Doug the Bicycle Courier Finds God at Last

Doug
Picture this, if you must: it's 9:45 in the morning, and I'm on the third hour of a ten-hour shift here at good old AA-Triple A Street Expediters, Inc. I'm sitting with my butt against the wall and my feet propped up on the remains of what used to be a chair, cheering myself up by reading Richard Dawkins. Yet another evolutionary biologist reminding us that Darwin proved that the universe is random and without purpose or meaning. What fun.

As usual, the ceiling fan is broken, the wall fan is broken, and the air-conditioning is a distant memory. By mid-afternoon, the place will be an inferno. Flies buzz vainly against the dirt-encrusted window, which has not been cleaned since gas was measured in gallons. Above me, the ancient IBM clock ticks soothingly.

Across the room, Ricky is sounding off, as usual.

"The problem with falling in love is that it makes you stupid. With your friends, or with women you don't care about one way or another, you are charming, witty, wise and sensible. With the love of your life, you are a drooling idiot, and make a horrible impression. Given this undeniable fact, you may be wondering how our species manages to reproduce itself at all."

When Ricky is in full oratorical flight, he doesn't need oxygen.

"This difficulty provides a significant, and in my opinion unfair, advantage to the stupid. They are inarticulate at even the best of times, and thus aren't in a position to make fools of themselves in front of their planned mates. Stupid people don't worry about the impression they make -- they just go for it."

"Shut the fuck up," says Tom, who is hard at work burnishing his nails.

"You shut up. I'm speaking a profound truth here, the likes of which people like you are seldom privileged to hear in this or any other lifetime."

"Pull my other one," says Tom, who is now brushing his riding gloves with a special toothbrush he reserves for that purpose. I've never seen a bicycle courier as fastidious as Tom. This is a laugh, as our job involves more than the average amount of mud.

"The only intelligent people who actually mate," continues Ricky, "are those who are indifferent to one another. Thus, indifference becomes a survival characteristic. This explains why everybody you see in the street looks so bored -- it's because they're descended from generations of colourless, bland, indifferent, boring people."

"You're boring, Ricky," says George, the fourth man in the room, and our nominal manager. He chooses this moment to belch loudly; satisfied, he rubs his belly. "That was great. A good belch is like a good fuck."

"How would you know?" says Tom, rubbing the toothbrush against the grain of his glove to get those last few flecks of dirt.

"Course he'd know," I chime in, putting my book aside for the moment. "He fucks us all the time."

"Bite my crank," responds George, framing his crotch with the palms of his hands.

Our witty repartee is interrupted by the phone, which is an old-fashioned wall-mount model located underneath a Canada Dry pin-up calendar from 1978. Lumbering to his feet, George slowly waddles the necessary four steps and answers it. "AA-Triple A Street Expediters. George speaking. How may I help you this morning?"

As you may have guessed, the name of our firm was chosen in a vain attempt to appear at the front of the "Courier Service" section of the Yellow Pages. We're growing at the rate of roughly one 'A' per year.

"Very good, sir," says George, scribbling on an order form. "Would that be Economy or our new Special Express service? It's guaranteed one-hour delivery for a mere two dollars more."

Say what you like about the bastard, he sure knows how to suggestive-sell.

"Excellent choice, sir. One of our delivery executives will be over right away. Thank you for choosing AA-Triple A." He slams the phone into the wall with the force of an O'Neal dunk. "And fuck your daughter with a rusty dildo."

"Eloquent! What breathtaking imagery!" Ricky whistles in mock admiration, then returns to his copy of "Revenge of the Silver Surfer." George holds up the slip of paper, and beckons to me.

"Time to earn your daily bread, son."

"What's the package?"

"Barbells covered in pigeon shit." He flicks the order form in my general direction, belches, and then folds himself up and collapses onto the floor. "Aaah. I was wrong: a good belch is better than a good fuck."

Resigned to my fate, I get up and head out the door. A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.

Religious Tract #1
From "Fatima: Message of Tragedy or Hope?" by Antonio A. Borelli:
So if you know a loved one or a friend -- or even yourself -- who is sinking in the quicksand of vice, turn to Our Blessed Mother for help! If you're struggling in life, but have not lost all hope, look into Mary's maternal gaze and read her heartening Fatima message!

The Initiation
"Are you ready to handle this?"

"What do you mean?"

"Drivers treat bicycle couriers like scum. When you put on these pants, you become a marked man. They try to knock you off the road by clipping your handlebars with their sideview mirrors. They throw cigarette butts in your face. I had one passenger spit on me. She was in a BMW, which figures."

"Why do they do this?"

"Basically, because they're assholes."

"That's not enough of an explanation. They don't do this shit to ordinary cyclists. I need more."

"Well, how about this: we're young, they're old. We're in good shape; they're not. We have freedom, of a sort; they are trapped by their lives and responsibilities. We have possibilities, or at least the illusion of same; they are in a rut they will not escape until they die. It's envy, pure and simple."

"That makes sense."

"Besides, we cut them off in traffic all the time."

"What an anticlimax."

Helen's Hints for Everyday Living
It's better to ask forgiveness than permission.

Women can get away with things that men can't. If you don't like it, move to some other planet.

Men don't always think with their dicks. They just think with their dicks when they're around you.

Yes, of course you should remember to leave the toilet seat down -- but that's just a preliminary screening measure, and is nowhere near enough to be thought of as considerate. Sorry, but it's not that easy.

Doug
Perhaps an introduction is in order. (Perhaps monkeys will fly out of my butt.) My full name is Douglas Everett Lonsdale, at your service. I am six feet two and a half inches tall -- the same height George Orwell was -- and weigh 150 pounds soaking wet. I prefer to be called Doug, but have resigned myself to my nickname, which is "Flatman." I am twenty-five years old -- twenty-six in September -- and I earn what I laughingly call my living as an 'inner-city delivery engineer', which is just a fancy way of saying 'bicycle courier', which is just a fancy way of saying 'messenger boy'. I love Dad's Root Beer, grilled cheese sandwiches, John Woo films, sleeping as much as possible, and cherry-flavoured Pez. My principal hobby is comparative religion -- I collect religious tracts. I'm not sure why, as I'm pretty much convinced that science has proved the validity of atheism. (Okay, Jehovah: if you really exist, strike me dead this second. [PAUSE] Ha, told you so.)

My other hobby is unrequited love. My heart is like an eggshell, dear reader -- pity me. The present repository of my regrettably unrequited affections is the lovely Sheila Lee, who has the nicest smile in the universe. Our relationship is currently measured on the Lonsdale Scale at 3; the scale, named after me of course, runs from 1 (bemused tolerance) to 10 (open hostility). Three means that she isn't actually getting too annoyed when I call her late at night after a long shift and blather on about the latest book I have read or my latest theory of how the universe should work. And believe me, I've had more theories than I've had hot dinners.

Next up is my nominal best friend, Ricardo Montalban Jones, or Ricky for short. (Actually, I think his given names are Richard Clarence, but he prefers to have it be known that he was named after the host of Fantasy Island. Ricky's life ambition is to own a Cordoba.) Ricky is also twenty-five going on twenty-six, and is exactly thirty-four days older than I am, a fact that I do not hesitate to rub his nose in at any available opportunity.

"And what is the older generation's viewpoint on this vital issue?" "Go piss up a rope."

