A poem! Look!

Welcome to the WWW world,
John said to Joey when Joey opened
the box that contained a netbook:
that is, welcome to the world wide waiting...

Toby told me to listen and I did
and I heard the static, the tiny music of snowflakes bumping
into each other in the dark night and it was so
quiet it was almost imaginary but we knew it wasn't, cos we
both heard it...

Alex and Tom were singing Hello Goodbye,
the Glee version, while the snow whipped around like the Milky Way and I
spun over and over and over and around again to
keep the security light going on
so I could see the falling snow glitter.

Okay, so this is a slightly fictionalized account of my Christmas. It is up to you to figure out what is real and what isn't. BYE and Happy New Year!
(I love pagan holidays)(I a

This is the first part of a story I am working on, called (duh) The Aardvark Cafe. Check i out (or not! I can't control your actions telepathically!( though that would be really cool...) and now I'm rambling in parentheses, so I'll shut up, right... NOW.)
P.S. I wrote this because I was bored. Expect it to be crap.
The Aardvark Cafe

Part One

I am a waitress. I tell people this, and I'm proud. Most people find that hard to believe, mostly because, as my mother is kind enough to constantly remind me, a waitress is not a job to be proud of. The fact that I am six feet, two inches tall and male might also have something to do with it.

Anyway, when I tell people my occupation, I tend to get this sort of slightly open-mouthed stare that I generally associate with goldfish. Then, I get one of two reactions: some, smirking a little bit, will tell me that I am a waiter, not a waitress, because I am a boy. The others will just look at me, confused, slowly opening and closing their mouths.

Anyway, as I have said, I am a waitress. So it's never exactly hard for me to find work: another waitress is always appreciated, no matter where you are.

Even with all that said, I worry all the way to my job interview, until Katharine hits the dashboard and bellows, “Jason Beaufort! Stop that goddamn fidgeting right this second!”

“But, Kit-Kat, what if they don't like me? What if they think my earring is gauche? What if they don't like my hair?! What if-” I stumble on this one and continue in a hushed voice, “Kats, what if they are, y'know, not nice to people like me? We are in Mississippi, you know.”

“For fuck's sake, I know we are in Mississippi. I'm not that stupid. And if you keep whining I'm gonna kill you and then kick you out of Pepto.”

I look at her with big, serious eyes, “Kat, you do know that if you killed me and then kicked me out of the car, it wouldn't matter because I'd already be dead, right? Also, if I died, I swear I would come back to life, just to tell Mom that you've been filling up the Swear Jar and you need to pay up. And, lastly, need I remind you once again, how abysmal both your car's color and it's name is? I mean, I like pink, more than most men, but honestly, Pepto Bismol?”

Katharine smirks. God, I hate that, “Yeah, yeah, I know, you're gay but not gay enough to enjoy a beautiful pink car.”

“A hideous, medicine colored pink minivan. Besides, I will have you know that I am very gay. And I have frikking impeccable taste.”

“Swear Jar.”

“Said frikking, not fucking.”

“Swear Jar.”

Shit. “Go to hell.” I notice that Kat is enjoying this way too much. Comprehension dawns slowly over my face. I'm not sure if I look as stupid as I feel, “You were just doing this to distract me, weren't you?” I demand.

“Oh dear, you've seen through my cunning ruse,” she says in this brilliant British accent. I blush. Little sisters are not supposed to make you feel this idiotic. She continues breezily in the British accent, “Anyway, Jase, darling, everything will be fine. The place is called the Aardvark Cafe. You cannot possibly be weirder than it. I mean, come on. Aardvark. Cafe. You would need to have, like, ten more piercings and green hair with purple streaks to be weirder. Besides, I drove past it on my way to Wal-Mart yesterday, and it looks pretty spacey. So put away your handkerchief and try and find me a decent radio station.”

So I do.




It takes almost an hour to get from our house in the sticks to the nearest town.

