The Decameron Stories – Day Three

In the year 1348, while the Black Death went scything through Italy, ten young people took refuge in the countryside outside of Florence. To pass the time while they waited for the Reaper to be on his way, they told each other a series of stories.

On the third day of story-telling they elected Neifile as their queen of tales. She wanted to hear stories about people who attained the objects they desired, but only by virtue of their own efforts. There followed many windings and turnings, searchings and yearnings, until ten worthy objects were wrestled from the flux by even worthier hands.

Then, as on the previous two days, they all looked up from Boccaccio’s dusty pages and waited to hear the tale that I would tell.

“We enjoyed your first story and your second story very much,” Neifile said to me. “In fact, we spent much of last night discussing the themes they have in common – themes that are not at all unfamiliar to us. Money, sex, friendship, betrayal, the whims of fortune. Perhaps we don’t know what a Ford Fusion is, not precisely, but it doesn’t sound much different than a horse. We have been saying how strange and wonderful it is, that even across the chasm of seven hundred years we understand you so easily! We hope the understanding is mutual. (Did you like Filostrato’s story about the axeman, who pretended to be deaf and dumb so he could infiltrate the convent and enjoy the company of the nuns? That one was my favorite.) At any rate we beg you once more to speak freely and in keeping with your own times. Shock us and ravish us! Black Death or Covid, we are in the same predicament. The centuries cannot stand against us.”

I thanked Neifile for her kind words, and after warning them all that I couldn’t hope to rival Filostrato’s story about the nuns, I gave them another swill from the dregs of 2020.

Day Three

the tale of Dick Long Harding

There was in recent years a certain man from Minnesota, whom we might as well call Dick Long Harding, for he developed in his middle age a rare and raging affliction.  It was a condition that delighted both he and his girlfriend for the first several hours during which it occurred; but after a whole day of it she was sore in every hole and he was dangling at the edge of a heart attack.  They decided together, breathlessly, in an apartment that was completely destroyed, that he should consult a doctor about his sudden insatiability.

Continue reading “The Decameron Stories – Day Three”
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Escape from Psycho Pasture – Part 2 [Jim #18, Short Fiction] #18

For two years Jim occupied a dungeon cell at Psycho Pasture. His leg was chained to a radiator, he used a stamping machine to make customized license plates for the non-rapist free peoples of paradise, and his cell mate was a pale and greasy man with thin hair and skin disease. Garvey was remorseless about his pedophilia, and Jim often tried to convince Garvey that he ought to feel bad about raping children.

“I mean, at the very least you know that you’re an asshole, right?” Jim said on several occasions. “All other considerations aside, all arguments out the window, in the absence of God and absolute moral authority – you still know in your heart that you’re asshole.” Continue reading “Escape from Psycho Pasture – Part 2 [Jim #18, Short Fiction] #18”

Escape from Psycho Pasture – Part 1 [Jim #17, Short Fiction]

The Psycho Rapist Pasture wasn’t really a pasture. It was more like a circular prison that never came around all the way, and in the middle there was an off-limits garden. Jim figured calling it a pasture was some kind of euphemism.

“And if you’ll look over here,” said the chipper tour guide, “you’ll see the Masochist Chambers, where psychotics can torture, bind, mutilate, and rape a few lucky visitors. The facility is equipped with every known torture machine devised by man, dating all the way back to the bronze age – and a few that the angels cooked up themselves.” Continue reading “Escape from Psycho Pasture – Part 1 [Jim #17, Short Fiction]”

A Mile High in Paradise [Jim #16, Short Fiction]

Abdulaziz al-Omari stood on the corner of a busy intersection in Downtown Paradise. He rang a bell and wore a cardboard sign that said, 911 was an inside job. He looked weathered.

Jim watched him from the veranda of the ice cream shop, spooning sundae into his mouth. The terrorist didn’t wear much for an expression – maybe it was sober and kind of defeated – and he just rang his bell with long steady swings of his arm. Every now and again a passerby dropped a nickel in his tin can. Continue reading “A Mile High in Paradise [Jim #16, Short Fiction]”

Metadirt – Part 1 [Jim #14, Short Fiction]

There was a knock on the door. Jim opened it, expecting cake or tits or something else that was nice. Instead he got a face full of Billy Mays.