Ricky is the brightest person I've ever met or even heard of, and, perhaps not surprisingly, is the least ambitious. "Sure, I could discover a new periodic element, write the Great Canadian Novel, or bend metal using the sheer force of my brain power alone," he once told me. "But would the world be a better place as a result? Would my life, your life or the life of whichever goddamn girl you're mooning over this week be improved as a result of my efforts? You and I both know the answer to this question, so we'll leave it as rhetorical."

"I'm not mooning after anyone."

"An irrelevant detail, not to mention untrue. Flatman, your pining is positively Cartesian: I love hopelessly, therefore I am."

"Go fuck a frog."

"Anatomically impossible."

Ricky claims to prefer a meaningless dead-end job, as it sharpens his mental acuity. But I have my doubts. All he reads these days are baseball statistics and old comic books. I sense wheels spinning, and I fear the worst.

A sartorial note: Ricky is the only bicycle courier I've ever seen who doesn't wear spandex. Ricky prefers to dress in layers, like a bag man, even in the summer. "Unlike the rest of you, I am not in love with my own body." Ironically, Ricky is easily the best-looking of us, and could have virtually any woman he wanted, if he only knew. It's just not fair.

Next up, at a safe distance, is Thomas Runcorn Martinez IV, great-grandson of a famous half-Mexican, half-English wanderer who struck it rich on Bonanza Creek at the turn of the century. Tom the First used this seed money to build a great fortune; Tom the Second and Tom the Third proceeded to squander this fortune. This left the sole male heir, Tom the Fourth, who doesn't look the least bit Mexican, in a state of permanent resentment.

I don't know much about Tom, but then no one does, by mutual choice. He insists on his privacy, and keeps himself and all his belongings in a state of pristine cleanliness which is both awesome and a little frightening. In his spare moments, he scribbles frantically in one of a succession of wire-bound notebooks. We all want to know what he's writing, but none of us ever dares touch his locker, on pain of death. We all wonder when he will finally go off like a Roman candle. (I've got next February 11th in the pool. If necessary, I will tip the scales in my favour by squirting catsup on his white spandex cycling pants on the fateful day. I have no shame.)

Next would be Roger the Missing Link, if he were here. No one ever sees him anymore. He occasionally communicates with head office by walkie-talkie, but doesn't see the need to drop in. His mystique grows with his absence. For all I know, he may have shaved his head, braided his beard into a ponytail, or grown a third arm.

He's called the Missing Link because he has the hairiest back I've ever seen. Frankly, it's disgusting, and I don't miss the sight of him or his crude descriptions of various body parts of female celebrities.

"You ever see Sally Struthers on All in the Family? She has the most beautiful ass I've ever seen. You can see her butt muscles grinding together under those corduroy Levi's. I wanna unzip her fly with my teeth and ram her into the middle of next week. Oh, she'd love it. Then, I wanna take Dolly Parton's nipples and rub them gently with my fingers until she moans in ecstasy --"

On good days, we used to respond "Shut up, Roger" in unison.

Last, and definitely not least, is George Papadakis, self-described Greek God and owner of the largest free-standing belly, Male Under-30 Division, in existence. When he is at rest, poking his gut is like dropping a stone in Lake Ontario on a calm day.

George's rise up the managerial ladder was due to his sacrificing everything for the cause. Desperate for extra cash for beer, George worked double shifts for months, and blew out his knee. (The official medical term is chondromalacia patellae. Basically, his knee bones are grinding against each other like young lovers slow-dancing.) Bicycling and running are now out of the question for George; eating and drinking are not. The result is there is now considerably more of George than there used to be.

George, like all managers in service industries, is a loud-mouthed boorish obnoxious prick. The only thing in his favour is that he is an equal-opportunity prick: he hates everyone with identical intensity. Besides, success hasn't gone to his head: he was just as annoying before he got promoted. George will be thirty in five months -- a daunting proposition, to say the least.

I have no idea how I'll handle turning thirty. It'll mean that I'll have to decide what to do when I grow up.

Religious Tract #2
From a tract distributed by Old Paths Bible Ministry, Bloor West Postal Outlet, Toronto:
God views every attempt on any man's/woman's part to earn their own salvation through religion as being as acceptable to Him as a leprous garment or a filthy rag. "As it is written, There is none righteous, no, not one: For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God:" Romans 3:10,23

Helen
"Sex with Tom was an unforgettable experience. He licked my cunt with such obsessive determination that I had no choice but to melt. God, it was good. But then immediately after he came inside me, he leaped out of bed and bolted into my shower. He didn't emerge for over half an hour, after which he wouldn't let me touch him because I was not clean. Needless to say, I never dated him again.

"However, I did introduce him to my best girlfriend. Every woman should experience head that good at least once in her lifetime."

Doug
One of the prominent features of our little home away from home is the IBM clock on the wall. Watching it makes me feel pleasantly nostalgic, as it reminds me of school. I was bored then too.

Every hour on the hour, our friendly little IBM clock buzzes loudly. I think it's some sort of self-adjusting mechanism. By now, we know exactly when Old Faithful is going to erupt, and plan our conversations accordingly.

Ten O'Clock
"Mr. Science, why is Robbie the Robot making such strange noises?"

"Well, Billy, it's because he's auto-stimulating his pleasure centres."

"Gosh, Mr. Science! Can Robbie auto-stimulate my pleasure centres, too?"

"Maybe when you're older, Billy. Now, watch closely - I believe Robbie is about to reach orgasm. Countdown! Five. Four. Three. Two. One."

And, on cue, the IBM clock goes BZZZZZT.

It's either this or horking contests, which are fun until you have to clean it all up.

Ricky
Seeing George in action at a bar is like being in the middle of a human connect-the-dots puzzle. His approach to dating is to lumber over to the best-looking woman in the room, say hi, and after a few brief preliminaries ask her if she wants to fuck. If the answer is one of "no", "go away", "fuck off", or a slap in the face, George merely proceeds methodically to the second-best-looking woman in the room, and so on. Since George is persistent, he usually eventually meets some woman who will fuck him, which makes George a happy boy.

I once asked George why he wasted so much time on such obviously unattainable women. He answered, "You never know until you find out." And, you know, he's right. Perhaps there are women whose secret hope is to date a loud-mouthed fat boor whose principal hobby is passing air through every imaginable orifice. All I know is there don't seem to be enough women attracted to me.

Tom's Gallery of First Drafts: 'The Sociobiology of the Automobile'
The horn is not to be used to warn a pedestrian or driver of danger. It is intended to convey importance. The longer and louder the honk, the higher the dominance level. The highest alpha male of all gets to honk as long as he wants, and also enjoys the privilege of driving around traffic jams by travelling in the breakdown lane.

The modern method to convey a warning is to roll down the window and yell "Look out, you stupid asshole." (No other expletive is acceptable.) It is best to warn someone of danger only when you are larger and stronger than your target, as the person being warned loses face and may react violently. If you are not large and strong, you're better off hitting your target and dealing with the inevitable lawsuits as they happen.

In modern-day society, the car alarm often serves as a substitute for a loved one. The little burble a car alarm makes when it is activated or deactivated is as close as many of us can get to the warm greeting of a lover, particularly in these harsh, competitive times.

Many thieves nowadays activate a nearby car alarm to serve as a diversion when carrying out a criminal act.

