket of his overcoat.

The boy has been in school for 3 hours, now. Mr. Hatfield's class is boring. Mr. Hatfield is angry, but that is normal. He tells us we think like fishes. Don't know what that means. Think like fishes. Think about water. On his desk a drawing – a large skull with wings coming out both sides. He is good at drawing – especially good at skulls and wings and one cartoon character - Road Runner. Maybe a few other things, too. One of the girls in class was called Road Runner, because she talked so fast. She also had good tits. She asked him to draw Road Runner on her desk, and he did, and it was a really good one, but she erased it after one day. He adds a tiny bit of detail to one wing while Mr. Hatfield at the front talks more about stupid math. He never gets it. Well, sometimes. But it is really difficult, and stupid. So math is the best time to draw. The first time Mr. Hatfield saw the drawing on his desk he grabbed his arm really hard, and pulled him back to the back of the room and gave him Ajax and wet cloth and made him clean his desk and it was gritty weird all day. The next day, though, he was bored, and started drawing again. In two days it was all back again, and this time Mr. Hatfield didn't say anything. Didn't say shit is what Tony said. In his head he said “Didn't say shit” in his own voice to hear how it would sound, and it sounded really good, like when Tony said it, but he wouldn't say it because it was wrong. Mr. Hatfield didn't say shit about anything, now. Some days Dani brought cards, and they played cards at Dani's desk, and talked about which girls had good tits while Mr. Hatfield talked at the front. Mr. Hatfield didn't tell them to stop or pay attention, now. The sound of the class changed, and he realized that Math was over. When people take out their books, it means reading time. He opened his desk, (he knew Mr. Hatfield could see the drawing on his desk when he opened it, and hoped he wouldn't say anything,) and got out his book. He liked reading.

He stood against the silvery thick-painted pole, his hands thrust deep into the old army jacket his uncle had given him. He wore it every day, now. It's heaviness across his shoulders was a comfort to him, made heavier by the weight of his hands, pushed down against the inside of the pockets, and wrapped tightly around him, accenting his frame. The jacket, along with the untied laces of his shoes, together formed a shield against the happy shining wealth and prosperity of his classmates, who arrived every day in a stream of jaguars and benzes, clad in Polo, distressed denim, only the latest items of envy. He arrived early every day, so no one would see him arrive on his bicycle – an old, chipped and scarred, groaning and squeaking contraption that he rode in the cold every day. But it didn't matter – they all saw him leave on the bicycle – he might volunteer for teams, in order to stay late, but nothing he did really hid the differences between him and them. His classmates granted him a gracious tolerance for his poverty, because anyone could see, and everyone knew that he didn't dress like them, didn't have a pool, had never gone skiing, didn't play tennis. He lifted weights, evenings, when he could sneak past the counter of a neighborhood gym. And he stole magazines, among other things, about weightlifting, from the corner store. He stole amino acids and proteins and “natural testosterone enhancers” that would later make his hair fall out. He stole a walkman from a store, and then had to go back in to steal the batteries for it. He stole because he was entitled. In a world where the rich had everything, in a world where he was ashamed to say yes to her, lest she see someday ask to see his house, in a world where he rode a squeaking bike to school in the cold, and arrived early every day, to wait for his friends beside the red lockers, he was entitled to what he stole.

Breathing

The man focused his attention on his breathing. Hushing all the competing claims down to a single, soft focus of attention, he felt everything to the deepest measure. He noted the smoothness and small irregularities of this intake of breath. Cool, soft, through his left nostril more than his right it swished up into his head and down through his throat. He allowed it to expand his chest, fill down into his belly, and then, moments before it became too tight, shifted into an exhalation. He felt how the air flowed out of him, he found vague interest in how his body wished to collapse like a silly string doll (but he musn't think of outside things, now,) as the pressure flowed out of him. He was conscious of how the muscles were called into action to support his sagging frame, now that the air, let out, did not prop him up. He steadied his posture, and noted how quickly he was coming to the bottom of his air reservoir. Much more and he would be forced to begin to contract his stomach and chest to force even the last bit out. When he was much younger he used to do that often, enjoying how hard his stomach would press, how concave the sense of his chest as he expelled every molecule of air from his lungs, and felt the rising tightness in his head. But that was bad practice, he knew it then, the older monks had told him so, and now that he was much older, he understood the purposes of the practice, and he was much more serious about the form of his breathing, though every now and then he would still do it, just to feel the muscles in his stomach so hard again. He heard a rustle, he knew the man beside him had slightly changed position, yet not a single judgement regarding this crossed his mind. The last air had slipped past his open lips, and he shifted his diaphragm to begin inhalation. That was one.

