Blah/Creative Writing

Review of Sweeney Todd forthcoming, when I feel like writing. For now, feast your eyes on some of my creative writing, currently untitled.

I: Jeff Ejects

It was Jeff’s Ejection time again, and he felt like shit. It seemed to always happen to him at the worst possible times. There was that instance when he had been on a date with Sondra from work and ended up Ejecting; losing control of his body had caused his head to fall forward into his soup bowl, splattering Sondra with clam chowder. Embarrassing enough was the fact that he had Ejected at the dinner table, but showering Sondra had been the worst part; it turns out Sondra just happens to be allergic to clams, and a large chunk had managed to find its way into Sondra’s mouth. While Jeff had been practically drowning in his soup, Sondra’s face had started swelling, and if it wasn’t for the waiter with the bright red vest that Jeff had previously joked about to Sondra, they both might have died. Oh, the joys of Ejection.

Today, Jeff found himself sprawled on the curb; his hand, a few inches from his mouth, held a hot dog that was now dripping bright yellow mustard onto the sidewalk. Jeff couldn’t help but think of his prone position as sexual. He imagined a kid in a rumpled leather jacket joking to his friends about the homo with the hot dog - He’s gonna take it deep!, the kid would say, and Jeff would hear everything. His face would remain stoic, his mouth staying in its half-opened state, but inside, he’d be burning with embarrassment, a red-hot torch that could not break the Ejection’s physical barrier.

The worst part of the Ejection wasn’t the loss of physical movement. The worst, the absolute fucked-up part of the predicament, was that Jeff did not lose his consciousness. No, no – Ejection was not sleep. Sleep included rest for the mind, something that Ejection was so unfortunately lacking.

Jeff had thought about it on many occasions, most of them like the one he found himself in
now. Most people he talked to actually enjoyed their Ejection periods; they said it gave them time to think. Or they had people to care for them when they dropped into their soups. Some even had the great fortune to Eject when they were sleeping, as if they weren’t Ejecting at all! Very rarely did Jeff even come across someone who had Ejected on the sidewalk as he was now.

So Jeff felt like shit.

II: Jeff Finds a Friend (Almost)

Jeff tried to nap, but the bustle of the sidewalk made it almost impossible. Every time he’d just about nod off, someone would step on his foot or kick his head. It would make sense for some kind soul to come along and move him out of the middle of the walkway, position him so that he wouldn’t be jostled by the pedestrians. But no kind soul ever came, only busy shoppers too focused on the neon street signs to be bothered with Jeff. He was just another obstacle, like a street sign, wooden bench, or fire hydrant.

After an hour or so (it was hard for Jeff to tell time, but the foot traffic had steadily picked up to suggest the five o’clock rush), someone stopped to have a look at Jeff. First, Jeff noticed the guy’s feet; his eyes were pretty much level with the ground. The man was shoeless, his bare feet marred by bruises and cuts that seemed to have been repeatedly healed and reopened. It looked like he had some sort of infection on his left pinky toe; it was swollen and raw, and reminded Jeff of the hot dog he had been looking forward to eating before he Ejected.

As Infection Man neared, Jeff could see that the guy’s pants were all ripped up, his bony right knee poking through the fabric. The pants were unbuttoned, and now that the man was even closer – almost right beside Jeff, it was kind of creeping him out because of that infected toe – he could see that there was no button on the pants, only a primitive attempt a stitching that had probably immediately fallen out.

Jesus Christ, he thought. We’re just giving the kid with the leather jacket fodder for his jokes. The hobo and the homo with the hot dog.

It was obvious to Jeff that the Infection Man was not going to just pass by like the rest of the pedestrians. Of course not; Jeff attracted all of the weird shit. It was a fact of his life. He should have it written down, highlighted, italicized, and underlined, and then stuck onto his fridge.

“Hot dog,” the hobo said in a high falsetto voice. “Hot dog mustard.” He bent over and – oh God, the hobo’s infection blanched. It was like his toe had become a giant leech that had overeaten.
Infection Man tried to grab the hot dog from Jeff’s hands, but they were too rigidly clasped around the bun. The hobo settled for the mustard that had almost dried onto the sidewalk. He stuck out one hairy finger, quickly scraped up what he could of the condiment, and stuck the finger into his mouth. “Good yeah mustard. Take for money off you go.”

Jeff yearned for someone to come and bump into the hobo. Before, he had wished someone would notice him lying prostrate on the sidewalk; now, he just wanted everyone to go away. All the weird shit happened to him.

“Off you go. Take you with me. Money gold.” The hobo swiped another bit of mustard off of the sidewalk. “Many quin.”

Infection Man straightened up, and someone bumped him. The infected toe was inches from Jeff’s open mouth. The hobo started yelling at the person. Unfortunately for Jeff and the hobo, someone was right behind Infection Man. The hobo’s foot was too far extended into the path of the person; a shoe came down right onto Infection Man’s infected foot.

A goopy stream of pus broke through the infection and shot out, right into Jeff’s face. He could feel the bloody green offal slide down his nose, lips, collecting in his unshaven moustache. The hobo was howling, but Jeff paid him no mind.

“Off we go! Off we go!” Infection Man screamed. He gripped Jeff’s arms and started dragging him down the path. “Many quin!”

Jeff felt like shit; Ejection didn’t allow Jeff to vomit.