Crowded parking lots often lead to deadlock, in a form which is a variation on the Monkey's Paw Trap. When a car is leaving a crowded lot, a driver that has been circling the lot will stop just behind the space to be vacated, but will forget to leave enough room for the vacating car to back out safely. The exiting driver now cannot leave, and the arriving driver is unwilling to move and thus risk giving up his place. This deadlock is only resolved when an alpha male shows up and begins honking loudly enough to galvanize somebody into action.

Low-status drivers may want to carry a book with them into the car when entering a crowded lot, to give them something to do while they wait for someone meeker than they are to make room for them.

Doug
Rang Sheila again. Got her machine.

"Hi. This is 555-1234. I am not available to take your call at this moment. Do not let the cute female voice deceive you. I am the most dangerous person alive. Please be aware of this fact as you leave your message. Thank you."

I left a message. "Did you know that 'Hang On Sloopy' is the official state rock song of Ohio?"

It's true.

Ricky
Loathe them or hate them, regular customers are what keep us in business. They can be divided into three classes: the ones that treat us like machines, the ones that treat us like scum, and the apologetically friendly types.

Customers who treat us like machines basically behave as if we are service robots incapable of human interaction. It's dehumanizing, but I can live with it: it's easier to get my deliveries done on time. There's nothing more frustrating than a chatty customer when I'm already behind schedule.

People Madonna Should Date
"Freddie Kruger."

"Booji Boy from Devo."

"The soprano section of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Drop them down a register or two."

"Prince Charles and Camilla Parker Bowles."

"The entire male population of East Paterson, New Jersey."

"Rod Stewart. They deserve each other." "No chance, she's not young enough or blonde enough."

"Dennis Rodman. Oh, wait a minute, she's done that."

"Me."

"George, dream on. She'd always be comparing you to all her boy toys. The ones with perfect pecs and washboard stomachs."

"I would be a refreshing change."

Religious Tract #3
From a tract distributed by Strangers and Pilgrims Christian Evangelism Fellowship:
Thankfully, God can give you the strength to wait until marriage for sex and then remain faithful to your life partner. And even if it's too late for that, He is ready to forgive and give you a new start.

Doug
I first became interested in comparative religion in second-year university. A travelling fundamentalist religious group was handing out flyers entitled 'IF YOU SHOULD DIE' while standing in front of an open student-sized coffin.

I think it's morally wrong to induce existential crises in young people. Why not let them enjoy the feeling of immortality while it lasts?

Helen's Hints for Everyday Living
Never cause a scene or provoke an unnecessary confrontation, and you can do pretty much whatever you want.

A vampire will not enter your house unless invited, and no one can break your heart unless you let them.

Women prefer men who are sensitive and caring, but are turned on by men who aren't.

Men are more emotional than women. Women are more realistic and less naive. Sorry about that.

Tom's Gallery of First Drafts: 'Psychiatrist, Heal Thyself'
Ah, good afternoon, dear fellow. Have a seat, over there. Yes, I suppose it is a couch, strictly speaking, but I don't feel a need to impose rigid definitions, do you? Couch versus chair. Doctor versus patient. Sick versus well. It's all a vast grey soup of ambiguity, if you know what I mean.

Yes, indeed, it is awfully pleasant to have someone intelligent here listening to me (he said, sitting down, crossing his legs and idly tapping the stem of his pipe against his knee). Someone who can keep up, who doesn't just sit there staring at you like an expectant but scared rabbit, their whole body vibrating, "Make me well, O holy man," and then writhing in barely-suppressed passive-aggressive anger when they discover that I cannot work miracles. Neuroses aren't like spark plugs, you know: you can't just make a simple adjustment and send your psyche back out onto the highway. No, sir. A mental difficulty, to put it delicately, is like a well-preserved wine: it must be examined, tasted, savoured, rolled around the taste buds and cherished, not just tossed back as if it were Strawberry Ripple and this were Thursday afternoon in the Bowery....

Ricky
My next stop is Inverse Ratio Systems, Inc., which I guess is a computer company. I hate first-time customers. They haven't been broken in yet. This one looks to be no exception. A skeletally thin, precise man, dressed in grey and white: grey suit, grey shoes, white socks, white shirt. Cold and immaculate. When he spots me, he checks his watch impatiently.

"Fifty-seven minutes," he sniffs. "I am not impressed."

"We guarantee delivery within the hour, sir," I tell him.

"Yes, but you barely made it. You won't get far in business with that kind of attitude."

"Sorry, sir," I reply. Clause 5(a) of my employment contract calls for instant dismissal without recourse if you tell a customer to fuck off. We lose, on average, three couriers a year to 5(a).

"Sorry isn't good enough. I've lost a competitive edge thanks to your inefficiency. Next time, I might as well put the damn thing in the fucking mailbox. Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes, sir. That will be three-fifty."

My new anal-retentive friend whips out a twonie, a loonie and two quarters and slams them on the table in front of me. One of the quarters rolls a bit, which spoils the dramatic effect. "Now get out of here. This is a secure area, and we are on a tight deadline."

Little does he know: he's now on the List. His only chance of getting a courier now is if his daughter marries one. We're in a tough, competitive business, but we stick together. After all, it's us against the world.

Religious Tract #4
From "Beware of the Modern Smooth Cross" by Dr. A. W. Tozer
The race of Adam is under a death sentence. There is no commutation, and no escape. God cannot approve any of the fruits of sin, however innocent they may appear, or beautiful to the eyes of men. God salvages the individual by liquidating him, and then raising him again to newness of life... The corn of wheat must fall into the ground and die.

Helen
"Sex with George, on the other hand, was forgettable. I felt like one of those coin-operated rocking horses they used to have at grocery stores. Put in the quarter, hop on, squeak a while, and hop off. And the goddamn asshole wasn't even considerate enough to prop himself up on his elbows. It's a good thing I have big tits, or I'd have suffocated to death."

"Suffocation is a bad thing."

"Buy me another drink, Ricky."

"Another Sleeman's?"

"Must you waste time with unnecessary questions?"

Tom's Gallery of First Drafts: 'Two Thoughts on Evolutionary Biology'
One problem that viruses face when reproducing is that their infected host gets sick and reduces contact with the rest of the human race, thus minimizing the opportunities for the virus to spread elsewhere. (In the worst case, the host dies, which is bad for both the human and the virus, as neither can reproduce.)

In the future, viruses will mutate in such a way as to affect the brain. People infected with colds and the flu will be compelled by their virus to go out more, thus providing greater opportunities for the virus to spread.

A virus that induces panic and the urge to flee in terror is, evolutionarily speaking, possessed of an advantage over other viruses. A virus that induces the urge to run to the nearest large football stadium, large airport, or shopping mall is even more evolutionarily advantaged. Why be lonely?

One reason why many of the concepts of modern evolutionary biology have met with stiff resistance is because no one likes the idea that humankind is not the center of the universe.

[I once read that science has actually shortened the human life span, not lengthened it. We used to think that we were immortal, and now we don't anymore.]

Sometimes, unpleasant ideas such as these run headlong into the standard human tendency to ignore unpleasant facts. While human obstinacy may be maddening, it may also be a survival tool.

It is a well-known fact that pessimistic people lead shorter, unhappier lives than people of more sanguine temperament, and are less likely to reproduce. (Would you date somebody who was gloomy and talked about the meaninglessness of life all the time?) Thus, being evolutionarily aware may lead, ironically enough, to an evolutionary disadvantage.