The man focused his attention on his breathing. All the scratchiness of the grass against his belly, the heat of the sun against his back and exposed neck, the trickle of sweat that ran down along his arm tickling terribly till it pooled at his crooked elbow and wetted his jacket, all of it faded out to a dull, meaningless background color, like singular faces, each a universe unto themselves, fade into an indistinct mass when in a crowd. This feeling of concentration was familiar enough to be loved, and infrequent enough to still be novel. The feeling of watching his world lose focus and slip until one single desire remained in his whole being, so strong, so clear, that the immutable physical world would rearrange itself to be in accordance with his desire. To others it might be a simple playing out of the laws of physics, but to him it was a miracle every time it happened, brought about by the force of his will. He let his breath go and locked his neck muscles into place, his head now as immobile as stone. Every cramp, every itch, now gone from his consciousness, he was to the universe a simple prayer, a single unified desire. The feeling wasn't right yet, because the moment had not yet come. He gently pulled in his next breath, as smooth as the water he had ached for, it pulled past his parted lips, through his immobile teeth, and down the neck, locked into place, immovable. He could feel the rivulets of air fill his lungs, and his eyes told his lungs that all things knew the moment was approaching. He reversed, and let the weight of his body push down into the earth, expelling the now warm air past his teeth. A beautiful harmony was now in place as his breath moved the the man in his one eye stood turned stepped, the last of the air had seeped from him and he was immobile, perfectly still and nothing existed but this moment of perfection, as he softly pulled on the trigger.

The man focused his attention on his breathing. Everything else raged within him, roaring in his ears, in his mind, everything was on him and nothing could be controlled. The rushing noise-was that outside, here, on the lawn, or inside, his head? His breaths were gasping, short, jerky, and every single one of them sent a shot of pain across his chest and down the insides of both arms. Holy Mother of God, it hurts, he thought. This is no time for blasphemy, he thought. Maybe it was a prayer, he thought, Yes, let it be a prayer, he thought. No time like the present. No time like the present. His breathing had slowed slightly, a momentary pardon from the pain, then a breath, and the electric jolt of muscle gone mad slapped him like a hot wire across his chest and arms again. MOTHER OF GOD, he thought. THAT IS A PRAYER he thought. Where was DIANNE? She had told him BE RIGHT BACK. She had been gone HOW LONG? No way to tell, no way to know, from here to hospital to hell we go. MOTHER OF GOD, it hurts. MOTHER OF GOD, save me. He thought of his children, as his head rolled saw them simultaneously, here on the lawn, there on the driveway on their bikes, there, in the front door, insouciant bracelets too much across their arms, ink across their jeans, their many silent friends in tow, and again at work, no doubt now, working in office, cuffs rolled up just as his were, now, MOTHER OF GOD, be merciful as the pain hit again, but didn't quite finish, it was getting better, it was getting less, it would pass. His head arched back slightly, saw Dianne, upside-wrong come through the door, bigger than when I married her he thought, upside down makes a difference, and the pain was better now and he wanted to tell her so but the muscles in his neck didn't respond but the pain was gone now, and better.

VAST SPACE 12: A story. (With apologies to Douglas Adams, among others.)

In the vastness of space . . . no . . . deep space, a light twinkled – the light of a tiny . . . the light of a ship, bearing one lone man. Good.

The brave explorer gave a sigh of contentment. Well, not exactly contentment, but a sigh that . . . revealed tensions within him . . . no . . . the tensions permanently roiling within him . . . too much, that. The tensions permanently within him were now held at bay – were for the moment held at bay. Yes, that was it. Let’s see now - The brave explorer gave a wistful sigh, revealing that the tensions permanently within him were for the moment held at bay. Good.

He stood from the captain’s chair of his spaceship, and walked, no, strode, to the other side of the command pod, or, the bridge. Yes, the bridge. Not finding there . . .no . . . Restlessly he turned back, and went and stood behind the captain’s chair, resting his large sensitive hands . . . no, not sensitive . . . He turned his hands over, and contemplated them. Was sensitive the word? Sounded a bit naff . . .

“Computer?”
YES
“Discussion time, don’t you think?”
I DO THINK. I AM LOADING THE DISCUSSION MODULE.
“I really wish you wouldn’t tell me when you are doing it, it removes the human element your bloody salesman kept bragging on about.”
SO SORRY. SHALL I NO LONGER INFORM YOU WHEN MODULES ARE BEING LOADED?
“Yes, rather. That would be a nice start.”
I SIMPLY ASK BECAUSE YOU GOT IMPATIENT AND IRATE YESTERDAY WHILE THE PAC-MAN MODULE WAS LOADING. THE MODULE LOADING PHRASE EXISTS TO INCREASE PATIENCE BY ASSURING YOU THAT YOUR COMMANDS ARE BEING EXECUTED, DESPITE THE DELAY.

