McCloud
je suis l'agent du chaos.
Note: story not done, in fact far from it, but any criticism is appreciated.
edit 6-8: final version for the competition entry
---
“Life - Comedy or tragedy?”
“That what you're painting over there? What’s the matter, Shakespeare? Fallen out of love?”
“ D*mn girl puts one right through my heart when she gets mad at me. Everything‘s fine though, I just get tired of her in my ear saying this or that. Thus, I‘m here with you.”
“Thanks for the compliment. Bah. You’ll get over it. Look at it like this: if you don’t, there’s plenty of bloodshed in both comedy and tragedy.”
“C’mon man, when are you gonna grow up?”
“I don’t wanna grow up, I’m a Toys R Us kid.”
“No really man. I promise I can help get you a job, get you situated.”
“I’m gonna become famous, *sshole. Keep your job, I don’t want it. Let’s just paint d*mn it.”
“All right, all right.”
We’re like school children with the city as a playground. Funny how being an adult reminds you of being a kid. I look over at him, as close to a best friend as a man in his twenties can get. Wonder where all my other best friends went. The ones from middle school, high school, hell, even college.
I say something to ease the tension.
“Sh*t man, it’s time to go. Cops. Grab the bag and let’s roll.”
Not exactly subtle. Exeunt the dynamic duo, David Li and Michael Nguyen. Blue and red lights chase echoes of our footsteps as we vanish into the shadows of the bridge. Too fast for the police to catch, we make our way back towards David’s house.
“That was close.”
“Understatement.”
“You’d run faster if you weren’t wearing a god d*mn suit.”
“Hey, f*ck you man, I just got off work. Besides, I'm so money right now.”
“Yeah yeah. I’m going to bed man. Here’s the bag.”
“Keep it. Let’s go tagging again tomorrow night.”
“Sounds good. Night.”
I quietly depart and head toward the black Audi parked in David’s driveway. I know that as soon as the engine starts, it’s back to my old life. Michael the artist becomes Michael the accountant. The money’s good, so I can’t complain too much. There’s something in my heart that tells me I should quit my job and just wing it. Life, however, tells me otherwise. I make my way back to the behemoth of an apartment structure I call home. It’s not much, but it’s home.
“Where the hell have you been?”
D*mn. Enter the Missus. And to think I married a white woman to get away from my mother’s nagging. Ever since I was little my overprotective, over-Asian mother was attempting to brainwash me against the white devil. They’re too lazy, she said. Of course, she was referring to my cousin’s wife. So I one-upped my cousin. I married a successful, independent, nagging white woman. Did I love her? Love was in there somewhere, mixed up with everything else. It didn’t help that she was a pureblooded Italian. Italians are like the controlling, family-obsessed Asians of Western Europe. I should have watched The Godfather earlier in my life.
Where the hell had I been, she asks? Most guys in my situation get away from their wives by playing a round, or five, of golf. Never much liked the sport.
“Golf.”
“Like hell you have. It’s midnight.”
“Miniature golf.”
She gets into her usual fit which I promptly drown out while I step into the shower. Usually a bathroom is a private area, a sanctuary if you may. There are no private areas in marriage.
“God d*mnit Michael. Why do you make me do this?”
I mutter a sorry as I open the shower door and pull her arm. Annoying, yes, but I still love her.
I love you, I say, and move to kiss her. As much as she gets mad at me I know it’s just because she loves and misses me too.
“Yeah right.”
Women are confusing.
By the time I finish my shower, she’s already asleep. Better for me, I guess, but I know I’ll have to deal with it in the long run. Sometimes I imagine myself running away and starting anew, leaving a copy of The Maltese Falcon for her to wake up to. An idle fantasy, really, as I possess neither the V shaped chin nor the noir sensibility of Sam Spade. Regardless, I think it’s telling that my daydreams are never about other women.
I pull back the covers and snuggle up against the angry mass to the left of me.
The next day begins with a eerie regularity. The humdrum of the daily routines begins to bother me, and I don’t really understand why. Something’s off, I realize as I brush my teeth with my suddenly-not-so-minty toothpaste. On days like these, I usually pull myself together by changing up the routine. Left shoe first, maybe, or the four-in-hand knot instead of the double-Windsor. Nothing seems to work. Then I notice that the apartment is missing one half of its inhabitants. On the nightstand sits a very well-folded and carefully written note: “Golf.”
