I.e. The Four People You Meet at Breakfast.
Now, I know anybody likely to comment will probably end up saying, "But, what's the plot? Why the orange? What in heaven's name is going on here," and I'll end up saying, "Just go with it." Because the plot would require a Powerpoint presentation to explain right now. The story's meant to be pleasantly confusing, anyway. Comedy of errors, if you will. So critique on how amusing it is, is more welcome than any other sort. Though, if you're feeling brave, go ahead and point out my run-on sentences. If it'll make you feel better.
(On another note, it'll be a sorta comedy, sci-fi.) ((On yet another note, 'grats to you if you realized lawyerly isn't a word. It's my word. And every time you use it, you owe me $.25)
The orange rolled slowly out of the puddle under the sofa, tentatively approached the third leg of the coffee table, and promptly exploded.
But let us not start at the end. In fact, let us not start at the beginning. I could tell you of sunny groves and cool shadows; of ripe fruit flashing, like so many turn signals, in the dusk; of tropical winds and impassioned heat (this particular orange happened to be a Floridian); of the very genesis of the citrus in question.
In all honesty, the citrus in question had had a very troubled life up to this point. Besides all the normal difficulties in growing up - the noisy starling neighbors, the absent workaholic father - this orange had to come to grips with some very confusing ideas. Ideas which would never cross the mind of, say, the grizzled man in blue jeans who, very casually, plucked the orange from its nurturing branch, its abode, its pad, looked it over studiously, spit over the side of the ladder, and tossed it into the bin with a hearty thump.
The orange hit the table with a heartless thump. The little blue sticker peeled half off. The man sitting across the table watched it with mild curiosity, which quickly changed to mild alarm at the reaction of his tablemate, as well as the fact that he had a tablemate at all. Adam hadnt seen someone sitting at this table when he had first gotten there. He surreptitiously snuck a look at the more recent arrival. The hand currently deprived of orange was trembling. He shifted his gaze. The other hand, incidentally also deprived of orange, was wrapped around the handle of a pretty expensive-looking briefcase, and was shaking like a leaf. Setting down his tea (which was just as well, as it wasnt very good) and his newspaper (not the quintessence of goodness, either; too many blaring headlines, trumpeting of natural disasters, refutation of the laws of physics, that sort of thing), he leaned across the table.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
Actually, it wasnt the other mans shaking that had tipped him off. That wasnt so uncommon on a train, really. Nice briefcase, nice suit, nice tie - the guy looked the lawyerly type, and Adam had yet to see a lawyer wearing that particular brand of shell-shocked horror. It just wouldnt happen, it came with the job - law school, corner office, heart of stone, the works. Briefly, he wondered if ever, in the history of Creation, a lawyer had been heard gasping. Put it right up there with trees falling when nobodys around, he thought, and repeated himself.
"Are you all right?"
No reaction. Then a quick blink. The eyes which had been so raptly gazing through the swaying ceiling slowly descended until they came to rest on the swaying table. He lowered his empty hand and clutched at its edge, as though afraid to fall off. The employee managing the dining car gave him a quick glance, shrugged as if to say hed seen it all before, and handed a small child a bagel. The child, to the chagrin of her mother, ran through the dining car and launched herself into the seat of an already crowded table. Amiable muttering greeted touchdown.
The noise seemed to bring the dazed man back to reality.
Looking Adam straight in the eye, he said, "When something goes wrong, there is always someone to blame." At this, he stood up and solemnly walked out of the dining car.
So he was a lawyer, thought Adam, and meditatively tapped the newly dented orange. It didnt roll very far, thanks to the dent. Suddenly he picked it up, stuck it in his coat pocket, and stood to leave. The little girl across the aisle stared at his pocket before looking him in the face.
"Damaged property. Its free," said Adam, and walked out.
Returning home after a nicely relaxing vacation is generally agreed upon as one of lifes better experiences. There are, however, as many exceptions to this rule as there are to the grammatical laws of the English language.
"What the flying - !" sputtered Adam. His bedpost dripped noisily at him before returning to the heaving, turbulent silence of the room.