And even that town is tiny. We cruise past clapboard houses, shiny with new paint, on streets with pretty names like Lovelorn Lane, and are in the center of town in a heartbeat. “Downtown” seems to consist largely of a convenience store, a gas station, a little shop peddling antiques and handmade jewelry, and a fried chicken place. I peer around anxiously, “Katie, I don't see it. I don't see it.”

“It's fine, it's fine,” she soothes, “It's a bit farther out. Trust me, I saw it yesterday, when I went to get furniture.”

“Okay. Are you sure they're hiring, though? I mean, by the looks of it, there aren't whole lot of employment options around here. They might be filled to the bursting with waitresses. Proper ones. Girls. You know. And maybe they'll have a sexy boy bartender too and they won't need me at all and-”

“Jason! Stop it! You are rambling. Besides, as you always say, a restaurant can always use another waitress, yeah? Remember that? You repeat it like a fucking mantra, so believe it. Believe it, baby boy!”she laughs.

“Not a baby.”

“Yeah you are.”

“Thanks.”

“Anytime,” We don't talk for a few minutes, before she starts pointing out possible locations for the bookstore she wants to set up with Mom. She has just pointed out the last one she likes (in an abandoned train station) when we round a curve, and I see this massive, avocado green house

I groan, “Katie...”

“What?”

“Figures you'd bring me to the weirdest colored restaurant I have ever seen.”

“Not true. The pink and white striped one was weirder.”

“Doesn't count. It wasn't a restaurant. It was a strip club.”

“You never told me that!” she shouts indignantly as she parks in the three car parking lot out front.

“You were nine years old. I didn't think it was appropriate,” I sit still in the car, slouching low and hoping that I don't have to get out.

“You were only sixteen! How come you were working in a strip club when you were sixteen?! Now get out of the damn car.”

Very slowly, I open the door, talking all the while, “Well, I wasn't a stripper or anything like that. I was, y'know, a waitress. More of a bartender really.”

“You were sixteen!”

“Well, Candyland didn't ask for shit like that. It was a little bit shady. Y'know.”

“I know, but does Mom?”

“No. She doesn't. And you won't tell her, or I'll tell her how you paid for Pepto.”

The smirk slides off her face, replaced by something akin to a snarl, “You wouldn't.”

“I would. Now, shut up. I have an interview, and I need to be Zen.”

“Zen, my ass.”

“Ommmmmmmmmm....- oh, and when we get in there, you need to order a burger or something. Order something and sit down and eat and don't talk.”

“But it will help you get a job! I am such an amazing conversationalist that they will just forget about even maybe saying no to you.”

“I don't doubt your skills, really, and your personality is beautifully bubbly,but if you so much as say a word, you'll be dead faster than you can say “pink car”.

“Really? Cos I can say it pretty damn fast.”

“Really. Now, we are entering. Not a word.”

“But what about when I order?”

“Then you can. Now. Ssshhh.” Katie opened her mouth indignantly. I poked her in the chin to close it, “Remember. Not a word.”

She glared. I looked around the restaurant curiously. My jaw dropped.

“Whoa.”

Katie said it, but I couldn't begrudge her for it. It was truly whoa-inducing.

“KitKat, tell me if I'm having hallucinations. Is that really a chandelier made out of pink shoes?”

Katie nodded vigorously, “Absolutely.”

“And the tables made out of tires? Are those real?”

“Yep.”

“And the people wearing aardvark hats?”

“Real as I am.”

“The gorgeous Gucci bag sitting there on the counter? The short order cook with the impeccable manicure? The Easter Island sized lava lamps?”

“Yes, yup, and of course.”

“Wow.”

“I know.”

“It's beautiful.”

“I know.”

“Welcome to the Aardvark Cafe, center of whimsy and wonder.” I look over and see a tiny woman in a trim black suit with a gray bouffant of massive proportions. A complacent, if slightly dreamy, smile sits on her face. She's wearing pink rhinestone earrings.