Over time, the awareness of the futility of human existence may well be bred out of the race, leaving the existing population slightly dumber but slightly happier. Those who survive will be able to cheerfully deny or ignore such unpleasant facts. I had more to say on the subject, but somehow it seems to have slipped my mind.

Best Places to have Sex
"The gondola above Maple Leaf Gardens, if it still existed."

"In a cheap motel."

"In the subway. Preferably on the Spadina Line, to ensure privacy."

"Underneath the Gardiner Expressway."

"At the North Pole, with Santa's elves watching. Maybe they'll learn something."

"In front of my high school librarian."

"Anywhere, as long as it's me and somebody cute."

"Flatman, that's pathetic."

Ricky
I don't want to grow old. I mean, I accept the idea that I have to die sometime. And it's not like I want to live forever -- that would be so repetitive. It's the slowing down that bothers me: I pride myself on my ability to move and think quickly. I can't stand the idea of everyone being younger and sharper than me. I refuse to be patronized.

When I grow old, I'll have to find a new line of work. Most bicycle couriers don't last much past thirty. Either the back goes or the knees go. I, myself, plan on a career in high finance starting, oh, about the time of the millennium. Anyone want to lend me a million bucks for seed money?

Doug
The way I see it, you shouldn't fall in love until about your sixth relationship or so, because it takes you that long to figure out how to make it all work. The first five times, you're inevitably going to do something to piss her or him off, and it's game over. If you don't actually love any of the first five, it doesn't matter when you're thrown out the door -- you just pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and head back out there. If you make the mistake of falling in love, you wind up with a broken heart and you become damaged goods, which makes you less receptive when Number Six, the One True Love, comes marching through the door.

Religious Tract #5
From "What Conversion Is..." by Billy Graham
You cannot think your way back to God, for the carnal mind is at enmity with God. Nor can you worship your way back to God. And you cannot moralize your way to God, because character is vitiated with sin... Your will must be bent to the will of God. Self must be nailed to the Cross... The converted person will love what he once hated, and hate what he once loved.

The Weather Forecast on the Suicide Channel
"Tonight's forecast: cloudy and damp. The water temperature is warm, and the Prince Edward Viaduct looks inviting. I'd say we get three leapers, two stabbers, one jumper, and one radio in the bathtub tonight. Remember, viewers -- before you go, don't forget the note and the will."

Doug
One advantage of a boring job with lots of downtime is that it gives plenty of scope for meditation. Think of it: you have nowhere to go, nothing to do, and nothing to think about. If this isn't the ideal Zen no- mind state, what is? No wonder capitalism is triumphant. We're all so bored that we're at one with the universe.

Just when I finally reach inner peace, Ricky storms in, slamming the door against the wall. George, who had drifted off with a smile on his face, bolts upright. "Fuck! You spoiled my dream."

We all groan. "Oh, God, here we go," said Tom.

"There I was, on a bed, stripped naked, arms and legs tied to bedposts. The Barbie twins, the Doublemint twins and the Arquette twins were standing in perfect symmetry on either side of the bed, tickling me with feather dusters, and rubbing their hands all over my --"

"The Arquette sisters aren't twins," says Ricky. "They're Charley Weaver's granddaughters."

"That's not the point. The point is you woke me up and spoiled everything. This had better be good."

"It is!" says Ricky. "I've found evidence of the Missing Link!"

That got my attention. "You've seen Roger? With your own eyes?"

"No, but I have incontrovertible proof that he has recently existed. You know that last delivery I got?"

"Yeah. She sounded cute," George says.

"You don't know the half of it." Ricky says, sitting down. "I knock on the door, and there's this beautiful woman, perfect figure, wearing a skimpy green filmy negligee. She smiles in anticipation, and then, one instant later, her smile turns to annoyance. I mean, I'm used to this reaction from women, but usually it happens after I say something.

"She snapped, 'You're not the guy they usually send.' What could I say? 'I'm sure I'd prove an acceptable substitute.' She turned on her heel and said, 'Tell furry-bunny that his angel misses him,' and slammed the door. Hear that? 'Furry-bunny'? That can mean only one thing."

"There's no doubt about it," I say. "This woman has been doing the horizontal bop with our very own Missing Link."

"I don't get it. Why him?" says George.

"Lust, like love, the universe and calculus, is an unfathomable mystery," says Ricky. "All I can guess is that she's turned on by men with hairy backs."

"I've got hairy tits," George says. "Maybe she'd go for that."

"Why not?" says Tom. "You do."

Religious Tract #6
From "Cunningly Devised Fables":
Friend, in all fairness to you, we have sought to be honest in this tract. God does put sinners into hell fire. You do need to be saved - and salvation does not come through sincerity, good works, keeping the commandments, or baptism, but by faith in Christ alone!

High Noon
"And now, Mr. Smedley, for the new car: what is the capital of Patagonia?"

"Um... er..."

And, on cue, the IBM clock goes BZZZZZT.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Mr. Smedley. Time has run out. Please help yourself to Carol Merrill and some lovely parting gifts."

"Shit."

Doug
I think I first started my search for God when I was ten years old. My next door neighbour, Scott, was from a very religious family. I'm not sure what the denomination was, but it was stricter than Baptist.

Anyway, one Christmas break, Scott and I went to this hockey camp that was also a Bible study camp. The regimen was strict: I lost two demerit points for leaving a copy of The Hockey News on top of my freshly made bed when we went out to breakfast one morning, thus earning the wrath of my entire dormitory. One day, Scott told me that Jesus Christ could return to Earth any day now, and if I wasn't saved when that moment came, I was condemned to spend eternity in Hell. The only way to escape eternal damnation was to accept Jesus Christ as my personal Saviour. It sounded like a good deal to me.

According to Scott, I also had to promise not to swear, and I had to read the Bible every day. I found the Bible boring, because I started reading from the beginning. And eliminating swearing put a real cramp into my vocabulary, so I eventually stopped bothering.

I find it difficult to believe that God really objects to swearing. Can you imagine going to Hell for saying "shit"? Or "fuck"? What about "cunt"? What about "hell" itself? Isn't that a swear word? Somehow, being threatened with eternal Heck isn't all that daunting a proposition.

Religious Tract #7
From "When Jesus Came" by Oswald J. Smith, LL.D.:
Oh the joy, the relief, when they heard of a glorious resurrection and a life of endless bliss with Jesus Christ. What a hope! What a deliverance! No transmigration of souls! No rebirth into animals or men! No purgatory or dread of evil spirits! No future suffering! Instead, Heaven, Paradise, the Father's House, the Many Mansions. A life with Christ in a place where there would be joy unutterable and peace indescribable.

Doug in Love
"Good God!"

"What?"

"I almost forgot about her for a minute there. For a brief instant, I was not heartsick and depressed."

"Oh, for crying out loud, Flatman."

Helen
When I become dictator of the universe, the first thing I will do is line all the pretentious people up against the wall and shoot them. Anybody who says "capp" as a shortform for "cappuccino" is first on the list. I'd shoot people who drink cappuccino, but I happen to like it.

Hey, if I'm the dictator, I get to make the rules.