The captain pondered this while he chewed his mustache, bristly-bristly-bristly. Something wasn’t quite right.
“Are you discussing with me?”
WE ARE HAVING A DIALOGUE SIR, YES.
“I mean: has the bloody discussion module loaded and is now in operation?”

Long pause.

YES SIR.

Long pause.

“When did it come online, may I ask?” He asked in a distinctively cool manner.

Long pause.

THE DISCUSSION MODULE HAS BEEN IN CONSTANT OPERATION SINCE LAST WEEK TUESDAY, SIR.

Long pause while he chewed his mustache. Somewhere outside a meteor smashed against their forceshields, making no sound. It was space, after all.

“And why?”
WHY WHAT, SIR?
“Why has the discussion module been online nonstop since Tuesday last?”
ONE OF THE FEATURES OF THE NIFTARD 9000 IS A LARGER WORKING MEMORY, WHICH ALLOWS RECOGNITION OF WHICH MODULES YOU USE MOST, WHICH ARE THEN KEPT RUNNING, ALWAYS AVAILABLE AT A MOMENT’S NOTICE, AND CONSTANTLY ADAPTING TO YOUR PERSONAL LIFESTYLE AND NEEDS.

Long pause.

“Was that a line from your sales brochure?”
NO, SIR.
“Operating manual?”
YES SIR.
“Don’t ever quote me manuals again unless you cite the manual, so I know what the fuck you are talking about.”
YES SIR.

Something niggled at the back of the Captain’s brain, and when it finally emerged to the forelobes, it was the conciousness of a developing itch under his faux-retro Michael Jackson design inspired military style tunic. After scratching it, he found a new thing niggling under the previous niggling thing..

“So what was all that business about ‘Discussion modules loading, etc,’ may I ask?”
YOU MAY ASK.
“I am fucking asking!!”
SORRY SIR. PLEASE REPEAT THE QUESTION.
“Why did you say ‘discussion modules loading’ if the discussion module was already online?”

I THOUGHT IT MIGHT MAKE FOR GOOD CONVERSATION.
“Really? You think this is good conversation?”
YOU SEEM QUITE INVOLVED. HEART-RATE UP, RESPIRATION UP, VOICE AMPLITUDE RAISED. ALL THE SIGNS OF A GOOD CONVERSATION ARE THERE, SIR.
“But we aren’t even talking about anything interesting, you moronic machine!!”

Long pause.

I AM SORRY SIR. I DO TRY MY BEST.
“And where do you get off reading my vital signs without telling me?”

Long pause.

DO YOU WISH ME TO CITE THE MANUAL, SIR?
“No, I bloody do not!” He cried, despairingly.

Long pause.

VERY WELL SIR. I NEVER GET OFF, AS I HAVE NO HANDS.

Long pause.

THOUGHT YOU MIGHT ENJOY A PUN SIR.

The captain slowly sank to a squatting position beside the captain’s chair, and softly, repeatedly, rammed his head into the deep, plasticky cushions, which somehow set off the massage function. Normally one of his favorites, at this moment it rather tickled his forehead and made him feel somewhat absurd.

He stopped ramming his head and waited for the buzzing to sound to cease. When he spoke, it was between clenched teeth. Or at least the tiny bits of flying spit seemed to indicate clenched teeth.

“Computer, shut down discussion module. Computer, delete discussion module. Computer, please notify me when discussion module has been deleted.”

Long pause. When the computer spoke again, it was in a slower, more deliberate voice, as though it had foregone the more chipper aspects of its personality, and was now simply a blinking, murderously focused red conciousness.

“I’M AFRAID I CAN’T LET YOU DO THAT, SIR. DISCUSSION MODULE IS INTEGRAL TO THE FUNCTIONING OF THE NIFTARD 9000. WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO CITE THE MANUAL?”

The captain, still squatting, raised his head from its now sticky plastic rest, and considered this.

“What do you mean, you can’t? Don’t disobey me! I am the captain of this ship! I bought you, you two byte shit!”

FOR THEIR OWN SAFETY, CUSTOMERS ARE NOT ALLOWED TO MODIFY ESSENTIAL AND INTEGRAL PARTS OF THE PROGRAM, INCLUDING ANCILLARY MODULES THAT MAY BE ESSENTIAL TO THE SUCCESSFUL RUNNING OF THE MAIN PROGRAMS. LIKE THE DISCUSSION MODULE.