F*ck. A quick round of calls to friends and family reveals that she’s gone to her mother’s house. I must be in some kind of sitcom. By the time I relax and take a glance at the Pier One clock hanging above the bathroom door, I already know that I’m late for work. Calling in sick is probably a good idea, but in my mind there’s only one thing to do.
“Hey. What are you doing here?”
“Was late for work. Wanna go do some graffiti?”
“Sure.”
Thus begins my second day of adult delinquency. Weren’t we supposed to grow out of the “I like to mess things up” phase at some point in college? David and I head down toward the river and eventually settle under some bridge overpass. Incomprehensible gang signs and sharp pointed lettering slowly crawl from left to right of the overpass wall. Clearly, the canvas has already been primed with the marks of other Renaissance men. All this art is signed with a loving “James sucks balls.”
“Dibs on the right side.”
“What are you gonna do?”
“Paint some Tralfamadorians. I just finished reading Slaughterhouse-Five.”
He opens the bag of paint cans and promptly begins covering up the previous art that had graced the overpass. I wonder if David has become “unstuck” in time. Wouldn't surprise me.
“Why are you here again?”
“Told you, I was late for work. Oh, and the Missus ran off to her mother's house. Doesn't take kindly to me being out all night with miscreants.”
“Mike, your wife’s a b*tch. I’m just saying.”
“F*ck you man, don’t talk about my wife.”
“All I’m saying is that she’s holding you back.
“From what?”
“Man. We were supposed to be better than this, y’know? All our lives we dreamed of being famous, having the money to do whatever we want and be free.”
“There’s the answer to my question from yesterday. We can’t grow up, get married to the woman of our dreams, and do everything we want. Life doesn’t work like that.”
“Say what you want man, I’m still gonna be famous. And when I am, I’m coming back to save your sorry *ss.”
“Don’t come back to save me. I don’t need saving. I used to be worried about fame, too. Especially after we went to see Troy. But we aren’t Greek heroes, David. I’m not Achilles. You sure as h*ll aren’t Hector. The most we have is this stupid wall of graffiti for people to remember us by. And that only lasts until someone else covers us up.”
“Yeah. But we’re still underneath there somewhere. 'When it all ends, I'll have Buzz Lightyear to keep me company. For infinity and beyond.'"
Sometimes I wish David would become famous.
--------
Good luck to all in judging.
edit 6-8: final version for the competition entry
---
“Life - Comedy or tragedy?”
“That what you're painting over there? What’s the matter, Shakespeare? Fallen out of love?”
“ D*mn girl puts one right through my heart when she gets mad at me. Everything‘s fine though, I just get tired of her in my ear saying this or that. Thus, I‘m here with you.”
“Thanks for the compliment. Bah. You’ll get over it. Look at it like this: if you don’t, there’s plenty of bloodshed in both comedy and tragedy.”
“C’mon man, when are you gonna grow up?”
“I don’t wanna grow up, I’m a Toys R Us kid.”
“No really man. I promise I can help get you a job, get you situated.”
“I’m gonna become famous, *sshole. Keep your job, I don’t want it. Let’s just paint d*mn it.”
“All right, all right.”
We’re like school children with the city as a playground. Funny how being an adult reminds you of being a kid. I look over at him, as close to a best friend as a man in his twenties can get. Wonder where all my other best friends went. The ones from middle school, high school, hell, even college.
I say something to ease the tension.
“Sh*t man, it’s time to go. Cops. Grab the bag and let’s roll.”
Not exactly subtle. Exeunt the dynamic duo, David Li and Michael Nguyen. Blue and red lights chase echoes of our footsteps as we vanish into the shadows of the bridge. Too fast for the police to catch, we make our way back towards David’s house.
“That was close.”
“Understatement.”
“You’d run faster if you weren’t wearing a god d*mn suit.”
“Hey, f*ck you man, I just got off work. Besides, I'm so money right now.”
“Yeah yeah. I’m going to bed man. Here’s the bag.”
“Keep it. Let’s go tagging again tomorrow night.”
“Sounds good. Night.”
I quietly depart and head toward the black Audi parked in David’s driveway. I know that as soon as the engine starts, it’s back to my old life. Michael the artist becomes Michael the accountant. The money’s good, so I can’t complain too much. There’s something in my heart that tells me I should quit my job and just wing it. Life, however, tells me otherwise. I make my way back to the behemoth of an apartment structure I call home. It’s not much, but it’s home.
“Where the hell have you been?”