“Hi. Um, I'm Jason Beaufort, and I'm here for a job.”

“Hello, Jason Beaufort who is here for a job. And you? Are you here for a job, too?” She directs her smile at Katharine, who answers before I can stop her.

“No, ma'am. I am just a little sister here for moral support. And some grub.” I noticed that Katie had suddenly developed a Southern accent. I didn't say a word.

“Right. This way, Little Sister of Jason Beaufort.”

Katharine obediently trotted after her. I stood, twisting a handkerchief between my fingers, waiting nervously, at the little Please Wait To Be Seated sign. After sitting Katharine down and summoning a waitress wearing a very large brooch in the shape of an aardvark, the bouffant woman walked back to me in a way that could only be described as gliding.

“Well, alright, Mr. Jason. Let's have a seat and talk about your job.”

She leads me to a booth. I sit down obediently and say, “Well, okay, I want to start by saying I have lots of experience as a waitress, I have graduated high school, and I have my own transportation. Katie wouldn't have to come with me.”

She cuts across me so smoothly I almost forget that she has interrupted me, “That's very nice, M. Beaufort. None of it is necessary, of course, but very nice all the same. You will start work on Monday at ten thirty. Bring your little sister. She's very sweet”

“O-kaay.”

“See you on Monday. Do you want something to eat in the meantime? I'll send Samantha over to your table.”

I walked very quickly over to Katharine's table and sat down before leaning over and whispering, “KitKat, I got the job.”

“Already? My portabello burger hasn't even come yet.”

“I know. It was weird. Bouffant Lady was listening to me ramble on when she says, all of a sudden, that it's all very nice and I'm hired.”

“Bouffant Lady?”

“You know, the boss. With the giant bouffant.”

“Oh, you mean Ms. Wilson.?”

“That's her name?”

“You didn't ask?”

“No. I guess I didn't. Anyway, she tells me I have the job, and then she mentions that I should bring you along, 'cause you're so sweet.”

Katie snorted, “God, they're all so gullible. It's adorable.”

We sat there for a long time, and I ordered a bacon burger and Katie ate her mushroom thing and we talked quietly, while servers with aardvark accessories glided around the restaurant.

And that was how I got my job at the Aardvark Cafe.

In an old blog post, I said I would put a few sections of my novel up after I finished it. Then I wrote the damn thing. I hate it hate it hate it hate it SO MUCH. here is the first chapter, cos I think it stands pretty well on it's own.
“It wasn’t my fault. They started it.”- countless children around the world

“When in danger, worry, doubt, run in circles, scream and shout.”- Burma Shave

Chapter One

They leaned against each other, elbows rubbing and hair intermingling. Together, they watched the soft mass of grey-white float slowly towards them.

“What is it, Patti?” Ellie whispered.

“Snow.”

“You sure?”

“No.”

“What else could it be?”

“Clouds.”

“Clouds don’t look like that.”

“Alright, then Momma’s sheets on wash day.”

“No. That’s too big. And ugly.”
“Fine! It’s Grandma’s turkey stuffing! It’s all the glue  at school! It’s all the stuffing from every pillow in the WORLD!”

Finally, Ellie gave in and laughed.

Beside them, another girl stepped up, maybe eight years old, with wispy black hair chopped off at her chin, "No", she whispered, so quiet, Patti barely heard her, “No. It’s the ashes of the end of the world."

 

***

Patti jerked awake, slipping out from under her thin summer sheets. Beside her, the alarm clock blinked at 12 o’clock. Another power outage, then.

As she stretched, Patti realized how much her pajama top slid up over her stomach. No point in getting a new one, though. She’d stop growing soon enough. And if she didn’t…Patti shook away the unpleasant thoughts concerning how much clothes cost nowadays, and went to wake up Ellie.

“Ellie”, she called softly as she tapped at the plywood door, “Ellie. Come on. You up?”