“Hey Jim! Remember me? We met at Lucy’s party. Well we didn’t really meet, you wore my head around for a while before you bashed everybody’s limbs off with a baseball bat. Of course you remember me. It’s the beard, everyone remembers the beard. You mind if I come in? I think I should come in. This is a lovely house! Wow! I love the couch! Is that Chenille?”

“Um, I don’t know. What are you doing here?” Jim wasn’t wearing pants.

Billy sniffed the coffee table. “Pine was a good choice,” he said. “Have you ever considered purchasing insurance against the eternal, Jim?” Continue reading “Metadirt – Part 1 [Jim #14, Short Fiction]”

Cool Cogito, Bro [Jim #13, Short Fiction]

Small Town, Paradise. Green yards and clean air and split-level houses. A post office, a police station, a grocery store, five bars and a set of stoplights. Autumn in the afternoon and summer in the evening, and every evening a new episode of Financially Stable and Moderately Happy Family.

Jim watched from up the road as a man mowed his lawn. The lawn was lush and smooth, already clipped to quarter-inch perfection, and still the man mowed over it. He marched back and forth over his square of grass for half an hour before cutting the engine, putting the mower in his garage, and entering his house.

Jim waited five minutes then knocked on the door. The man answered with a beer in his hand.

“I was wondering when you’d come around,” the man said. Continue reading “Cool Cogito, Bro [Jim #13, Short Fiction]”

An American Dreamer in Paradise [Jim #12, Short Fiction]

“I don’t dream anymore.”

“Nobody dreams anymore.”

“Is it still possible to dream? In this place?”

“Well, anything is possible. But no, not really.”

“I miss it.”

“You miss it?”

“Dreams. Dreaming.”

“They’re just dreams.”

“You don’t miss dreams?”

“No.”

“When I was a kid I dreamed about the world series and hitting a homerun. You know, bottom of the ninth, two outs, down by a run, I’ve got a broken arm and I’m hitting into the wind – and then boom it’s out of the park. I march the bases, wave my hat, I stomp down at home. The crowd goes wild.”

“It’s a nice dream.”

“I think so.”

“You know, you can just do that now.”

“I have.”

“You’ve already done it?”

“Yeah.”

“Well there you go.”

“It wasn’t the same.”

“That’s because it was real.”

“I felt stupid.”

“It is stupid. Incredibly stupid.”

“You just said it was a nice dream.”

“A nice, stupid dream.”

“Well, I miss it.”

“I can’t give you your dreams back. Dreaming requires lacking and you lack nothing. Except for dreaming. Which is weird, but that’s just how it works. And if you try to dream about dreaming you’re in for a real headache. So don’t go doing anything like that.”

“Can you do anything for me? It doesn’t have to be the world series. Just a simple one maybe. I used to dream about driving down the highway. That’s it, just an open road and the engine and the sky. How about that one?”

“No dreams. Here’s what I can do for you though. I’m going to go ahead and diagnose you with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder.”

“I don’t think that’s what I have.”

“Are you sure? It comes with a wagon full of dex.”

“What’s dex?”

“It’s pretty much meth. Your teeth won’t fall out, but it will stimulate your psycho-activity.”

“I can’t dream anymore so you’re giving me a wagon full of meth?”

“Dex.”

“To stimulate my psycho activity?”

“Take it or leave it.”

“Well, I mean, if that’s all you got.”

***

Jim pulled the wagon of dex along the top of the wall. It was like a little red wagon except it was big and blue. The pills were white and they rattled like teeth. The wall, forty feet high and ten feet thick, cut an erratic line through the Middle of Nowhere. Jim popped another pill and went back to stacking bricks.

Somebody called up to him from the ground.

“Hey! You! What’s the big idea?”

“Idea?”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“It’s a wall!” Jim said. “I’m building a wall! Eighteen million nine hundred thousand three hundred and sixteen bricks so far. You never knew how many bricks it took to make a wall!”

“Well who’s it keeping out?”

“Nobody!”

“Where’s it going?”

“That way!”

“Why you building it?”

“I was bummed out and unfocused because there aren’t any dreams anymore but then the doctor gave me all this dex and I started to build a wall. There’s an infinite number of bricks up here and I never even thought to build a wall before. Eighteen million nine hundred thousand three hundred and seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Just look at this beautiful fucking wall!”

“Say, come to think of it, I don’t dream anymore neither.”

