Bream Gives Me Hiccups (19 page)

A SHORT STORY WRITTEN WITH THOUGHT-TO-TEXT TECHNOLOGY

It was a Thursday but it felt like a Monday to John. And John loved Mondays. He thrived at work. He dismissed the old cliché of dreading Monday mornings and refused to engage in watercooler complaints about “the grind” and empty conversations that included the familiar back-and-forth: “How was your weekend?” “Too short!” Yes, John liked his work and was unashamed.

I should probably get another latte. I've just been sitting here with this empty cup. But then I'll start to get jittery. I'll get a decaf. No, that's stupid, it feels stupid to pay for a decaf. I can't justify that.

John was always impatient on the weekends; he missed the formal structure of the business week. When he was younger he used to stay late after school on Fridays and come in early
on Mondays, a pattern his mother referred to with equal parts admiration and disdain as “studying overtime.”

Jesus, I've written another loser.

Now, John spent his weekends doing yard work at the Tudor house Rebecca left him after their divorce. Rebecca, with her almond eyes—both in shape and color—could never be his enemy.

That barista keeps looking at me. She'll probably ask me to leave if I don't buy something. She's kind of attractive. Not her hair—her hair seems stringy—but her face is nice. I should really buy something.

Their divorce was remarkably amicable. In fact, John would often tell his parents, “Rebecca and I are better friends now than when we were married!” Moreover, John looked forward to the day when he and Rebecca, with their new partners, would reminisce about their marriage, seeing it in a positive light like two mature adults.

Maybe I'll just get a pumpkin spice loaf. That way I can still sit here without going through a whole production of buying a coffee and giving my name and feeling like an asshole while it gets made.

But if John was being honest, the house did get lonely on the weekends. Rebecca's parents had been generous enough to leave John the house even though they had paid for it. John was still struggling to get his short story writing—I mean, his
painting
—career off the ground, and Rebecca and her family had been more than supportive, even during the breakup.

Maybe the barista's looking at me because she thinks I'm attractive. I am in my blue shirt. So she has stringy hair. Who
am I to complain about stringy hair? Who do I think I am? Cary Grant?

And now John was doing temp work at the law firm of Fleurstein & Kaplowitz to get himself righted again. He had a strong six-month plan: he would save some money to pay Rebecca's parents back for the house and be able to take some time off to focus on his writing—
on his
painting.
In a few months, he would be back on his feet, probably even engaged to someone new. Maybe even that barista. Yes, almost paradoxically, temp work provided John with the stability he craved.

This is shit. It is utter shit.

Actually, in moments of great self-reflection, John hated his work. Who was he kidding? He was doing temp work. No one has ever liked temp work. It reinforced his feeling of instability, confirmed his cynical view of the job market, and took him away from the only thing he ever enjoyed doing, which was writing short stories—I mean
painting
!
Painting!
John enjoyed
painting
!

I think I have to pee.

And John was a great painter.

Literally every single person on line for the bathroom looks homeless. Maybe I can just go in and not touch anything. I'll just lift the seat up with my shoe.

John often wondered how Steve Bowman from college was having so much success while John was stuck doing temp work in a futile attempt to pay Rebecca's passive-aggressive parents back for a house he didn't even want them to buy. And Steve Bowman was a talentless hack who even admitted to
John that he only writes—
paints!
—so he can “bag women.” He actually said “bag women.” But Rebecca thinks he's “interesting” and that they could “have a real life together.” I hope they both die of cancer. What did John have with Rebecca? How was that not “real”? Maybe if Rebecca's parents had let John breathe instead of forcing their hypocritical Christian “values” down his throat every chance they got, their relationship would have been more “real.” Good luck, Steve Bowman. I hope you like having a mother-in-law with no boundaries.

I think I will get another latte. That barista is so sexy. I'd love to pull her stringy hair while we have sex on my floor.

John would often go to Rebecca and Steve's new house in the middle of the night and just stare in their window.

She probably has a back tattoo. So slutty.

John would secretly hope to see Steve and Rebecca fighting. He would fantasize about seeing their silhouettes through the window, Rebecca throwing the telephone at Steve and him ducking but it still hitting him in the head. John would get aroused by this fantasy.

I'll say something cool like, “The coffee's not the only thing hot in here.” And she'll probably be like, “I get off at seven.” And I'll probably say something like, “I don't have a real job, so any time's good for me.” Jesus, who am I kidding? I'm a loser. She would never like me. Even a stringy-haired barista with a slutty back tattoo would never like me.