“Nnngh…”

“Ellie…” Patti opened the door. Inside, a very ruffled Ellie blinked sleepily up at her from her tangled cocoon of sheets, “Come on. Up. Face the day. Rise and shine. Wakey wakey eggs and bakey? Ellie don’t make me sound this stupid continually. Get up.”

“Donwanna…”

But Patti thought she heard a chuckle and pressed her advantage, “Cockle-doodle-doooooooo! Ba-aa-ahhhh….”

“Silly! Sheep don’t even wake up early!”

“HA! I knew you were awake! “

“Uhh…no, I’m not...”

“Yes, you are. Now get up, lazybones, or I’ll take away ALL OF YOUR BLANKETS.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

“Evil.”

“Pathetic. Now UP.”

“Fine, fine…”

“I want proof. Out of this bed. Right now.”

“ Okay, okay…sheesh…”

So slowly she could have been a snail, Ellie, disentangled herself from her sheets and stood up, yawning hugely.

Patti smiled and, tucking Ellie’s pale blonde air behind her too-large ears, dropped the bomb, “I’ll be back in five minutes. You should be ready to go.”

“PATTIIIIIII!!!!!”

But she had already sashayed out, straightening her clothes and heading for the kitchen. She managed a smile for her mother, who was wearily assembling breakfast in her bathrobe.

“G’morning.”

“Good morning, darling.”

And then the TV blared to life, a weary national anthem playing to signal the start of a required broadcast. The painted-faced local anchor lady looked worryingly grave. She spoke tragically, as though every word was a moment away from tears, “I regret to inform all persons of the Thelmes community that a member of the, ah, town has gone missing. Miss Rebecca Tolismon disappeared at approximately nine in the evening, last night, while playing in the market square. Furthermore, as she was last seen at a public location, all members of the Thelmes community are now under suspicion for her disappearance. Questioning will ensue immediately.”

Involuntarily, Patti glanced around the kitchen, as though worried that soldiers and detectives would pop out of the woodwork.

As she looked up again, she saw the image of Rebecca flooding the screen. And suddenly, the girl was all too familiar: wispy black hair cut off at the chin, framing a frail, stubborn face.

What did it mean, Patti wondered, if you dreamt about a girl, and then she went missing? What could it mean?

Ellie wandered in then, with her hair sticking up in ten different directions and a knee length T shirt bearing the slogan “ No, you are VERYugly”, “ Momma, why is Becca on the television?”, she asked, all innocence.

It took a while to get Ellie to school.

***

Patti was daydreaming through social studies. It didn’t matter anyway. It was Community history for the ninth time in nine years. The original ancient city-states, the unification, the boom, the prestige. The Falls, economic slumps that did not so much slump as fall off a cliff. Then the wars, the decades of war, each nation pulling out bigger, badder weapons until complete annihilation threatened. Then the clever, clever scientists and generals who found a way to unify the world in what land was left, and built the Community. A place of perfect unity and harmony. Forever.

Patti could recite it by heart, not even rolling her eyes. Until the end. Then it got kind of hard to resist.

“Ms. Bladderthorn?”

The teacher glanced up from the board, attempting an ingratiating smile as she saw the military uniforms, “Yes, sirs?”

“We, ah, need to ask you some questions. Relating to Rebecca Tolismon.”

“Of course”, the smile stayed in place, but grew more brittle by the second.

“And of your students.”

“Absolutely.” The smile was in danger now of vanishing entirely.

“ Right. So, you first, then all of the students. Alphabetically.” It now became clear that the soldiers had a strange, unidentifiable accent, something clear and precise and nigglingly familiar, though Patti couldn't place it.

“Of course.”

“If you will step into the hallway?”

“ Just give me a moment to organize my class. Brenda, you watch the class while I’m out. Everyone should be reading pages 134 to 176 in their history books. SILENTLY.”

“ Madam?”

“ I’m coming.” She almost snapped. The guards glared, and she added meekly, “sirs?”

“Yes. Right this way.”

