"Bros before Hoes" and other stupid shit guy’s tell each other
Intense friendliness with nothing behind the eyes.
1. There’s a mystery to be solved. It involves… Milk. Specifically goat’s milk. When Robert took a sip of the local farms dairy, he paused for a moment and let it soak on his tongue. “That’s a bit off, innit?” he proclaimed loudly.
2. She talks. But she doesn’t speak my language… it’s weird going to dinner with her. One time I thought she ordered a fish and was actually asking about the valet in the parking lot. See, none of us understood the valet. For all she knew, the valet had stolen the car.
3. List as many car makers as you can… Honda, toyota, tesla, microcar, boxee the car, cars-o-mattic. I don’t know. I just drive the damn things. Sometimes the makers get fancy and try to define themselves from the mold, which never really works, it just annoys me from time to time.
4. I have an overwhelming desire to meet an astronaut because… they’ve seen shit. 30 miles above the earth, barely scraping the blue marble as it hurtles around a sun in a cluster or suns. i want to meet an astronaut because of the impressive perspective they provide.
5. … and then the cell phone exploded.
I was talking to Buzz Aldrin on the phone when he mentioned something about seeing martians on the moon. I laughed. “No, no,” he said, “There really are aliens on the moon.”
"Prove it I asked."
Buzz was silent for a moment. Then the cell phone exploded.
Money is control. It’s power. It’s vested interests and pressure. It’s deals and contracts and lives and the end of lives. It’s hours a day spent hunched over a device, turning screws and knobs, waiting patiently for the moment to make a little more money. It’s food and comfort and electricity and knowledge. It’s what drives humanity’s engine. It’s fuel.
My legs were burning as minute five of horse stance ticked by. I was eight, and in my bedroom, feet wide, legs bent at the knee at ninety degrees. Beads of sweat made their way out of my skin like needles. Being eight years old, my leg muscles were weak and began to buckle. I collapsed onto my bedroom floor and took a deep breath.
my father once spent a whole day in horse stance because he was without a chair. He’d start in horse stance at breakfast and stay until late at night, after his shift at the train factor came to an end. He’d be covered in oil and soot, but his legs would stay strong.
He said he started when he was young. I picked myself off the floor and returned in stance.
said coach Daz with a laugh. It was at his windowless air conditioned barn grounded in the middle of Iowa’s cornfield. This was Coach Daz’s gym. Only people with the correct coordinates could find it. Or those tough enough to zig zig the giant field, in hopes of stumbling upon it, like a lost ruin.
"Fear isn’t pain or suffering. Fear is never being able to walk again," Daz said. He smiled at me. My champion belt hung from a wall at the gym. I won it year ago. It might be a relic in two months.
"Fear isn’t losing a fight. Fear is having the fight beaten out of you." He flashed a grin at the doctor, moments before I was anesthetized into a deep sleep. "You don’t need such useless things."
… … ….
Coach Daz’s electronic eyes scanned the waiting room of the Medical Offices of Dr. Min Suk. He zoomed in on a small replica spring that dribbled water from under a moss covered rock. Every Chinatown medical office had a water fountain. Even the cheap ones.
"Ace is in recovery," the nurse said. She avoided eye contact with him, preferring to glance at his eye-implants out the corner of her eye. Coach Daz was used to this. Even for the initiated, people found his metallic eye attachments… jarring. Doctors had inserted a biowire into his optic nerve and connected it to the cameras that replaced his eyes. His were 1st generation Eye Augmentations, just slowmo and a basic digital layout. His fighter, Ace, was in surgery for the 16th generation Eye Aug. They were overclocked models that Dr. Min modified, allowing Ace to dial in a custom slowmo setting. The procedure was nothing more than a microchip implanted on the optic nerve.
His sunglasses hid his eyes. His right eye drooped at the tear duct. Acid had corroded it, leaving a pink wet scar on the side of his nose. When he was a boxing champ, a gambler paid for his eyes to be surgically augmented. He told Daz “everyone” did it. Daz listened, and when he was a 1 to 5 underdog he bet his savings on himself. Daz knocked his opponent out and collected his winnings. A month later he lost his eyesight and retired from boxing.
But that didn’t stop him suggesting the same doctor to Ace. Dr. Min couldn’t be beat for price and the surgery had been refined to a simple injection. “Everyone is doing it,” Daz told Ace. “If you want to be the champ, this is the way.”
The room where I recovered used to be a pantry for a restaurant. Rows of shelves lined the room, some holding IV fluid, others holding old cups of tea. I laid on my back on a deflated hospital bed and squinted at the LED lights in the ceiling. The lights seemed brighter than usual, producing flares and halos around each source of light.
Something’s wrong. I just don’t know what.
"If you wanted to have a living, why did you major in creative writing?"
Because I made the decision in 2006. At least you could get a job at your uncle’s law firm back then.