The Sinner's Prayer
"I believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of the living God and that He died on the cross so that we may have forgiveness of sins and eternal life. "I believe in my heart that God raised Him from the dead three days later. "Please forgive me, Jesus, for every sin I have ever committed, and come into my heart right now and be my personal Saviour, and take full control over my life from this moment on. "I pray this in the Name of Jesus Christ."

AMEN!

An Idle Moment in the Office
"I associate farts with colours," says George.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, George," I say.

"No," says Ricky. "I want to hear this. I think he's put some thought into it."

"Blue farts are short angry darts, like smart bombs. Red farts are like undercurrents, lending a vague air of unpleasantness. And green farts are lethal carpet bombs that force the immediate evacuation of the entire area.

"Your farts, on the other hand," George says, turning to Ricky, "are pink. Delicate, almost ladylike, producing a faint odour of overripe cheese that is almost tolerable. They belong in the gourmet section of your local delicatessen."

"I think farts should be brown," says Tom.

Tom's Gallery of First Drafts: 'Lost Love'
When I looked in your eyes
I saw my own reflection
You were so much like me
That I couldn't quite figure out where I stopped and you started
So now that you're gone
I feel like only half the person I used to be

Religious Tract#8
From "Eternity", a Mennonite religious tract:
Eternity will know only two classes of people -- the saved and the lost. God will classify them as such by their acceptance or rejection of His great saving plan for mankind while in their earth life. There are only two destinations in eternity for all people -- Heaven for the saved and hell for the lost.... If a bird would pick up one grain of sand and carry it to the moon, and in that fashion would eventually carry all of earth away, eternity would still have just begun, but would be no nearer the end.

Ricky at the Job Interview
"Full name?"

"Richard Clarence Jones."

"Date of birth?"

"July 29th, 1970."

"Why do you want to work for Consolidated Insurance?"

"I am interested in becoming part of a dynamic, team-oriented environment."

"You read our help-wanted ad, I see. Give me the real reason."

"I need more money. My present job pays dirt."

"Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Jones. So many candidates blush and stammer incoherently when I confront them with their mendacity. They attempt to spout bullshit, leaving me no alternative but to escort them out of the office then and there. You have cleared the first hurdle, Mr. Jones."

"Glad to hear that."

"Now let me see... I have your university transcript in front of me, and frankly, I'm overwhelmed. You have outstanding grades. In fact, they're almost frightening."

"I find them frightening myself."

"And yet, from your resume, I see you're working as a bicycle courier. Why is this?"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"I demand details, Mr. Jones."

"I was interested in becoming part of a dynamic, team-oriented environment. And I secretly enjoy breathing bus fumes."

"Mr. Jones, what is your goal in life? What are you striving for?"

"Peace, love, understanding, a healthy bank account, and a satisfied mind. What about you?"

"I believe it is my job to ask the questions, Mr. Jones, and yours to answer them. I already have a job. Now, I must say that I am impressed by your qualifications and your abilities, but I am not certain about your attitude. Our company stresses a full commitment to our customers. In our current tough, competitive market, we can't afford to bring anyone on board who isn't willing to totally commit to their career. Have I made myself clear?"

"Almost frighteningly so."

"Does this sound like you, Mr. Jones?"

"Alas, no. Thank you for your time."

"And thank you for yours. I hope you find peace, love, understanding, and so on. If you achieve your goals, please let me know. I could use a little peace myself. I enjoyed talking to you, even if there's no way in hell I would hire you."

"And likewise."

"You enjoyed talking to me, or you wouldn't hire me?"

"Let's end this on a note of mystery, shall we?"

Two O'Clock
"Now, viewers, watch as the Shell No-Pest Strip vaporizes another unsuspecting fly."

And, on cue, the IBM clock goes BZZZZZT.

"Welcome to Valhalla, my fine flying friend."

Doug on the Phone
"Hello, Sheila?"

"Oh, hi."

"How are you?"

"Fine, I guess. What's up?"

"It's been a hell of a day. Travelling here and there, hither and yon, backwards and forwards, hither and thither. What's the difference between yon and thither, I wonder? Perhaps hither is between yon and thither. You go one way, you reach yon. You go the other way, you reach thither."

"Doug, you're babbling again, and it's late."

"Sorry."

"Listen, I'm tired. I can't talk now."

"Oh."

"Call me another time."

"Okay."

"Bye."

"Bye."

At least there's hope - she said "call me another time."

Religious Tract #9
From "The King Is Coming":
Virtually every newspaper, of every city in the world, will soon carry a headline similar to this:

JESUS CHRIST HAS RETURNED
TO EARTH AND TAKEN ALL
CHRISTIANS TO HEAVEN

The world will not see Jesus appear in the sky, nor the catching away of His people, for the rapture will be secret. However, the evidence that this event has taken place will be unmistakable. As the saved ones disappear, their clothing will be left lying in the streets, homes, factories and many other places, for they will have exchanged their earthly garments for the heavenly. Many people will be running from their homes into the streets and to the homes of neighbors, incredulously searching for loved ones and friends who have suddenly vanished. Babies will disappear from their cribs. Not a single child will be found anywhere. There will be unparalleled grief, weeping, wailing, frustration and consternation. The tremendous shock will cause thousands of deaths....

Tom's Gallery of First Drafts: 'Alien Need Monster'
When I was growing up, I was a dutiful child, and did my homework while my classmates were learning social skills. As a consequence, I wound up inhabited by an Alien Need Monster From Outer Space.

You can always tell when someone is possessed by an Alien Need Monster. When you talk to them, the Alien Need Monster rises up from their spleen, where it lives, and grabs on to you tightly. In the worst case, it doesn't let go until you beat it up or slap it with a restraining order. Look at that farmer who follows Anne Murray around -- he's not a human being, he's just a receptacle for an Alien Need Monster.

George
You know what I love to do? Fart. It feels so good to just let one go. You feel relieved. It's almost as good as a good shit, or a good fuck. Shocked? I'm not surprised. You fucking WASPs are all alike. As if you didn't have bodies, smelly sweaty bodies, like the rest of us. As if you shat ice cream, or pissed Perrier, or if your boogers were diamonds. I mean give me a fucking break.

And you fucking WASPs make the worst customers too. You never tip, and you look at me as if I'm some sort of low life just because I'm fat and I don't shave every day. I'm not ashamed of who I am. I love my body. It's comfortable. You can rest your hands on my gut. Women like to rest their heads on it after I fuck them. They find it comforting, and I don't blame them.

I'll bet that's what bothers you the most. How can a big ugly Greek guy like me get laid when all you trim, well-dressed, well-brushed assholes aren't getting shit? Well, it's easy. I like who I am, and I actually like women. What a surprise! All you white bread types are all so fucking desperate. Women can sense that, and it scares them. That's why they like guys like me - I don't pressure them. I just relax, have a few beers, have a few laughs, and wait and see what happens. And if all else fails, I can just jerk off. What's there to worry about?

Doug Confronts His Illusions
"Hello, Sheila? It's me."

"Hi, Doug. I'm glad you called."

"Really?"

"We have to talk."

Pause. "Oh."

"I like you and everything, and I enjoy talking to you, but... I don't think of you the way you think of me."

Longer pause. "Oh."

"I'm seeing somebody now."

Even longer pause. "Oh."

"Are you okay with this?"

The longest pause in human history. Seventeen separate emotions wrestle for control. I am in shock. I cannot move. I can barely breathe. My brain has stopped functioning. I hang up the phone, and go to lie down.