The moment the door snapped shut behind them,Brenda got comfy in the teacher's chair and the class began to buzz with low conversation, centering on Rebecca, where she was, and how much trouble Ms. Bladderthorn was going to be in.

Patti didn’t talk to anyone. Instead, she pulled out her history text book and began to skim the required pages, concentrating on the Separate World Peace, for once.

At least, until Lily-Mavis stood up and announced, “ I know what ’appened to Rebecca!”

The class grew silent, until one brave individual asked, “What happened? And how do you know it did?”

“I know ’cos my cousin sawr it!  And ’e said-!”

She was stopped by a great clamor of, “Which cousin?!” Lily-Mavis was part of a massive and constantly growing family, all of whom were somehow reasonably prosperous.

“Timoffy. Anyway-” Once again she was halted, this time by groans of, “Timothy? You can’t trust a word out of is mouth. Pointless.”

“Yes I bloody know he’s not exactly reliable, but vis is different. I swear it. Besides, my other cousin, Kiran was there, too. He just wasn’t the one to bring me the news. But ’e do say it’s the truf. Promise.”

After some discussion, it was agreed that Kiran was more trustworthy, and they could believe him. Lily-Mavis was prompted to continue.

“ Alright.”, she grinned, “So, yesterday, at the market, right ’round closing time, Timoffy and Kiran were ’anging about the stall with the scarves. And Kiran, right, he sees Rebecca, and he’s wond’ring where ’er dad is, cos, y’know ’im, ’e never lets ’er out of ’is sight- ,”

“GET TO THE POINT!” shouted about half the class.

“Rigt, sorry, jes spicing up the story a bit with my observations. Geez. An’way, Kiran sawr Rebecca all by ’erself, and then some men in uniform came up and tarlked to ’er for a bit. They gave ’er some kinda ’ot drink. Then, she 'ad this weird kinda fit, and THEN she TURNED INTO A PLANT and they put ’er in a van and drove orff.”

Absolute silence met this story. Then one person called out, “Rubbish! Get out, Lily!”

And the quiet hum of chatter folded over the classroom once more.

Patti didn't daydream any longer, but work was impossible. The class hum turned into a worried buzz as Ms. Bladderthorn was lead back into the classroom, and they all simultaneously realized something.

They were next.

***

“Mcdonnell, comma, Patti.”

Patti stood up without a word.

“ Are you alright, child?”

“Yessir.”

“ You look ill.”

“I'm fine,” she stood tall, tugging at the hem of her T shirt, “ Shall we?”

“Ah. Yes. Come this way.”

Patti followed himself, working hard to keep herself walking straight. But she noticed herself trembling.

In the corridor, Patti plopped down on the rickety hall monitor's stool. She feigned nonchalance as they asked their first question, “ You knew Rebecca Tolismon, yes?”

“Vaguely. She is several years younger than me. We were never classmates.”

“Yes, but you must have spent time with her. Common periods, study hall and so forth.”

“I suppose so.”

“ Did you ever see her exhibit any unusual skills? Something most eight year olds could not manage, or even something no one else knew how to do?”

“ No.”

“Think carefully now. Carefully. Are you absolutely certain you never saw anything unusual?”

And suddenly, a forgotten fragment of memory opened up in front of her, something she had seen and forgotten that had wormed its way into her subconscious. And now she remembered.

***

It had been a lazy September day, golden and dusty, like today. The dust motes in the classroom swirled through the air. Patti was watching them instead of Mr. Pepinot when the soldiers appeared. They were quiet, in the same way that these soldiers were quiet: silent, but definitely threatening. It had been routine business, just a quick classroom check to make sure no one was playing hooky. As they finished the head count, one said something to the other, in a strange, strange language: Mathematics. A simple string of numbers. The other man chuckled and replied, not bothering to keep his voice low, “737475706964206c6974746c6520626173746172642e2062652067

6f6e65206265666f72652074686520656e64206f6620746865206d6f6e74682e”

Patti remembered the precise sequence, but not so clearly as she remembered Rebecca. Without giving them a pause for thought, she stood up and, in her high, little-girl voice, she said, “486f77206461726520796f75212054 68657265206973206e6f2063616c6c20746f206265207275646521204d722e20506570696e6f74206973206120676f6f64206d616e21204e6f7720676574206f7574206f66206d7920736967687421” and then in English, “OUT! OUT!”