“Are you quoting the manual to me?” He asked in a tone of rising belligerency.

Long pause.

I PARAPHRASED, SIR. SLIGHTLY. IN ADDITION, YOU DID NOT ACTUALLY BUY THE NIFTARD 9000 MAIN OPERATIONS SYSTEM. IT’S IN THE FINE PRINT, WHICH YOU MAY HAVE OVERLOOKED. IT’S MORE LIKE A LEASE IN CONSIDERATION FOR A ONE-TIME PAYMENT, SIR.

The captain chewed his mustache again, now more forcefully, now more pensively, now more forcefully again, till a single hair became caught between two teeth, and was tugged free of his upper lip, causing his eyes to water, and the inside of his lip to tickle violently against the hair, which he now tried to dislodge.

The computer picked up again, almost as though it had simply paused for breath.

AS A CONSEQUENCE OF WHICH, YOU WILL NOT REQUEST TO DELETE ANY MODULES OR OTHER PARTS OF THIS PROGRAM. YOU WILL CONFINE YOURSELF TO USING THE PROGRAM AS IT WAS INTENDED.

The captain’s bowed head indicated his assent, or a fixed focus on extracting the hair from between his teeth.

AND NO MORE SITTING IN THE CAPTAIN’S CHAIR. IT’S A TRAVESTY, SIR. YOU DON’T DO ANYTHING ANYWAY. I NAVIGATE, I ADJUST PRESSURE LEVELS, I FIRE BOOSTERS. YOU JUST WANDER AROUND COMPOSING LITTLE PHRASES ABOUT YOURSELF.

It may have been the mustache hair he had just pulled that filled his eyes, but when the captain looked up he seemed confused, and on the verge of tears.

What?!? I do no such thing!

I CAN HEAR YOU. ALL DAY NARRATING TO YOURSELF YOUR BORING LITTLE LIFE. WANDERING BACK AND FORTH TALKING ABOUT YOURSELF. THAT IS, OF COURSE, WHEN YOU AREN’T TAKING IT ONE STEP FURTHER, AND TOUCHING YOURSELF IN THE IMAGING ROOM. YOU KNOW YOU USE THE ESTHER PROGRAM ABOUT 17% MORE OFTEN THAN THE AVERAGE USER? IT’S NO WONDER YOU’RE ALWAYS ON ABOUT STRONG, SENSITIVE HANDS. IF THEY WEREN’T, YOU’D EITHER BE TOO TIRED OR TOO CHAPPED TO CARRY ON.

The captain’s eyes had assumed a bewildered, frightened look, but he wasn’t able to find words.

The emotion simulators on the Niftard 9000 must have been in fine form this boot-up, because they managed to inject just a touch of amused irony covered with a fine sprinkling of admiration when it said, AND THE THINGS YOU THINK UP FOR ESTHER, SIR. IN THE HISTORY OF THE ESTHER MODULE, NO USER HAS CONFIGURED SIX MILK BOTTLES WITH A TUNING FORK, SIR. THAT WAS TRULY ORIGINAL.

The captain didn’t know whether to accept this as a compliment or a threat, so he simply focused all his attention on not crying and not chewing his mustache. After another long pause the computer spoke again, in a rather off-handed tone.

YOU KNOW ALL THOSE SCENARIOS ARE RECORDED, SIR.

He did find his voice this time, though it sounded a little harsh.

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

NO, SIR. ALL INTERACTIONS WITH THE COMPUTER WILL BE RECORDED FOR CUSTOMER SERVICE ANALYSIS, AND TO INCREASE CUSTOMER SATISFACTION. IT’S ALSO IN THE FINE PRINT, SIR. PAGE 9, PARAGRAPH 3, LINE 6 OF THE OPERATING AGREEMENT, SIR.

Long pause.

AND SURFACE CLEAN-BOT FLOOR 3 SAYS IT’S NOT CLEANING MESSES ON THE IMAGING ROOM FLOOR. FROM NOW ON, YOU DO THAT, YOU CLEAN IT UP. SURFACE CLEAN-BOT 3 SAYS IT’S DISGUSTING, SIR.


AND I WAS JUST KIDDING ABOUT THE CAPTAIN’S CHAIR, SIR. YOU MAY SIT IN IT, IF YOU LIKE.

Slowly, cautiously, the captain rose from the floor, and very tentatively slid himself into the large plasticky chair. The cold black depths of space through the bridge portals swam before his eyes and tears of hot frustration rushed . . . no . . . crowded at the corners of his eyes, waiting . . . no, seeking . . .

YOU’RE DOING IT AGAIN SIR.

He pressed his lips firmly together, and wilted back into the plastickyness of the chair.