“Climb aboard! I’ve got a wagon full of dex and bricks for days!  Yaaachachachaka!

The somebody climbed up and turned into a George, who swallowed a fistful of dex and started scraping mortar. Jim stacked the bricks. When they finished a section George carried the mortar and the bricks and Jim pulled the wagon of dex.

“This is just great!” George said.

“Nineteen million one hundred and thirty-two thousand three hundred and forty-two!” Jim said.

“All this time I was just kind of wandering around I didn’t really know what to do I mean there’s so many things you can do up here I was just a little lost I was overwhelmed and distracted there aren’t any directions around here. You know? But now it’s like I don’t even have to think the thinking is gone and I can just do and do and do and I don’t have to think for myself I can just fucking do.”

“Fuck dreams!”

“Fucking do!”

Yaaachachachaka!

***

There were a lot of people like Jim and George. Everyone they ran into seemed to have dreams that didn’t work anymore. Pretty soon there were a hundred, then a thousand dreamless souls, all tweaking through the Middle of Nowhere and leaving a trail of bricks. Whole teams for mixing clay and mortar, excavating, rock-breaking and landscaping, brick-laying and brick-counting and bricking. They were very organized. A hundred new miles of wall went up every day.

The psychiatrists of Paradise discovered the wall and rallied around its cause and began recruiting every patient for its construction. Thousands more and tens of thousands were diagnosed with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, and soon a million men and women roamed the wall. The dex came in trucks.

They sang a song.

Fuck your boring dreams, and fuck your boring soul –
All you need is Dexedrine off you fucking go!
A zillion bricks to stack, eternity to roll –
A wagon full of dex will build a wall to
WHERE?!
Nobody really knows!

So heed this word from us, who build and build it high –
Fuck us living, fuck us dead – Let’s build it to the sky!
A googol miles to march, infinity to fly –
A wagon full of dex will take us all to
WHERE?!
Somewhere, Paradise!

***

For about thirteen years they built the wall. Their numbers swelled to thirty million and the wall stretched on for a million miles. The dex mines of Paradise passed the infinity test and no dreamless builder built without the bumps of Adderall or Ritalin or Dexedrine. Thirty million tweakers united by a single purpose – to build a brick wall through the Middle of Nowhere.

And they made it. Jim and George led them right to it. The great impasse loomed and the building of the wall came to a stop.

“What is it?” said Jim.

“I think it’s a university,” said George. “That there looks like admissions.”

“Can we build through it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Around it?”

“It’s pretty big.”

Just then the gates of the university opened and a man rode out on a white horse.

“I am the Dean of the University of the Place Between the Middle of Nowhere and the Somewhere,” the man said. “What is your business here?”

“We just want to pass through,” Jim said. “We’re building a wall.”

“If you want to get to Somewhere, you have to go through the University. If you want to go through the University, you have to get a Diploma.”

“We don’t want Diplomas,” Jim said. “We just want to pass through.”

“Somewhere can only be reached by those who have Diplomas,” the Dean said. “And to receive a Diploma, you have to give me money.”

“What?! Like, how much money?”

“Lots of it.”

“Well fucking how much?”

The Dean of the University of the Place Between the Middle of Nowhere and Somewhere held up his hands, about three feet apart.

“He wants three feet of money?” George said.

“Three feet per person,” the Dean said.

Jim counted on his fingers.

“So if we get you ninety million feet of money, you’ll give as all Diplomas and we can pass through your University and get to Somewhere?”

“The cost of books is not included,” the Dean said. “There are also administration and athletics fees. And technology fees. And living expenses, such as parking and food.”

“Goddammit how much?”

“Two hundred million feet of pure money,” the Dean said. “I expect it in full no later than two weeks after the day before the beginning of the fall semester.”

The Dean rode his white horse back through the gates and they closed. Jim and George watched and scratched their heads.

“Where we gonna find two hundred million feet of pure money?” George said.

***

The banker spun her pen and clicked it then spun it again and tapped it on her coffee mug. It was a plain coffee mug. She was a plain woman with glasses.

“Let me get this straight,” she said. “You and all your friends got doped up on amphetamines and built a wall that serves no purpose in the Middle of Nowhere. You crashed your wall into a university, and you want me to give you two hundred million feet of money for diplomas that you neither know how nor intend to use?”

Pure money,” Jim said. “And the dean says the Diplomas will get us to Somewhere.”