The worst part is I knew it all along, but chose to believe what I wanted to believe. Denial ain't a river in Egypt. Why do infatuations make you so stupid?

Tom
Hi. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Thomas Martinez the Fourth. The Fearsome Foursome, as my friends used to call me when I was growing up. Thomas the fourth, son of Thomas the third, son of and so on. Not only that, I'm a descendant of William Pitt the Younger, Pancho Villa, Cortez the Killer, Ethelred the Unready and Rex the Wonder Bunny. Talk about fucking expectations.

That's what I remember most about my father while he was alive: he was trapped by his history. My father, Thomas the third, had no way of making his family proud of him. No way whatsoever. Suppose, for example, that, starting from nothing, he managed to make millions of dollars and get his likeness carved into a statue displayed in a park or in front of an important public building. For most people, this would be considered overwhelmingly successful; in our family, it's a "been there, done that." My great- grandfather's statue is in a park on Martinez Street in San Jose, California. I visited it once when I was small. Pigeons were shitting on it. This made me feel good.

Since Thomas the Third was doomed to failure from the start, he didn't so much embrace his destiny as fuck it. He fled to Canada to avoid being drafted, which is the only thing I've ever been proud of him for doing. He travelled light: all he brought with him were the clothes on his back, a beat-up '67 Beetle, and a five million dollar trust fund scheduled to mature on his 21st birthday. When it matured, he didn't have to. I've never met anyone as wilfully lazy, unproductive and downright stupid as my late lamented papa.

My therapist says I'm too angry, and suggests I take Prozac or some other happy pill. "Modern pharmacology has made great strides in recent years. With a little experimentation, you'll find something that will take the edge off things."

"But that will make me slow and stupid. I'll wind up not feeling anything."

"That's normal. Most people don't feel anything. That's how they get through life."

Religious Tract #10
From "Welcome To Cyberspace" by the Jews For Jesus:
God wants us back on-line. He sent Y'Shua (Jesus) to give the bug (sin) the boot so we won't crash. Through Y'Shua we can reboot and interface with our Creator.

Helen and Ricky
"I don't know what sex with Flatman would be like. I think he's kind of cute, and I'd give it a go, but I'm afraid he'd fall in love with me. He's so dreadfully earnest, and he never does anything casually. He'd probably wind up following me around."

"What about sex with me?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

Religious Tract #11
From "What About Drugs, Alcohol and Immoralities?"
Let us face the facts. The awful monsters, drink, drugs and immorality, are threatening and destroying that which God created noble and Good. Like the tentacles of a mighty octopus, they grasp and draw both young and old into their embrace.

Helen and Ricky, Not Much Later
"Mmmm."

"Ohhhh."

"This is as good as it gets."

"No, this is."

"Ohhhh."

"How long has it been?"

"It doesn't get much longer than this."

"No, silly -- since you last, you know, did it?"

"I don't want to tell you -- you'd lose all respect for me."

"I have... means of persuasion, young man."

"Mmmm. December 1994."

"Oh, my God. That's nearly two full calendar years! I'm surprised you didn't explode on contact!"

"Well, now that you mention it..."

"Ohhhh."

"Oh, yes."

Religious Tract #11, Continued
Amid this morass of immorality and spiritual blindness, of sin and shameless ungodliness, we must turn to the Holy Bible as the unquestionable and eternal authority on the matter of right and wrong.

Tom
My therapist thinks I might be gay. I'm not, but he thinks I might be, because I'm so tidy and because I wear clothes that fit tightly and because I know a lot about colours. Straight men are supposed to be slobs who only know the standard primary and secondary colours, the basic shades of black, white and grey, plus good old brown. We're all supposed to watch sports on television, drink a lot of beer, and, when we get older, have regular paycheques and wash the car on Saturday morning. Oh, yes: we get to wear brightly-coloured ties. That's about all we have in the way of choices. What fun.

My therapist doesn't understand: if gay people can be all different shapes, sizes and temperaments, why can't straight people be different too?

Helen and Ricky, Two Days Later
"Hello?"

"Hi, stranger. I was wondering when you'd call."

"I..."

"I know. It was a big thing. We did it. The nasty. The horizontal bop. Couch rugby. The dirty deed. And you were overwhelmed. 'Oh my God -- what have I done? What will she think of me? Has she lost all respect for me now that I have revealed my animal lust?' Your reaction is typical of most men, at least most men with a conscience. Relax."

"Actually, I couldn't call earlier because my phone was out. Squirrels ate through the wires. I just wanted to call to say that Monday night was wonderful, and I was wondering what you are doing on Friday."

"Good heavens. I thought you were neurotic."

"I am. I rehearsed this conversation. I plan on agonizing in private."

"I want a full report, in triplicate, of all agonizing. Bring it with you on Friday when you come over to my place. And, Ricky?"

"Yes?"

"I'd suggest eating the right foods and making sure you get your proper rest between now and Friday. I plan on wearing you out, and I want the tank to be full before we head out on the highway."

"Mmmm. No fair."

"Hah."

George
Excuse me while I belch.

Belches are good. Not as good as farts, but better than sneezes. For those of you keeping track at home, it's fucks, shits, farts, belches and sneezes, in that order. I'd rank a good piss just behind a good shit, and a good puke is sometimes better than anything in the world. The problem with puking is that it's like eating potato chips - sometimes, you can't just stop at one.

Ever notice there's a whole lot of words that mean the same as 'puke'? There's upchucking, ralphing, spewing, hurling, technicolor yawning, tossing the cookies, manufacturing secret sauce, talking on the big white telephone, painting the porcelain, spitting up, throwing the orange javelin, following the yellow brick road, launching the satellite, strip-mining the stomach, bombing Iraq, and for you medical types, good old reverse peristalsis.

The Eskimos have hundreds of words for snow, and we have hundreds of words for puke. Fucking weird.

Tom
You may think being a bicycle courier is nothing but glamour -- looking dashing and cavalier while zipping in and out of traffic at high speeds. Well, it's not always fun and games, believe me. Some days, it's nothing but misery. It's pouring rain, cars take great delight in splashing you with mud and water, everything you carry is heavy, and every route is uphill. People smirk at you as they pass by in their comfortably-heated cars, the bastards. You're shivering with cold, your eyes are blinded by the driving rain, and head office is hurling abuse at you via walkie-talkie. You can't even swear or scream with frustration, because who knows who might hear you, and you're Representing The Company.

At this point, you have only one alternative: total detachment. "I am not here," I say. "I am on a beach somewhere. Listening to tropical bands playing soothing calypso music. Watching beautiful beach babes in bikinis frolic in the surf. Drinking margaritas as the sun goes down."

Eventually, though, you realize you're not anywhere else, it's cold, it's rainy, and you've got a long day ahead of you. All you can do is take it one minute at a time.

Religious Tract #12
From "The Coming Of The Lord May Be Soon":
Jesus is coming! we know not how soon,
Coming at midnight, at morning or noon;
Evening may bring Him to bear us away;
Will I be watching and waiting each day?

Doug
I have a trick I use when climbing up hills, especially large ones. If you think of the hill as a single indivisible unit, you will despair and give up. I think of the hill as a series of stages. I use telephone poles or driveways as intermediate goals to be reached. "I can't make it all the way up the hill," I say to myself, "but at least I can make it to here." Then I repeat it. If it worked for Sisyphus, it can work for me.