His bedroom looked like...like...well, the English language once again forsook poor Adam, as Im afraid it must forsake us.
All had gone well - as well as might be expected, anyhow - on first arriving at his house. Adam performed the traditional vacation ritual of compiling a mental list of things to fix, mow, water and otherwise do; people to call, appointments to cancel for properly vague reasons, all of that. He had waltzed into his bedroom, stopping only to set the orange and the newspaper on the kitchen counter (DOZENS MISSING IN BIZARRE TRAIN DISAPPEARANCE! PHYSICISTS STUMPED) and to raise a few window shades. The hour being rather late, he had foregone dinner in an effort to catch a few more hours of sleep, a rather vain attempt in light of his rather insomniac ways that week.
He ended up catching exactly one hour of sleep before being woken by the surreal, discomfiting feeling of being on a boat (his dream, although he didnt remember it long, involved the R.M.S. Titanic) which was rapidly sinking in very cold water. Frigid, in all honesty. He came to in about twenty seconds and then spent a fruitless two minutes just gaping. This was when the "what the flying" comment came in, and is also the exact moment he forgot what he had been dreaming about.
His room, while not entirely submerged in the drink, was certainly not at its usual level of dryness. It could have, quite factually, been described as very, very wet. Inadvertently soaking the clock on his night table, nothing he was likely to mourn anyway, he jumped to his feet. The water was almost up to his knees. He gaped at it. It sat there and gurgled at him. He gaped some more.
Eventually his mind gathered that this was not the most beneficial thing to be doing, as the water level seemed to be rising. Glancing wildly about him, Adam gathered up the most useful-looking things on his night table - wallet, watch - and left, alternately wading and splashing about in fury.
The eggs scorched under his fiery glance, the bacon sizzled. The coffee, that didnt do so
well. It was already nastily cold. The remaining pancakes just sat there, wallowing around in syrup. The whole display was far too mellow for Adams tastes. When one runs (i.e., squelches) out of ones home to find a place to eat (i.e., complain), one does not desire mellowness in ones surroundings. Perched on a stool at the front of the diner, rather like Poes raven, but dripping wet, he pecked moodily at his plate.
His eyebrows knitted, he jabbed at the top pancake. First to go. Then, the second. The entire cup of coffee was downed, black, with one angry grimace.
"Cant figure it out! Totally unprecedented," as he showed one of the eggs just who was boss around here, "Absolutely the stupidest thing! Not only is my house completely full of water, top to bottom, but - " Here he paused to deal with the other egg, which had been staring at him rudely as he polished off its predecessor, "But the rest of the neighborhood is completely dry! Not a drop on them! No flooded yards, no flooded basements, not a speck out of place!" Adam fell silent and fiddled with a piece of bacon. His eyebrows were on the verge of going from knitting to crocheting.
"And you know another thing," he said to the aged fellow tending the counter, "the whole situation is physically impossible. Even had a water main sprung a leak directly into my house, God only knows why, some inane sense of vengeance possibly, it could not have filled up that fast. Nor.." He leaned forward, lowering his voice, "Remained full. My house is practically gushing into the streets, but when I left it, the water behind the door remained." His voice rose to match his righteous fury. "My LIVING ROOM is something the Navy could practice submarine dives in, but open the door and EVERY SINGLE DROP will stay in there!" The old guy (Richard, hed said his name was) winced at this display.
"Well, lots of strange things going on lately," Rich muttered, gesturing vaguely at a nearby newspaper. "Physically impossible, even. Its all a trend, I say. These things...they go around, and they come around. Why, if I made a ruckus every time I saw something physically impossible, Id hardly have time to stop for a drink. Speaking of which, more coffee?"
Adam payed the newspaper a scathing glance (HUGE CORRESPONDENCE ERROR; 1000'S BAFFLED AS MAIL DIVERTED ACROSS GLOBE) before waving a declining hand at the coffee pot. He felt thoroughly disgusted with the world and its workings at this point, and was content to stare into the middle ground while his T-shirt and pajamas dripped onto the increasingly waterlogged tile.