“Okay.” She spun her pen and pressed it to the document, paused and looked at Jim over her glasses. “And I have your personal assurance that, following the catastrophic failure of all your ambitions, you will spend the remainder of eternity paying the interest on this loan, in a futile attempt to get back to where you were before you started?”

“Yep,” Jim said.

***

Thirty million people was too many to make the walk, so the University of the Place Between the Middle of Nowhere and Somewhere fired the Diplomas out of T-shirt cannons. The red-ribboned parcels flew through the air like grapeshot. Anthropology Diplomas, Philosophy Diplomas, Liberal Arts and Fine Arts and Commercial Arts and Graphic Design Diplomas. There were Diplomas for Physical Fitness and Taking Pictures. One of the red-ribboned parcels struck Jim in the face and he tore off the ribbon and as he read it his name appeared in black ink.

The University of the Place Between the Middle of Nowhere and Somewhere
The Board of The University of the Place Between the Middle of Nowhere and Somewhere, after verifying the purity of three full feet of his/her money, has conferred upon
JIM
The Degree of
BACHELOR OF ARTS
GENERAL ENGLISH
Together with all the Honors and Privileges belonging to that Degree.

“General English?” Jim said.

“General! Well shit on me.” George stood at attention and saluted. “I got Parks and Recreation.”

“I think it means English in general.” Jim held the paper up to the sky, turned it this way and that, squinted, sniffed it. “I don’t get it. Shouldn’t everybody just have one of these?”

Disappointment and confusion were ubiquitous. Thirty million graduates built a Great Wall through the Middle of Nowhere, and there wasn’t an Engineer among them. No Scientists either. Just a bunch of philosophers and artists. They all seemed to understand at once that a mountain of dex would never bury their shame, and as broken individuals they stumbled off into Somewhere, clutching Diplomas in their anxious fists.

“Hey. Hey.” George jabbed Jim in the ribs. “You’re General Talking, I’m Private Walking. Get it? Parks and Recreation. Get it?”

***

“The drugs didn’t work.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I didn’t get anywhere.”

“It says here you got Somewhere.”

“Well, it turns out Somewhere isn’t any place in particular.”

“So why are you here?”

“I need more drugs.”

“I thought they didn’t work.”

“They don’t.”

“I’m confused.”

“I owe the Bank of Paradise two hundred million feet of pure money. I couldn’t find any English work, but I’m pretty good at stacking bricks now. There’s a guy over on Cloud Fifty-seven with a brick fetish and he pays by the yard. So I need some more drugs.”

“Another wagon?”

“I need at least a truck.”

“Not a problem. So, it says here you were missing your dreams? How are things on that score? Do you still miss them?”

“Not really.”

“Well there you go. I can’t tell you the satisfaction that comes with helping a fellow soul in need. Here’s a prescription for an endless supply of any drug that keeps you productive, a flash-drive  full of NBC sitcoms, and a bucket to scream in. And here’s my card for when it all falls apart again. Good luck to you, Jim.”

“Thanks.”


 

Jim Home

Other Short Stories


Daddy Lazarus [Jim #11, Short Fiction]

“So. Jim. Why do you want to become an angel?”

“I think I’m pretty good with people,” Jim said.

This was his first job interview in a few hundred years and he was a little rusty. The executive sitting across from him was a serious woman with glasses and thin lips. She looked at him over the rims.

“Do you even know what angels do, Jim?”

“Well, sure I do.”

“What do angels do, Jim?”

The woman never blinked. There was nothing in her office but her desk and a bookshelf filled with potted cactuses. A clock without numbers ticked on the wall.

“They roll out the welcome mat,” Jim said. “They keep the peace. Some of them just seem to party and get high all the time.”

“Angels do not get high.” She flipped through his file. “I’ve been screening applicants for a long time, Jim, and you’re the worst I’ve ever seen. By far. You’re reckless. You’re aimless. Your libido is a tornado. The only reason I accepted to see you today was morbid curiosity. I asked myself, what sort of man spends the first two hundred and seventeen years of eternity playing with his dick, then applies to be an angel? What sort of ego? Does he really think he can walk into my office with nothing but a cock and a smile, and walk out with wings?”

Jim smiled. She slapped him through the face.

“Ow! What the hell?”

“You’re a pig.”

“A pig in Paradise.”

She slapped him through the face.