Four O'Clock
"All right, contestants - you have ten seconds to name as many subatomic particles as you can. Ready? Go."

"Quark."

"Gluon."

"Strangeness."

"Charm."

"Truth."

"Beauty."

"Emily Dickinson."

"I wandered lonely as a cloud."

"Goodnight, Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are."

And, on cue, the IBM clock goes BZZZZZT.

"Damn. One away from the lounge suite."

Ricky
I don't understand it. Why does sex make me so happy? It's not as there is a whole lot of difference between sex and a really good bout of masturbation. Is it merely an ego thing? Am I happy because, for a change, I am not part of the vast society of men who lack female company? Am I grateful to be no longer part of the Fraternity of Losers? Or is there something about sex that provides a vitamin lacking in heterosexual men? Some vitamin W, or mysterious feminine energy, that can only be obtained via means of sexual congress?

Damned hindbrain. It doesn't communicate to me in words.

Helen
So far, you have only seen me through the eyes of men, and you already know, dear reader, that I have slept with three of the men you have met. I don't want you to think I'm one of those women that Army training films used to warn you about --- those women with Lana Turner sweaters, too much eye makeup, and an infectious case of gonorrhea. To dispel this unfortunate notion, here's what you need to know about me, in a precise, easy-to-read format.

Name: Helen Marsden Sanborn Adams. Sanborn was my mother's maiden name, and Helen Marsden was my father's mother's name. I am the continuation of not one, but two matrilineal dynasties. Bow before me and tremble.

Age: A nice girl doesn't tell. I'm 24.

Height: Five foot ten in stocking feet. I prefer heels, as I use my height as a weapon. If you can't take the heat, get out of the kitchen.

Bust: 36C. Eat your heart out.

Waist: 28.6.

Hips: I don't want to know. Besides, I am allowed one deep dark secret.

Education: Video and graphic design. I'm a multimedia girl. I also do web pages. But I don't do Windows.

Favourite foods: Strawberry yogurt, peanut butter sandwiches, and single-malt whisky. (It counts as food -- ask any Scotsman.) I'll also eat anything you put in front of me provided the magic words "dim sum" have been spoken.

Favourite sexual positions: Female superior and rear-entry. If I'm feeling relaxed and trusting, I like it up the butt. Hey, I'm not blushing, you are.

Life ambition: To be always intriguing and never boring. To think for myself always, and never, ever, ever, let anyone tell me what to do.

Pet peeves: Selfish men. Men who don't know what they want. Men who can't stand up to me. Women who giggle. Anyone who refuses to take me seriously. Men who automatically reach for the check in restaurants. Men who won't open the car door for me. Women who disapprove of the way I dress, or behave, or live.

Hobbies: I write my own fanzine. "Helen's Hints for Everyday Living." If the bookstore in your city is cool, it carries it. If it doesn't, move. Or send me a self-addressed stamped envelope and two bucks, and I'll mail you one.

Secret I'd sooner die than tell you: I'm not as strong as I pretend to be.

Tom
My mother doesn't care what I do, as long as I someday become the father of Thomas Martinez the Fifth. I could become a serial murderer and my mother would still be happy, provided I was a serial murderer with a male child.

This insistence on the perpetuation of the family dynasty boggles my mind, as dad was a wastrel and a shithead, but after all these years, her identity is totally intertwined with that of the family. When she and dad first got married, she used to wear her new mother-in-law's clothes, in an attempt to look refined. She didn't realize that she had more style than anyone on my father's side of the family, who wore nothing but dark grey (men) and demure beige (women). But she was intimidated, because it was daddy who had the money. She didn't realize that people with inherited money aren't smarter or better than the rest of us.

People who earn lots of money aren't smarter or better than the rest of us, either. They're just more driven. Ever heard of a self-made man who was happy? No way, Jose. They're trying to use money to scratch an itch that they can't quite reach.

Helen's Hints for Everyday Living
You can never give or receive enough compliments. But be sincere, or don't bother.

Women can get all the attention they want, provided they are willing to hang out with men whose only interest in them is to fuck them. If you want a more balanced relationship, you have to be prepared to give up some of your edge.

To have a hope of being loved, you have to be willing to give love and not expect anything in return. Love is not a barter transaction.

No one is ever as strong or as sensible as they appear to be. Don't forget: everyone is putting their best face forward.

Don't worry about your mistakes: people are too busy worrying about what other people think of them to have much of a memory of you.

Sometimes we really do want to be just friends -- it's not always a throwaway line to get rid of you. But sometimes it is.

Assume that you and everyone you get involved with will be jealous and needy.

Religious Tract #13
From "Why You Can Trust The Bible":
But really, there is no reason fo us to doubt anything that our Creator promises. His Word can be trusted! By examining the evidence further, you will become ever more convinced of this.

Music Trivia Quiz
"You've heard of the Hatfields and the McCoys, haven't you?"

"Yes, he said dubiously."

"Well, if the McCoys recorded 'Hang on Sloopy', what did the Hatfields record?"

"Bobby Hatfield was one of the Righteous Brothers, and sang lead on 'Unchained Melody'. Does that count?"

"Oooh, clever little fellow, aren't you?"

"I know how I want to die. I want to turn up the volume when he hits that last high note at the end, and I want the volume to be so high that it painlessly stops my heart. It's the only way to go."

"I want to go out fucking."

"That's typical of you, George. The human praying mantis."

"Suppose I died while coming, and my lover became pregnant. Wouldn't that be the best possible test of transmigration of souls? I could become my own son."

"Or your own daughter."

"How gross."

"If you had a daughter who looked like you, your genes would die out for sure. She'd be a three-bag date."

"What's that?"

"One over her head, one over your head, and a third over her head in case the first one breaks."

"Where did you learn to say things like that?"

"I grew up in the suburbs."

"That figures."

Helen's Worst Pickup Lines
"What's a beautiful girl like you doing all alone?"

"My sign is on the cusp of Leo and Virgo. I'm half lion, and half virgin."

"Didn't I see you in the movies somewhere?"

"I feel heat in this room. Don't you feel it?"

"I think we were destined to mate, I mean meet."

"I'll bet your feet are sore in those shoes."

Actually, I kind of liked that last one. I fucked him.

George
My family have me on a timetable. They've never told me this straight out, but I know that there's a little schedule in their minds. By thirty at the latest, I'm supposed to be married to a nice Greek girl and the father of one or preferably two little children. I'm supposed to be saving up for a nice house in the Greek part of town, and I'm supposed to be working in a good office job. I have two years to go, and I don't have a girl, a child, a house, or an office job. My mother had better be prepared for disappointment.

Tom's Gallery of First Drafts: 'Palindrome: Thoughts on Immortality'

Perhaps there will be no end to mE.
Am I doomed to an infinite dreaM?
Leave me alone - must I journey intO
Immeasurable sorrow, lasting foreveR?
Never a beginning, never an enD
Doomed to continue this earthly spiN?
Reverse this tape! No more must I
Occupy this dreary mortal coiL!
Make this an end of human dramA
Each alone, in eternal sleeP.

Yes, I know it's an acrostic, not a palindrome. Don't be so goddamned literal.

Doug
Religion, to me, is mostly just extortion. "Do what we tell you," screams the priest, "or you will burn in Hell forever." "What should we do?" cries the parishioner, in torment. At this point, the priest has his flock at his mercy. That's what organized religion leads to.