But of course John never saw anything in Steve and Rebecca's window. He thought of urinating in a glass bottle and throwing it through their window, but he couldn't even work up the courage to do that. He was a loser who couldn't even
commit a petty act of vandalism. He was a dumb dumb stupid dumb writer—
painter!
—who couldn't even afford an office, so he wrote—
painted!
—in a Starbucks because he got fired from Fleurstein & Kaplowitz for making copies of his stories—
paintings!
—when he was supposed to be copying legal briefs for those corrupt corporate shylocks. And Rebecca would never come back to him and no one would ever love him and he was going to die fat and bald and alone and miserable in the ugly house his in-laws bought to suffocate and kill him!

Maybe I'll get a tea. I like that hibiscus one. It's sweet but not too sweet. It's nice. It's a nice flavor.

And maybe I will get a slice of that pumpkin loaf. I think I had it before. I think I definitely liked it. I think it must be seasonal. I haven't seen it in a while.

I'll eat and drink and then get back to work. Everything seems to be flowing well. It was a little tough getting into it but now it's really flowing. It's weird how I do that—how I think I can't write something and suddenly I'm carried away and then I can't stop writing. I think I'm too hard on myself. I think I punish myself for no reason. But I think I'm really hitting my stride now. I'll just get that tea. That nice hibiscus tea.

And then get back to work.

IF I WAS FLUENT IN. . .

French

FRENCHMAN IN TRAIN COMPARTMENT:
Wow, this American guy looks so stupid.

SECOND FRENCHMAN IN TRAIN COMPARTMENT:
Yes, American guys are all stupid, both in their looks and their brains.

FRENCHMAN:
Luckily he can't understand what we're saying because, most likely, he only speaks English.

SECOND FRENCHMAN:
That is definitely a safe assumption to make about him.

FRENCHMAN:
Yes, Americans can only speak English. That is something that I know for sure. It is a fact.

SECOND FRENCHMAN:
Let's continue to insult him in front of his dumb American face.

FRENCHMAN:
Yes, it is so much fun because it feels at once safe, because he doesn't speak French, and dangerous, because of his close proximity.

ME:
Actually, I speak French fluently and I understand what you are saying about me.

SECOND FRENCHMAN:
(
blushing
) Oh, goodness.

ME:
And although you think you are insulting me, it is you who will ultimately feel the burden of shame as your condescending assumptions and misguided linguistic pride will prove to be a stain on you and your nation.

FRENCHMAN:
He is right. I feel embarrassed now.

SECOND FRENCHMAN:
Yes, he showed us, personally, and France, at large, to be both arrogant and foolish.

Hindi

WAITER AT INDIAN RESTAURANT:
Hello, sir, welcome to an authentic Indian restaurant. Do you have any questions about the menu?

ME:
Yes. Why does all of your food always make me sick?

WAITER:
Because we serve our American customers the kind with the weird spices that gives them diarrhea.

ME:
Oh.

WAITER:
Yes, it's official policy at all Indian restaurants.

ME:
Well, what do you serve your Indian patrons?

WAITER:
We give them a better kind of Indian food, which does not cause diarrhea.

ME:
Can you give me the better kind?

WAITER:
Yes, of course. Since you asked in my language, I feel more comfortable accommodating you.

ME:
Thank you.

WAITER:
Please don't tell your American friends about the option to get Indian food that does not give them diarrhea.

ME:
Of course I won't tell them. It'll be our little secret.

Portuguese

BRAZILIAN GANGSTER:
Hey, American tourist! I am going to kidnap you and hold you for political and financial ransom.

ME:
No, please don't do that.

GANGSTER:
Wait a second. You speak Portuguese?

ME:
Yes, I do. I am fluent.

GANGSTER:
Wow. Where did you study it?

ME:
At a school in New York that mostly caters to diplomats and other internationally aware individuals.

GANGSTER:
You mean the Learning Annex?

ME:
That's right.

GANGSTER:
The one on 103rd Street?

ME:
Yes. How do you know about that branch?

GANGSTER:
It's one of the most popular places on the Upper West Side to learn my language. It would be embarrassing if I did not know it.

ME:
Good point.

GANGSTER:
I don't live in a bubble, you know.

ME:
Of course not. My apologies. Are you still going to kidnap me?

GANGSTER:
No, you are now a friend and are therefore free to go.

ME:
It was nice to meet you.

GANGSTER:
The pleasure was all mine. Good luck with your studies.

ME:
And you, your war.

Aramaic

JESUS CHRIST:
Excuse me, heathen.

ME:
Jesus? What are You doing in New York? Are You here for the Second Coming?

JESUS:
No, I just wanted to try that new Shake Shack place everyone's talking about.

ME:
Oh, yeah. Their burgers are pretty decent.

