The Snake The Cross The Crown on a Monday Night
My heart is being Xeroxed; I couldn't find the originals, and now I'm stuck with grainy reproduction in black and white. Ten cents more so I can keep making copies, and hey, they keep on rolling out. Ten cents more and the machine is hot under my hands. It's quiet where I stand, on linoleum populated by people who love someone else far away.
They're all tied away like fishing lures, pulled in their own inscrutable dances. I don't dance, though, never could. I've always been too heavy for that line, not well enough tied to stay in one piece. I'm jealous of them, of their little dances. I'm not sure they know, but if they do I think it makes them a little bit happy to know that I'm watching them through the back of my head and a little bit hating them.
The machine has left brown tracks on the floor like drawings of tubes where it has been pushed back and forth just a few inches. I've always wondered at the hideousness of such things - little brown tracks marring a floor swept to a modicum of cleanliness. The floor probably hasn't actually been clean in years... there's no point. It's left to wallow in dirt because no one cares enough for it to make a difference, and rightly so - why waste time scrubbing at a floor that, once clean, will only look worn? I suppose it makes sense, but it's still a tragedy somehow.
I would clean it, probably. I'd probably get fired for cleaning it, but then that's because their jobs are lines like any other, and I never could dance. I've been told that I never look like I'm doing anything, at work. I suppose that's partly true - most of the time, when someone sees me, my brain is busy with something completely other than work. I think people can detect that, that inattention to the task at hand.
Ten more cents, and my heart copies over and over. I wonder who will find it. That's a statement, not a question. I wonder, who will find it? Now, there's a question. Yes, there's a question... it won't make any sense to anyone, not like this, but I think I like it this way. They can struggle to make out the image as they do their dances, and I can invent fantasies of what they'll see. I can just picture them, twitching back and forth, holding a copy, wondering what the point is. And, really, that's the point.
Ten more cents. I see the pretty cashier behind me. She's twitching; I can see she's pulled, but she hides it pretty well behind makeup and a too-tight ponytail that stretches her hair flat against her scalp. She's probably like me, just a little less willing to run. Her hair makes me decide that I don't like her.
Music runs through my head, screaming, "...and you know that it won't last." It's really directed at someone else, so it doesn't bother me. "There's no happy endings, no happy endings..." it says, melancholy. That one bothers me; it rings too true.
Ten more cents. The machine's drone has become a lullaby and I rock forward, my eyes fluttering. I fade in and out of sleep, standing there. I wonder, then, how long it has been since I've slept. The answer is probably nothing so impressive. 12 hours, perhaps. I'm tired, nonetheless. It really has nothing to do with how much sleep I get, or when. I don't know why I bother even thinking about that.
I think of a girl I know... she doesn't dance quite right. There's more of her in her dance than she'd like me to think. The copy machine reminds me of her - warm, but inanimate. Not really there in any meaningful way... but warm to the touch.
Ten more cents. The machine rocks back and forth, piling the paper with its black higher and higher. There are rough lines appearing on the page, now. The printer is running out of toner. I'm out of dimes, anyway, so I think the relationship will end well. It shudders to a halt, and I walk away, out onto the shining wet pavement with streetlights glaring from it. Industrial as it is, it will soon be as sanguine as Gettysburg. I wonder, what will they see?
They're all tied away like fishing lures, pulled in their own inscrutable dances. I don't dance, though, never could. I've always been too heavy for that line, not well enough tied to stay in one piece. I'm jealous of them, of their little dances. I'm not sure they know, but if they do I think it makes them a little bit happy to know that I'm watching them through the back of my head and a little bit hating them.
The machine has left brown tracks on the floor like drawings of tubes where it has been pushed back and forth just a few inches. I've always wondered at the hideousness of such things - little brown tracks marring a floor swept to a modicum of cleanliness. The floor probably hasn't actually been clean in years... there's no point. It's left to wallow in dirt because no one cares enough for it to make a difference, and rightly so - why waste time scrubbing at a floor that, once clean, will only look worn? I suppose it makes sense, but it's still a tragedy somehow.
I would clean it, probably. I'd probably get fired for cleaning it, but then that's because their jobs are lines like any other, and I never could dance. I've been told that I never look like I'm doing anything, at work. I suppose that's partly true - most of the time, when someone sees me, my brain is busy with something completely other than work. I think people can detect that, that inattention to the task at hand.
Ten more cents, and my heart copies over and over. I wonder who will find it. That's a statement, not a question. I wonder, who will find it? Now, there's a question. Yes, there's a question... it won't make any sense to anyone, not like this, but I think I like it this way. They can struggle to make out the image as they do their dances, and I can invent fantasies of what they'll see. I can just picture them, twitching back and forth, holding a copy, wondering what the point is. And, really, that's the point.
Ten more cents. I see the pretty cashier behind me. She's twitching; I can see she's pulled, but she hides it pretty well behind makeup and a too-tight ponytail that stretches her hair flat against her scalp. She's probably like me, just a little less willing to run. Her hair makes me decide that I don't like her.
Music runs through my head, screaming, "...and you know that it won't last." It's really directed at someone else, so it doesn't bother me. "There's no happy endings, no happy endings..." it says, melancholy. That one bothers me; it rings too true.
Ten more cents. The machine's drone has become a lullaby and I rock forward, my eyes fluttering. I fade in and out of sleep, standing there. I wonder, then, how long it has been since I've slept. The answer is probably nothing so impressive. 12 hours, perhaps. I'm tired, nonetheless. It really has nothing to do with how much sleep I get, or when. I don't know why I bother even thinking about that.
I think of a girl I know... she doesn't dance quite right. There's more of her in her dance than she'd like me to think. The copy machine reminds me of her - warm, but inanimate. Not really there in any meaningful way... but warm to the touch.
Ten more cents. The machine rocks back and forth, piling the paper with its black higher and higher. There are rough lines appearing on the page, now. The printer is running out of toner. I'm out of dimes, anyway, so I think the relationship will end well. It shudders to a halt, and I walk away, out onto the shining wet pavement with streetlights glaring from it. Industrial as it is, it will soon be as sanguine as Gettysburg. I wonder, what will they see?
Comments
This is great writing.
You should write.
Always.
Maybe even for a profit. Not a magazine.. more obscure.. like a future classic, who won't be quite famous until after he's passed on.