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History lesson (a fragment)
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History lesson (a fragment) |
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bsquirrel
since 2000-01-03
Posts 7855
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Here's an old story fragment of mine that I never finished. Enjoy what's here. I'm posting it because of the reception I received for Please Exit, Thank You. This one's comical. Mike History Lesson Bert was an archeologist and a friend, though not close enough for me to feel comfortable about him staying in my house. But that's what happened anyway. He had just gotten divorced two nights ago, and was at my house after a mutually accepted arrangement which involved a teary phone call with interspersed screaming from one member of his family or another in the background. Something like this: "Hello?" "Hi Paul. It's Bert." (cue screaming from Cathy, his wife) "Paul…I, I need somewhere to stay for a few weeks." "Well…" (cue one of his crying kids) "I don't know." Now imagine a call like that at 11:30 at night, with that orchestrated misery from his family in the background. I swear they must have planned this--their cries seemed to block out every important detail I was trying to listen for, to find out exactly how this had happened to Bert, and, more importantly, how this could be happening to me. I was groggy still, and wasn't sure whether this was a dream or some unfortunate form of reality. When he started crying, I cringed so hard against the phone that I dropped it into my pillow. It was reality, all right. In a big way. I watched the phone for a moment, listening to his tinny weeping, his tiny suffering lulling itself inside a plastic handset against my pillow. Of course I let him come over to my house. Bert was a nice enough guy, which means nothing, I know. But that would be the first thing I'd say when people asked me about him. The first thing I thought, however, was of the picture in his wallet. Being an archeologist, Bert had done lots of things many of us would want to do until we thought about it. He'd excavated tells, brushed dust off of friezes, glued together broken pottery. But his prized possession was cut out of an April 1987 issue of National Geographic and folded into his wallet with whatever money he carried. It was a glossy picture with no caption, and it didn't need one. It showed Bert, his face in profile, casting a glance--his eyes look too wide, too soft to be staring-- at a skeleton underneath him, the skull upturned in the sand, staring back at Bert's forehead. You can see how smooth Bert's cheeks are in the picture, though behind him are mud-packed huts and standing water; a place where shaves haven't been invented yet. You also notice how soft Bert's face is, how completely open, his lips slightly parted, like he's ready to kiss the bones. It's a wide-angle shot, and those two heads, one delicately kneaded from flesh, the other sculpted sharply in bone, is the first thing I think of when I hear Bert's name. Word would spread quickly at parties that some nut job had a picture of himself with a skeleton. He would take it out and show it to whomever asked. It was only because of that picture that he was asked to parties, I think, because, God love him, he actually didn't speak much. That's really all I have to say about Bert. I never really knew Cathy, and she definitely didn't have any pictures of skeletons on her, so I don't know what they saw in each other. [This message has been edited by bsquirrel (08-11-2002 12:02 AM).] |
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Anvrill Senior Member
since 2002-06-21
Posts 710in the interzone now |
 Should I become an archeologist, just so I can pose with skeletons? I wanna, I wanna, I wanna! You are so cool, baby o' mine. Immensely. impress me, or be discarded |
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bsquirrel
since 2000-01-03
Posts 7855 |
Awww... no one else likes this strange thing.  |
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