Now, I know anybody likely to comment will probably end up saying, "But, what's the plot? Why the orange? What in heaven's name is going on here," and I'll end up saying, "Just go with it." Because the plot would require a Powerpoint presentation to explain right now. The story's meant to be pleasantly confusing, anyway. Comedy of errors, if you will. So critique on how amusing it is, is more welcome than any other sort. Though, if you're feeling brave, go ahead and point out my run-on sentences. If it'll make you feel better.
(On another note, it'll be a sorta comedy, sci-fi.) ((On yet another note, 'grats to you if you realized lawyerly isn't a word. It's my word. And every time you use it, you owe me $.25)
The Four People You Meet at Breakfast
The orange rolled slowly out of the puddle under the sofa, tentatively approached the third leg of the coffee table, and promptly exploded.
But let us not start at the end. In fact, let us not start at the beginning. I could tell you of sunny groves and cool shadows; of ripe fruit flashing, like so many turn signals, in the dusk; of tropical winds and impassioned heat (this particular orange happened to be a Floridian); of the very genesis of the citrus in question.
In all honesty, the citrus in question had had a very troubled life up to this point. Besides all the normal difficulties in growing up - the noisy starling neighbors, the absent workaholic father - this orange had to come to grips with some very confusing ideas. Ideas which would never cross the mind of, say, the grizzled man in blue jeans who, very casually, plucked the orange from its nurturing branch, its abode, its pad, looked it over studiously, spit over the side of the ladder, and tossed it into the bin with a hearty thump.
The orange hit the table with a heartless thump. The little blue sticker peeled half off. The man sitting across the table watched it with mild curiosity, which quickly changed to mild alarm at the reaction of his tablemate, as well as the fact that he had a tablemate at all. Adam hadnt seen someone sitting at this table when he had first gotten there. He surreptitiously snuck a look at the more recent arrival. The hand currently deprived of orange was trembling. He shifted his gaze. The other hand, incidentally also deprived of orange, was wrapped around the handle of a pretty expensive-looking briefcase, and was shaking like a leaf. Setting down his tea (which was just as well, as it wasnt very good) and his newspaper (not the quintessence of goodness, either; too many blaring headlines, trumpeting of natural disasters, refutation of the laws of physics, that sort of thing), he leaned across the table.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
Actually, it wasnt the other mans shaking that had tipped him off. That wasnt so uncommon on a train, really. Nice briefcase, nice suit, nice tie - the guy looked the lawyerly type, and Adam had yet to see a lawyer wearing that particular brand of shell-shocked horror. It just wouldnt happen, it came with the job - law school, corner office, heart of stone, the works. Briefly, he wondered if ever, in the history of Creation, a lawyer had been heard gasping. Put it right up there with trees falling when nobodys around, he thought, and repeated himself.
"Are you all right?"
No reaction. Then a quick blink. The eyes which had been so raptly gazing through the swaying ceiling slowly descended until they came to rest on the swaying table. He lowered his empty hand and clutched at its edge, as though afraid to fall off. The employee managing the dining car gave him a quick glance, shrugged as if to say hed seen it all before, and handed a small child a bagel. The child, to the chagrin of her mother, ran through the dining car and launched herself into the seat of an already crowded table. Amiable muttering greeted touchdown.
The noise seemed to bring the dazed man back to reality.
Looking Adam straight in the eye, he said, "When something goes wrong, there is always someone to blame." At this, he stood up and solemnly walked out of the dining car.
So he was a lawyer, thought Adam, and meditatively tapped the newly dented orange. It didnt roll very far, thanks to the dent. Suddenly he picked it up, stuck it in his coat pocket, and stood to leave. The little girl across the aisle stared at his pocket before looking him in the face.
"Damaged property. Its free," said Adam, and walked out.
Returning home after a nicely relaxing vacation is generally agreed upon as one of lifes better experiences. There are, however, as many exceptions to this rule as there are to the grammatical laws of the English language.
"What the flying - !" sputtered Adam. His bedpost dripped noisily at him before returning to the heaving, turbulent silence of the room.