“Dammit! Why are you hitting me?”

“Why do you want to be an angel?”

“I don’t know. I just – I don’t want to be useless anymore.”

It surprised Jim as much as it surprised the executive. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms and looked at him differently. Jim rubbed his cheek.

“Vulnerability suits you,” she said.

“Thanks.”

“So Jim wants to be useful.”

“Yeah, I guess. I mean, the tornado thing gets old after a while.”

She stood and walked to the bookshelf. She looked at Jim, sized him up, and chose a cactus that was six inches tall and fairly thick. It wobbled when she set it on the desk.

“Do you know what fascinates me about the cactus?” she said.

Jim shook his head.

“It’s strong,” she said. “It’s resilient. It will quietly endure almost any environment. You could forget to feed it for a month and it will survive. And of course – ” She pricked a finger on one of its needles and showed Jim the blood. “It won’t be tamed. Violent and useless.”

She removed a pair of scissors from a desk drawer and cut the cactus in half. Jim gulped.

“Useless until you break it. Only then do you discover its utility.”

She lifted the potted nub and tilted it over her tongue. A pulpy white goo dribbled into her mouth. Some of it dribbled down her chin. She pushed it back into her mouth and swallowed.

“That’s not how mine works,” Jim said.

The executive sat down and wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to him.

“Before you take the entrance exam, you’ll have to take a course on modern women issues. Go to that address. They’ll set you up.”

Jim looked at the paper. It said,

Nil Cunt Court
Sylvia Plath’s Bottomless Pit of Feminist Revenge

***

At the end of a middle class cul-de-sac Jim found a hole in the ground. It was a large hole, large enough to swallow a house, and when he peered over the edge he couldn’t see the bottom. He plugged his nose and jumped in.

He fell for a long time. The circle of light shrank over gravity and then disappeared and it was dark. He fell for a while longer then splashed down into something warm and sticky.

The pool was circular and surrounded by high smooth walls and lit by torches. The liquid felt like mucus and smelled like metal. Jim treaded.

Why have you disturbed the sacred pool?

It was a woman’s voice, soft but amplified by the cavern. Jim searched for its origin and saw a pale woman standing on the wall.

“I’m here to take the modern woman course,” Jim said.

For what reason?

“I applied to be an angel. They said I had to come here first.”

What do you know of the modern woman?

“They’re new?”

Lesson One: The Modern Woman of Paradise does not bleed. Her menstrual cycle is tuned to a secret frequency, transmitted over radio waves, and collected in this pool.

Only now did Jim notice the outlet valves on the walls. They spurted out more of the viscous fluid at irregular intervals.

I got some in my mouth, Jim thought.

There is only one way up,” the pale woman said. She lifted her skirt and her bush rolled down the side of the wall like a banner.

Jim swam over to it, grabbed a fistful of the gnarled hair, and pulled himself out of the menstrual goop. His hands were slick with blood and her bush was greasy and the climb was long and difficult. Lint and crumbs and flakes and loose hairs shook loose as he climbed and they peppered the pool below.

In my mouth, he thought again.

When he finally pulled himself over the top of the wall, he was tarred and feathered.

“Do all angels get their wings this way?” he said.

“Some,” the pale woman said. She jerked her leg and the bush rolled back up between her legs. She lowered her skirt took a torch down from the wall. “Follow me.”

***

The tunnels were dark and labyrinthine and the only light came from the pale woman’s torch.

“Are you Sylvia Plath?” Jim said.

“No.”

“Where are we going?”

“You will see.”

“Will there be a shower?”

“Yes.”

They turned and turned again. Some turns they didn’t take. Lower and lower.

“So, what’s with the zero?” Jim said.

“What zero?” The pale woman never looked back. She walked like a ghost and spoke sharply.

“Nil Cunt Court. It’s a funny address.”

“All other numbers are either phallic or lesbian,” she said. “Zero is a woman’s only refuge from the chauvinist math of men.”

Jim pictured the numbers in his head: 1234567890.

“I kind of get the one,” he said, “and maybe the seven. Is two phallic or lesbian?”

“The two is an inverted ballsack and phallus.”

“Huh. And three?”

“Just balls.”

“Four?”

“Three phalluses.”

“A four is three dicks?”

“Yes.”

“What’s five?”

“Regular ballsack and phallus.”

Jim mulled it over. The pale woman walked.