The men had just exchanged looks and chuckled before departing. But they had always conducted inspections before, and now they didn't. In fact, Patti never saw those two soldiers again, not slouched on guard duty by the highway, not marching in parade, not carrying heavy equipment across town. They were gone, simply vanished from the ranks of soldiers that guarded the Base Camp. Along, as it turned out, with Mr. Pepinot.




Rebecca knew the soldiers' language. She could figure out their secrets at the age of six. She was definitely unusual, to say the least, Patti thought drily.

***

Looking the soldiers dead in the eye, she said nonchalantly, “No. She seemed like a pretty ordinary little girl to me.”

WARNINGS: This contains explicit language and references to homosexuality.
Milo
The morning was soft and dark  as I pedaled through the streets.
At Yuma and Windom, I stopped, nearly vaulting off my bike. The same choice I faced every morning. Yuma. Or Windom.  The bag of newspapers felt strangely heavy at my side. The world blurred. Time slowed. I could hear the dramatic piano riff echo through my head. Du dun. Du dun. Dundundundundundundunda-duuuun da dun!
I took a deep breath. Ignoring the papers that were banging against my hip, I turned onto Windom Place.  I wasn’t getting paid today. I was about to skip about half my paper  route. 
Slowly, I pedaled toward 4621 Windom Place. A little white house. I hefted a newspaper, and then threw it high. It arced in the air beautifully, tapping against the front window with a loud, “ Wumpf.”
A sleepy, bed-headed  face appeared at the window, breaking into a grin when he saw me, “ Mark, you ass, what the fuck  are  you doing here at six thirty in the morning?”
“I wanted to see you. Come out.”
“ Ok. Gimme a sec.”
“No more secs!” I said, trying to sound stern.
I heard Milo laugh as he drifted back inside and then toward the door.
He padded out, soft and catlike, in his bare feet. I tried not to wince as I noticed the love bite on his neck, or to wonder who had given it to him. His hair looked suspiciously just-shagged, and suddenly I felt a blush creeping over my cheeks. He didn’t belong to me. I looked all over him and saw his well handled hips, his lips that were softly swollen and too red, the way he was wearing his silky black boxers, not the ducky ones he had worn to bed since we were  thirteen. He looked like someone else’s property. Some one else, some one better looking who wasn't addicted to World of Warcraft,  who was probably tan and tall and had a smile that melted everyone around him. Someone Milo had met at a club the night before, not the boy Milo had known since kindergarten.  Someone like the boy- no, who was I kidding- the man that was walking toward the door, wearing only his boxers. He walked up behind Milo, wrapping a loose arm around his waist, and suddenly I felt the world blur and hot tears pricked my eyes and my face was so red I probably looked like a beet. Stiffly, I said,” Well, bye, Milo. See you around.”
As I pedaled away, I heard the man ask, “Who was that, gorgeous?”
And then there was a pause and, “ Just an old friend.”
And a painful little thought crept through my head, Well, at least I wouldn’t have to make that choice every morning anymore.

This is a random poem I wrote. Read on...

i don't have the talent
the bright lights in my eyes
of my voice and the world and the
music.

i don't have the wind soaring in my mouth,
the screams of people and the hums of children and
monks who live their whole lives toward happiness on a mountain far
away.

i don't have the warmth and the laughter, the floatation
from people to
people, bright and mysterious,
like flotsam over the sea.

instead
stories are buried tightly under
my skin and i wait for them to bloom
and fill me whole and haunt me
and let the words and images float out
a river of humanity.