His bedroom looked like...like...well, the English language once again forsook poor Adam, as Im afraid it must forsake us.
All had gone well - as well as might be expected, anyhow - on first arriving at his house. Adam performed the traditional vacation ritual of compiling a mental list of things to fix, mow, water and otherwise do; people to call, appointments to cancel for properly vague reasons, all of that. He had waltzed into his bedroom, stopping only to set the orange and the newspaper on the kitchen counter (DOZENS MISSING IN BIZARRE TRAIN DISAPPEARANCE! PHYSICISTS STUMPED) and to raise a few window shades. The hour being rather late, he had foregone dinner in an effort to catch a few more hours of sleep, a rather vain attempt in light of his rather insomniac ways that week.
He ended up catching exactly one hour of sleep before being woken by the surreal, discomfiting feeling of being on a boat (his dream, although he didnt remember it long, involved the R.M.S. Titanic) which was rapidly sinking in very cold water. Frigid, in all honesty. He came to in about twenty seconds and then spent a fruitless two minutes just gaping. This was when the "what the flying" comment came in, and is also the exact moment he forgot what he had been dreaming about.
His room, while not entirely submerged in the drink, was certainly not at its usual level of dryness. It could have, quite factually, been described as very, very wet. Inadvertently soaking the clock on his night table, nothing he was likely to mourn anyway, he jumped to his feet. The water was almost up to his knees. He gaped at it. It sat there and gurgled at him. He gaped some more.
Eventually his mind gathered that this was not the most beneficial thing to be doing, as the water level seemed to be rising. Glancing wildly about him, Adam gathered up the most useful-looking things on his night table - wallet, watch - and left, alternately wading and splashing about in fury.
The eggs scorched under his fiery glance, the bacon sizzled. The coffee, that didnt do so
well. It was already nastily cold. The remaining pancakes just sat there, wallowing around in syrup. The whole display was far too mellow for Adams tastes. When one runs (i.e., squelches) out of ones home to find a place to eat (i.e., complain), one does not desire mellowness in ones surroundings. Perched on a stool at the front of the diner, rather like Poes raven, but dripping wet, he pecked moodily at his plate.
His eyebrows knitted, he jabbed at the top pancake. First to go. Then, the second. The entire cup of coffee was downed, black, with one angry grimace.
"Cant figure it out! Totally unprecedented," as he showed one of the eggs just who was boss around here, "Absolutely the stupidest thing! Not only is my house completely full of water, top to bottom, but - " Here he paused to deal with the other egg, which had been staring at him rudely as he polished off its predecessor, "But the rest of the neighborhood is completely dry! Not a drop on them! No flooded yards, no flooded basements, not a speck out of place!" Adam fell silent and fiddled with a piece of bacon. His eyebrows were on the verge of going from knitting to crocheting.
"And you know another thing," he said to the aged fellow tending the counter, "the whole situation is physically impossible. Even had a water main sprung a leak directly into my house, God only knows why, some inane sense of vengeance possibly, it could not have filled up that fast. Nor.." He leaned forward, lowering his voice, "Remained full. My house is practically gushing into the streets, but when I left it, the water behind the door remained." His voice rose to match his righteous fury. "My LIVING ROOM is something the Navy could practice submarine dives in, but open the door and EVERY SINGLE DROP will stay in there!" The old guy (Richard, hed said his name was) winced at this display.
"Well, lots of strange things going on lately," Rich muttered, gesturing vaguely at a nearby newspaper. "Physically impossible, even. Its all a trend, I say. These things...they go around, and they come around. Why, if I made a ruckus every time I saw something physically impossible, Id hardly have time to stop for a drink. Speaking of which, more coffee?"
Adam payed the newspaper a scathing glance (HUGE CORRESPONDENCE ERROR; 1000'S BAFFLED AS MAIL DIVERTED ACROSS GLOBE) before waving a declining hand at the coffee pot. He felt thoroughly disgusted with the world and its workings at this point, and was content to stare into the middle ground while his T-shirt and pajamas dripped onto the increasingly waterlogged tile.
