to be or not to.

"Are we live? Are we on?" The cameraman nodded sharply. "I’m Alexis Weaver from Channel 8 News and we are live from the front steps of the Braithwaite Corporation. This is breaking news. Stay tuned and we will have all of the up to the minute details for you." Alexis dropped her arm holding the expensive microphone. She pushed her way to the front door trying to get a better look at what was going on. She had to get a good angle on this story. Her future in the news business depended on it. In desperation she shoved her way through the melee. There was nothing to see. Not yet anyway. She ran back to her position, ready for the camera to roll. She gave the usual non-specific details to the anchor back at the station firing off questions at her. "Yes we are waiting for details, no we haven’t seen the person in question, yes you are a pompous idiot!" that’s what she felt like saying anyway.

The air came abuzz with the noise of the crowd. "Someone’s coming out!" came a shout from the top of the concrete steps. All of the reporters and photographers jockeyed for position. Alexis grabbed Al, her cameraman, and pushed as far to the front as she could get in the sea of humanity. The ruthless point of an elbow nearly knocked the wind out of her. She straightened, grim determination etched on her pretty features. This was her chance to prove herself. A man in a dark suit, his striped tie disheveled, pushed his way through the heavy glass doors. "We have no comment at this time." he said. Then he smiled and waved for the cameras as he hurriedly retreated and shut the mammoth doors behind him. A clamor of disappointment washed through the mob. Alexis was afraid of losing her ground, but her need for oxygen won out. She moved a few steps away from the teeming hot mass and inhaled fresh air as if she were getting ready for a deep-sea dive. Al asked her how she was doing and she produced a wan smile for his benefit. "I’ve been better. I wish we at least knew what all this craziness was about!" She had been listening intently to the hushed conversations swirling around her, but they all seemed about as clueless as she did.

After about forty-five minutes of standing around and intermittent bantering with the anchors at the station Alexis was about ready to throw in the towel job or no job. She had promised her niece that she would go to her schools play tonight and if something didn’t break soon she was going to be late or miss it altogether. She could feel her blood pressure rising and had to step away. She told Al to call her on her cell if he saw or heard any commotion, even the smallest stir. She walked around to the back of the building where the parking lot was and sat on the curb. She put her head between her knees and played with some loose gravel that was scattered on the cracked cement. She heard a door open, but held her position. A man’s voice interrupted her reverie, "Are you okay?" he said. Alexis looked up to see a man with a file box filled with picture frames and random office supplies. "Uh, yes. Thanks… Do you happen to know what all the commotion out front is about?" she said hopefully. The man grimaced. "Yeah, that’s why I’m headed out the back door." Alexis snatched her cell phone from her pocket and pressed the speed dial number for Al. "Al, I’m in the parking lot behind the building. Get over here now!" She slid her phone back into her pocket. "Hi, I’m Alexis Weaver from channel 8 news and it would mean a lot to me if you would let me interview you." The man looked like he was about to bolt as Al rounded the corner with his camera gear. He hesitated, " I guess… well, I’m fired so what can they do to me now?"

"This is Alexis Weaver from Channel 8 News and we are live from the back parking lot of the Braithwaite Corporation. I’m interviewing Paul Jones who was terminated just one hour ago for eating two pieces of pizza."

story time, again

He was a young boy from the trailer park about twelve or thirty. He had to grow up too fast anyway just to survive. His parents didn’t usually know where he was because they didn’t care.
He used to take his dad’s guns out for target practice in the woods behind the park. The guns made him feel powerful. One time when he was back there blowing beer cans to smithereens he almost got caught by the owner of the trailer park.
He was a mean old cuss. He lived in a big house down the road around a corner so that he wouldn’t have to see the crooked rows of dilapidated singlewides. He had a boy that was about the same age as the gunslinger from the trailer park. At least the same age in numbers. He had everything he could ask for and more.
It was a Tuesday. Nothing good ever happened on a Tuesday. Nothing good ever happened on any other day either. His dad remembered to lock the gun cabinet last time he used it, but forgot to put the pistol away before he did. But there was no ammo; there would be no smell of gunpowder today. No feel of hot steel burning his palms. He would have to imagine that he was blowing his enemies to small bits.
The boy who had everything just got a little more than everything. His dad gave him a brand new BMX bike for his birthday. The kind that had pegs and shocks and all that stuff the tricked out bikes were guaranteed to have. One of his favorite things to do was to flaunt his good fortune in the face of the park-rats. That’s what his family called the trailer park kids. It was Tuesday and seemed like as good a day as any other to show off his new bike.
The park-rat, expertly handling his dad’s pistol, was skulking through the brush near the river at the edge of the woods behind the trailer park spying on imaginary enemies. A real enemy came into range. He’s riding another new bike. He’s got another new expensive toy. As the shiny bike and moneyed rider came into close range the park-rat jumped out of the brush and aimed his pistol straight at the offender. He shouted at the boy to get off and hand over his bike. The boy did as he was commanded. The park-rat shoved him to the ground and took the beloved bike. He had never even touched anything so nice. Had never been so close to such perfection. He kept one hand on the glistening handlebars and one hand pointing the pistol at the boy on the ground. He got on the bike, cocked the pistol, and started riding away. He turned and pulled the trigger, there wasn’t any ammo in it anyway and he wanted to see the look on the rich boys face. That would be almost as good as having a brand new BMX bike. At least for a minute. A blast of smoke, the gun recoiled, the park-rat fell off of his stolen goods. The bullet just missed the crying boy’s head. The park-rat ran and threw his dad’s pistol into the river and wondered if he could make it to Mexico.

alternate correspondance...

i was thinking about randomness, because i love it, it's like - well i was going to say a favorite cousin, but really i like it better than my favorite cousin so that doesn't really work (don't worry i don't really have a favorite cousin.) but anyway i was thinking that sometimes i feel as though i'm calculating in my randomness and so does that negate the randomness or does that make me clever for masking the fact that i have "gentrified" ,if you will, or branded the randomness? it's almost like a skill that i have nurtured. that's what the doctors told me to say. they say people get a little skittish when you say schizophrenia...
m'kay. weird. i know.