JESUS:
I heard the line is usually insane though.

ME:
It's long, but it moves.

JESUS:
Do you think you could come and wait on line with Me? I'm kind of lonely.

ME:
You're
lonely? I would have assumed You'd have like a billion friends.

JESUS:
Yeah, Me too! But no one here understands Aramaic except this one theology professor at Columbia who's kind of creepy. He kept asking Me these totally personal questions about My mom.

ME:
Weird.

JESUS:
I know! I was like, “
Stalker!
” And then he wanted to know if the Shroud of Turin was real and I was like,
“Mind your own business.”

ME:
I don't even know what the Shroud of Turin is.

JESUS:
Which is why it's so
refreshing
to hang out with you! Hey, would you be into being My new friend?

ME:
Yeah, I'd be down for that. My friend Jeff just moved to Boulder for grad school so I kind of have a slot open.

JESUS:
Awesome. And since We're cool now, you are guaranteed a special place in Heaven.

ME:
Really? Even if I do something bad in life?

JESUS:
Yup. Since you speak My language, you will always be able to get into Heaven.

MY SPAM PLAYS HARD TO GET

To: Me

From: Alexxxa

Subject: Miss you babe!

Hey babe,

Where are you? I miss chatting with you! I've just been sitting here alone on my webcam, naked, waiting for you.

In fact, I've been waiting so long I took up embroidery, which has been amazing! It's both meditative
and
creative. And I'm about to finish my first sweater! So if you sign on, I may be deep inside a blanket stitch. Sorry if I have to keep you waiting, honey!

I've gotten really hot just thinking about you!

So, to cool down, I started rereading Chaucer! Wow! What a rediscovery! So dense. But so (deceptively) fun! Can't wait to see you, sweetie! But if you sign on tonight, I might be busy traversing Canterbury!

If I
am
busy, you should go chat with one of my girlfriends, like Trixxxie or Roxxxana. They're great! Of course, I'd love to get dirty with you, but I totally understand if you want to hang with some new chicks. I'm actually not so into the idea of a monogamous webcam relationship anyway. I have big dreams! I want to flirt with perverts from Paris! And even Africa! Maybe learn to play an instrument, besides my usual ones!

So call me!

Or don't!

Either way.

<3 Alexxxa <3

To: Me

From: Mr. Jeffrey Obassanjo

Subject: Urgent Reply Needed

Dear Sir or Madam,

It is with a heavy heart that I inform you of the death of my uncle, a rich Nigerian prince. After his passing, we discovered that he had acquired a significant sum of 48 MILLION US DOLLARS.

Unfortunately, for this money to be released, it must be transferred to a United States bank account.

In exchange for access to a US account, we would be happy to reward the recipient with 10 percent of this sum (4.8 MILLION US DOLLARS).

We have selected YOU as the recipient.

However, we are also considering your neighbor Larry Stanowitz. We know you think Larry already has enough money, constantly flaunting his new Peugeot and grocery bags from Balducci's, but we're not looking to do charity. Just for a bank account.

If Larry is unable to accept the money, we're also considering your colleague Sheila Drucker. Even though she's a corporate brownnoser and your only direct competition for the VP promotion, we think she might be a good candidate for this financial gift. Again, we're not looking for a model citizen. Just a bank account.

Please respond to us at your earliest convenience.

But if you don't, as mentioned, we will likely just go to Larry or Sheila. They seem pretty cool too.

Sincerely,

Mr. Obassanjo

To: Me

From: GmailAlertz

Subject: Confirm GMail Password!

Dear Account Member,

Your Gmail account requires you to confirm your password. If you do not reply to this email with your password within twenty-four hours, your email account may be blocked.

Which might not be such a bad thing.

I mean, do you really need to check your email so frequently? Your incessant monitoring has become a kind of psychosis. It's eroded your relationships and deactivated your slower, but more substantive, critical-thinking skills.

This love affair with communication has become an addiction, a fixation for which society at large—not just you—is both the victim and the aggressor. Whether it's the constant bombardment from your mother with the pictures from her book club (it's called a book club, not a take-a-picture-of-everything-you-eat-during-book-club club) or passive-aggressive “updates” from your friends with children, telling you how happy they are and how parenting is so much easier than they expected, it's all a dragon you will always chase and never catch.

Your Gmail account is just another prison of your own making, a panopticon of desperation surrounding you with guards of loneliness.

So you could respond to this email with your
password, but it'll probably just perpetuate this dangerous cycle.

Maybe it's best if you lay low for a bit. Enjoy the outdoors. Go for a walk. Talk to a stranger.

Sorry to bother you.

Gmail