“So eight’s the lesbian,” he said. “What about six and nine?”

“You know very well what six and nine are doing.”

“Well, there you go. That’s mutual. Equal.”

“Please. Six is obviously the woman, and nine the man. Six is worth less, is upturned and submissive – a gagged bitch hanging from her ankles and at the mercy of the rapist nine.”

As the pale woman led him deeper into the feminist cavern, Jim quietly exercised his brain with the strange arithmetic. A hard dick plus a pussy was a hard dick, but a hard dick times a pussy was a pussy. A hard dick squared was itself, but added together two hard dicks became an inverted ballsack and limp dick, which squared became three dicks – and three dicks squared was one hard dick and a gagged bitch.

“Huh,” Jim said. “The square root of a rapist is balls.”

“And every vagina increases a number’s value by an order of magnitude,” the pale woman said. “At least men got that much right.”

Jim thought, if that was true for pussies it was probably true for balls and lesbians and rapists too. Not to mention that the magnitudes came in multiples of hard-dick-and-pussy, together. He kept his reservations to himself and said,

“I had no idea feminists had to learn math all over again.”

They finally came to a round door and she opened it and he went in.

***

“No no no!”

The horrible fat woman whapped his knuckles with a phallus. It was a ruler, but the Entrenched Symbolism as a Justified Means of the Perpetual Objectification of All Women Everywhere course-book had taught him that it was also a phallus. He’d taken courses in Sensitivity and Emotional Awareness and Dating the Empowered Woman. He tested out of Feminist Mathematics. The horrible fat woman taught the final class, Natural Beauty and the Institutional Shaming and Objectification of the Female Form. They’d been at it for weeks.

“Again,” the horrible fat woman said. “Which of these two women do you prefer?” She held up two photographs, a hot chick and a fat chick.

“The hot chick,” Jim said.

Whap!

“The correct answer is, I do not have enough information.”

Jim pointed at the photograph of the fat chick. “That’s a lot of information,” he said.

Whap!

Jim rubbed his knuckles.

“Beauty is a totality,” the horrible fat woman said. “And that totality has been fragmented by the misogynist media, sexualized at the expense of the Natural Woman, pursuant to the gratification of Abusive Men. The commercialization of the female form has normative blowback, and your male brain has been artificially rewired to appreciate only the immediate and physical aspects of a much deeper feminine glory.”

Jim massaged his temples. All this equality was giving him headache. He swam through a pool of menstrual blood, learned phallic algebra, and watched The Notebook twice – but for some reason he couldn’t swallow the horrible fat woman.

“You know what,” Jim said, “I give up. I surrender. They can keep the wings. I’ll set up a mechanic’s shop or something. Just get me out of here.”

To his surprise the horrible fat woman melted with a sigh of relief. She dug a finger into her scalp and unzipped herself forehead to crotch. The fat fell to the floor and an attractive, sweaty, pissed off young woman glared at him.

“Three weeks?” she said. “Really? Three fucking weeks?” She dug around in the fat and retrieved a purse and checked herself in a pocket mirror. “Ughh, I look like a truck stop whore.”

“What’s happening?” Jim said.

“The last room is a test,” she said. “It’s a test to see how long you can put up with our shit.”

“Did I pass?”

Pass?” She stuffed the fat into a closet. “Did I pass?” She stripped out of the unitard and threw it in with the fat. Stark naked and squatting she scoured her purse. “One hour. You only have to last for one hour. Uhhgghh! I can never find anything in here!”

“Well, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I can’t tell you. I lose my job if I say anything.” She found her underwear and snapped it on and pulled her hair back in a scrunchie. “I pick up one afternoon shift, and I get the wonderboy who shatters the fucking record. That bitch Susie owes me big time.”

She was dressed, high-heeled, made-up and out the door before Jim could reply. He chased after her.

“Wait! Are you Sylvia Plath? Is it over?”

“I’m taking you to her, wonderboy. I almost missed my birthday because of you.”

***

Sylvia Plath’s apartment was deeper still. It was a flattened transparent sphere, sparsely and elegantly decorated. The walls looked out beneath the surface of an ocean, and colorful fish swam belly up. The floor looked down at a clear blue sky. Sylvia sat at her writing desk.

“You’re so deep you’re upside down,” Jim said, looking past his feet at the sky.

