Brains of the Operation

I knew if I poked it once I'd rich person to poke it again, merely knowing this didn't stop me. I reached up under my new White Sox ball cap and poked my oral sex. I was in a law firm, waiting to talk to an attorney approximately injuries I'd sustained as a passenger in a taxi cab, injuries, most notably, to my drumhead. The top of my read/write head was still puffy 1 full day after the accident, which was why I couldn't help myself. I poked it again. It was wish touching something that was a part of me and not a part of me at the same meter-what I imagined Siamese twins experienced once they touched I another's heads.

I did this sort of thing I was a kid, excessively. I'd discover some oddity of my body, some heretofore unexamined part, and I wouldn't leave it alone, couldn't leave it alone. I had discovered my cuticles while sitting in a third-grade classroom-What ar these. I wondered-and I began picking at unity, reshaping it, and so flattening it care putty. A few years later I discovered that the knuckles on my fist had a layer of something else them-a band of cartilage?-and each band moved the knuckle I pushed on it. I kept making a fist so that I could move the odd lumps backrest and forth.

I did this for weeks, months. The body was a world unto itself, and it seemed important to me, as its host, to explore it. And so in the lawyer's office, each metre I poked the lump that covered the entire top of my mind, I thought, What the hell's under there. Some kind of brain fluid. When I looked up and saw the secretary watching me, I slid my fingers come out of the closet from under my cap and smiled at her, simply as soon as she returned to her work, my fingers rose again to my brain.

Ralph wheeled the El Camino onto Cicero Avenue. Each clip he changed lanes without checking his rearview mirror, my neck tightened. The tightening of my neck, in turn, triggered a pain in my psyche that felt not unlike a knife stabbing into me. Ralph ran a yellow light. I opened my mouth to scream, just nothing came .

I had wanted to scream the cab driver turned in front of the speeding car, only I didn't and so, either. Politeness, I was starting to realize, would be the death of me. "When you're a kid," Ralph said, "you remember school's a waste of clock time, you get older, you discover that you can actually use a lot of what you learned. Remember completely those papier-mache projects in art class.

I used to say to myself, now the hell would I ever use papier-mache I grew up. Well, my friend, that leg cast is living proof that no knowledge is worthless. You look a little, I Don't recognise, sick." "I'm fine," I said.

"Hang on," Ralph said. "We're almost there." My chest tightened at the thought of returning to the motel. Being poor wasn't cheap. With money and a job, I could wealthy person rented a studio apartment for five hundred dollars a month. Living in Motel 6 for a month, however, would cost me sixteen hundred dollars. There were motels that charged weekly rates, dives mostly, where you brought the last of your belongings, a box or 2, plus maybe a lawn chair so that you could sit outside the motel's door and drink a tall boy, watching the sun go down feather while you smoked your last cigarette.

The fall would be swift, and I pictured myself in a year, bearded and stinking, wearing a II-piece suit made of burlap coffee sacks, whole the while pushing a squeaky-wheeled shopping cart pile the street, yelling close to the government's conspiracy to plant computer chips in of us. "You cognize," I said to Ralph, "that was awfully generous of you, offering to let me stay at your place." "Which way to the Motel Sex?" he asked. But I was thinking, if you Don River't mind.." "Cicero?" he asked. "Are you sure it's not on Harlem?" "No," I said. "It's definitely on Cicero.

Mike Cliff http://www.plasmatvreviews.net