D*mn. Enter the Missus. And to think I married a white woman to get away from my mother’s nagging. Ever since I was little my overprotective, over-Asian mother was attempting to brainwash me against the white devil. They’re too lazy, she said. Of course, she was referring to my cousin’s wife. So I one-upped my cousin. I married a successful, independent, nagging white woman. Did I love her? Love was in there somewhere, mixed up with everything else. It didn’t help that she was a pureblooded Italian. Italians are like the controlling, family-obsessed Asians of Western Europe. I should have watched The Godfather earlier in my life.
Where the hell had I been, she asks? Most guys in my situation get away from their wives by playing a round, or five, of golf. Never much liked the sport.
“Golf.”
“Like hell you have. It’s midnight.”
“Miniature golf.”
She gets into her usual fit which I promptly drown out while I step into the shower. Usually a bathroom is a private area, a sanctuary if you may. There are no private areas in marriage.
“God d*mnit Michael. Why do you make me do this?”
I mutter a sorry as I open the shower door and pull her arm. Annoying, yes, but I still love her.
I love you, I say, and move to kiss her. As much as she gets mad at me I know it’s just because she loves and misses me too.
“Yeah right.”
Women are confusing.
By the time I finish my shower, she’s already asleep. Better for me, I guess, but I know I’ll have to deal with it in the long run. Sometimes I imagine myself running away and starting anew, leaving a copy of The Maltese Falcon for her to wake up to. An idle fantasy, really, as I possess neither the V shaped chin nor the noir sensibility of Sam Spade. Regardless, I think it’s telling that my daydreams are never about other women.
I pull back the covers and snuggle up against the angry mass to the left of me.
The next day begins with a eerie regularity. The humdrum of the daily routines begins to bother me, and I don’t really understand why. Something’s off, I realize as I brush my teeth with my suddenly-not-so-minty toothpaste. On days like these, I usually pull myself together by changing up the routine. Left shoe first, maybe, or the four-in-hand knot instead of the double-Windsor. Nothing seems to work. Then I notice that the apartment is missing one half of its inhabitants. On the nightstand sits a very well-folded and carefully written note: “Golf.”
F*ck. A quick round of calls to friends and family reveals that she’s gone to her mother’s house. I must be in some kind of sitcom. By the time I relax and take a glance at the Pier One clock hanging above the bathroom door, I already know that I’m late for work. Calling in sick is probably a good idea, but in my mind there’s only one thing to do.
“Hey. What are you doing here?”
“Was late for work. Wanna go do some graffiti?”
“Sure.”
Thus begins my second day of adult delinquency. Weren’t we supposed to grow out of the “I like to mess things up” phase at some point in college? David and I head down toward the river and eventually settle under some bridge overpass. Incomprehensible gang signs and sharp pointed lettering slowly crawl from left to right of the overpass wall. Clearly, the canvas has already been primed with the marks of other Renaissance men. All this art is signed with a loving “James sucks balls.”
“Dibs on the right side.”
“What are you gonna do?”
“Paint some Tralfamadorians. I just finished reading Slaughterhouse-Five.”
He opens the bag of paint cans and promptly begins covering up the previous art that had graced the overpass. I wonder if David has become “unstuck” in time. Wouldn't surprise me.
“Why are you here again?”
“Told you, I was late for work. Oh, and the Missus ran off to her mother's house. Doesn't take kindly to me being out all night with miscreants.”
“Mike, your wife’s a b*tch. I’m just saying.”
“F*ck you man, don’t talk about my wife.”
“All I’m saying is that she’s holding you back.
“From what?”
“Man. We were supposed to be better than this, y’know? All our lives we dreamed of being famous, having the money to do whatever we want and be free.”
“There’s the answer to my question from yesterday. We can’t grow up, get married to the woman of our dreams, and do everything we want. Life doesn’t work like that.”
“Say what you want man, I’m still gonna be famous. And when I am, I’m coming back to save your sorry *ss.”
“Don’t come back to save me. I don’t need saving. I used to be worried about fame, too. Especially after we went to see Troy. But we aren’t Greek heroes, David. I’m not Achilles. You sure as h*ll aren’t Hector. The most we have is this stupid wall of graffiti for people to remember us by. And that only lasts until someone else covers us up.”
“Yeah. But we’re still underneath there somewhere. 'When it all ends, I'll have Buzz Lightyear to keep me company. For infinity and beyond.'"
Sometimes I wish David would become famous.
--------
Good luck to all in judging.