Sylvia started to laugh, plugged her mouth with a fist, and laughed anyway. She stood up and walked around the desk and hugged him. It was a long hug. Jim coughed and she pulled back.

“Jim,” she said.

“Miss Plath,” Jim said. “Errrr, Mizzz Plath. Shit, I don’t know. Can I call you Sylvia?”

“I heard you gave poor Ashley quite the show.”

“Ashley? Was that the, uh, the girl in the suit? Natural Beauty?”

“Three weeks. You doubled the record, you know.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that. I hope she made it to her birthday.”

Sylvia put a hand on his chest. “You’re a sweet man, Jim,” she said. “A sweet man with a good heart.”

Jim gulped and blushed. Her smile was a razor and her eyes were hungry.

On her toes she whispered in his ear, “I hope it’s not a secret, because it isn’t safe with me.” And she kissed him on the cheek.

Jim was frozen stiff. Sylvia laughed again and returned to her desk.

“Do you have the paper?” she said.

“The paper?”

“I believe I have to sign something.”

“Oh yeah.” He gave her the paper.

She pressed her pen to it, paused, looked up.

“Do understand any of it?”

“No.”

“Would you believe we prefer it that way?”

“Yes.”

She signed the paper and handed it back to him.

***

The executive pursed her thin lips and sniffed.

“That’s Sylvia’s signature,” she said. “I’d have bet the left side of Paradise against it, but there it is.” She filed the paper away, clasped her hands, and gave Jim the business eye. “Unfortunately, your application did not survive the preliminary screening. It’s already been denied.”

“What? How? Why?”

“You’re not pretty enough.”

“Not pretty enough? The hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Angels are pretty. You are not. Therefore your application has been denied.”

“But, but – But feminism.”

“Feminism? Are you a woman?”

“Well, I mean, no. But, uh – Oh come on! It’s relevant!”

“No it isn’t.”

“How not?”

“It’s swinging between your legs, cowboy. Now get the fuck out of my office before I file a harassment charge.”

Jim stood. He kicked over the chair and swiped a cactus from her shelf. It was the largest one, a foot high and thick as a soda can.

“I’m taking this,” he said.

She waved him away, the back of her hand. “Take it. They grow like weeds.”


 

Jim Home

 

A Note on the Story

Here’s what I think is a likely chronology of Jim’s experiences so far, and the corresponding theological/philosophical difficulties he fails to resolve:

1. Entry into Paradise, blowjob from the devil, and Truth card (1 Truth Road – except for the 1 Truth Road part)

  • – If I get everything I want, how do I know it’s real?
    – Is this Heaven or Hell? What’s the difference?

2. Orgy and drug-induced infinity orgasm, pushing Einstein out of the universe (Infinite Orgy)

  • – How big is existence?

3. Hangover at angel’s house, “Why is there human suffering?”, trial at the Court of Existentialism and Shakespeare’s defense (Jim v Logic)

  • – Why do people suffer?

4. Identity crisis and the Frankenmasque, Hemmingway’s pep talk (Crashing the Frankenmasque)

  • – Who am I?

5. Rolling Einstein’s dice for Cleopatra, losing to Bogart (The Face that Employed a Thousand Angels)

  • – Fate vs Chance – Destiny or Dice?

6. Golfing with Hitler and a lesson in free will from Plato (The Freewillin Jim)

  • – Free will and moral responsibility

7. Depression, a kick in the pants from Sir Shackleton, Cobain’s renewal and the peak of Olympus. (I Hate Myself and I Can’t Die)

  • – Like, what’s the point, man?

8. Atomic ejaculate and war in heaven (The Devil’s Peace)

  • – Picking your poison: Religious absurdity, morose atheism, wtf science

Here’s a picture:

circles

I figure Paradise is the triangle, and the circles are incomplete pieces knowledge Jim picks up on his adventures. He’d love to fill that sucker with red, but the geometry of the place just won’t let him do it, and the black spaces are driving him loony. The more circles he wedges in there, the more apparent it becomes that he’ll never fill it up, the more that Truth Card burns a hole in his pocket.

Basically, that first question he asks in 1 Truth Road forms the outline of what looks like an easily measured triangle, but Paradise gives him nothing but fucking circles.


At any rate, I look forward to filling in 9, 10, 11, 12, however many more it takes. We all pretty much know what goes down at 1 Truth Road, but we still gotta get there, right?