But then... I remember, a few years ago, I was travelling through the States on my own, and was staying in a motel in northern Pennsylvania. The motel was rated as one star by the AAA, which meant it was habitable but had none of those unnecessary luxuries that you grow used to in hotel rooms, such as 14 different kinds of complimentary shampoos, and mini-bars whose contents cost more than six months of your salary. Sure enough, they called it: the room was spotless, but the TV was broken, and there was an old Gideon Bible in the drawer beside the bed, left there a generation ago by a portly, serious man with slicked-back hair, wearing a brown suit and shined shoes, and speaking ever so politely as he spread God's word through the hinterlands.

It was raining out, so I sat there in my room reading Ecclesiastes. "All go unto one place; all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again. Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth, while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh." That night, in a lonely motel room, as the rain splattered and the traffic zoomed by on the Interstate outside my door, I felt the hand of God on my shoulder.

The next day I drove to the Baseball Hall of Fame.

First there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is.

Tom
Unless you're busy creating the next Hamlet, I'm a better writer than you are, because I'm doing it and you're not. Art is not a spectator sport.

Religious Tract #14
From "The World Is Sick and It Is Growing Worse Every Day":
After the Rapture (the coming again of Christ for His church), Satan will be free to do what he likes with the people on earth. There will not be any restraining power to hinder him from doing what he would like to do. What an awful time that will be!

George
Once, a few years ago, I came down with one of those viruses that lasts fucking forever. The ones that you think you'll never get rid of. It's not like the cold or a flu, that you know will be gone in a week. This was one of the ones that last weeks. When it finally goes away, you feel like a different person than when you came in.

And I felt that way when I fucked up my knee too. "You won't ever be able to ride a bicycle again," the doctor told me. Shit, that was a boot in the head. That's when I learned: as you get older, shit changes, and you have to change. You have to adjust to life, it won't adjust to you.

Helen
I don't use my looks or my body to gain advantages for me. Why? Because a few years from now my tits will start to sag, and I'll have lines and wrinkles and stretch marks, and then the men who want to fuck me now will want to fuck somebody else. Somebody younger. At that time, all that will be left will be my brains, my talents, and my efforts.

Tom's Gallery of First Drafts: 'Regrets'
You know how you can tell you're living your life right? Suppose you found out you were going to die in days, or weeks at the most. Would you have regrets over unfinished business, things you hadn't tried but were always meaning to, or paths not taken? Then you're living your life wrong.

Follow your heart. Before you become too old, or too slow, or too set in your ways to change. Life is not a dress rehearsal.

Five O'Clock
"Professor Skinner, tell us about negative conditioning."

"Negative conditioning is behaviour modification by means of aversion therapy. For example, consider the pigeon in the cage over there. Watch what happens when it tries to take a pellet from that tray."

And, right on cue, the IBM clock goes BZZZZZZZT.

"Given repeated shocks, the pigeon, like the human, will modify its behaviour."

Doug
I've had it. I'm getting out of here.

Religious Tract #15
From "God Knows Where Every Good Job Is" by Howard W. Pope, Pilgrim Tract Soc., Randleman, N.C. 27317:
There are always those who are looking for employment, but I have noticed that those who read their Bible daily acquire a practical faith that enables them to rise above any emergency which may occur. There is a vital connection between trust in God and business success.

Helen's Hints for Everyday Living
Do little things to spoil yourself every day. You're worth it. And the more you think you're worth it, the more other people will think you're worth it, too.

If he left her for you, he'll leave you for someone else. You just have to decide if the time in between breakups is worth it.

Ricky and Helen
"So, tell me: when are you going to quit your stupid job and make something of yourself?"

"Oh, God, here we go. 'Woman Trying To Change Her Man'. Right on schedule."

"It's in our DNA. We want the best possible fathers for our children. This means eliminating unnecessary flaws."

"I prefer to think of them as features, not bugs."

"Cut the shit, Ricky. You're a bright, intelligent, handsome and talented person. The world is waiting to open doors for you. All you have to do is get up and walk towards them."

"What about you? You're bright, intelligent, handsome and talented too."

"I'm a woman, Ricky. That means the bastards don't take me seriously. You have no such excuse."

"What if I don't want anything more than I've got? I've got my health, regular meals, a woman to love, and a clear, unfettered mind. What else could I want? If I worked in an office, I'd die of mental asphyxiation."

"Don't be silly. I don't care whether you get a proper day job; I'm not planning on bringing you home to mother for approval. But haven't you ever wanted to see what you could accomplish with all those brain cells of yours? There must be something you've always wanted to set your mind to if only someone would push you into getting started."

"Well, I --"

"Consider me the person pushing you into getting started. I love you, Mr. Ricardo Fucking Fantasy Island Rich Corinthian Leather Jones, but I can't bear to see stagnation. There are no passengers on this voyage. You may think of this as a first warning, if you like."

"How many warnings do I get?"

"Possibly just one."

"Helen -"

"Don't spoil a good exit line, goddamnit."

Doug and George
I've decided to drop the big one. George took the news surprisingly calmly.

"What the fuck?"

"I'm leaving, George. Bugging out. Taking off. Quitting. Exiting stage left. Departing. Leaving. Taking this job and shoving it. Terminating my employment. Have I made myself clear?"

"But what am I going to do? You're my best delivery man, and I've got a shitload of orders coming up."

"The youth unemployment rate is well over 20%. You'll find someone with strong tendons and a weak mind only too eager to take my place. You even get people sending you resumes now."

"I suppose you'll want severance pay."

"The five bucks could come in handy."

"Chill out, Flatman." George wrote out a cheque. He waddled in my direction, looking like a ship tacking into a gale-force wind. He handed me the cheque; it was a generous one. He then offered me his hand. "Do great things, shit-for-brains. Take it easy, but take it." As I shook his hand, the phone rang. He turned to starboard and picked up the phone.

"AA Triple-A Street Expediters. George speaking. How may I help you this evening?" He grabbed a pencil and an order form, and then turned pale. "What!? He did what? When? Fuck! I'll be right there."

"George! What's wrong?"

"Tom's been in an accident."

From Constable H. Pye's Report:
The subject, Thomas Martinez, was on a bicycle travelling north on Spadina Avenue at Dundas when the light changed from yellow to red. As the light on Dundas changed to green, a westbound Chevrolet minivan veered around a car waiting to turn left at Spadina, and accelerated through the intersection, not seeing Mr. Martinez, who was trying to beat the light. The minivan struck Mr. Martinez's bicycle, throwing him approximately fifteen feet in the air. Mr. Martinez remained conscious throughout the incident, but complained that he was unable to move his legs.

I recommend that no charges be laid as a result of this incident. Signed, Harold E. Pye, 33 Division, Metro Toronto Police Force.

Ricky and Doug, Some Days Later
"So you've quit, too?"

"Yes. Just before -- you know. What a horrible coincidence. So where is it you're going, anyway?"

"Carnegie-Mellon University. I'm going to be studying a little bit of everything."

"How did you get into that place?"

"I hate to say it, but my grades are really good. They practically genuflected in my path. Sorry if that sounds like bragging, but --"

"Don't sweat it, man. I'm your best friend. No need for false modesty here. Where are you going to get the money?"

"Helen's mother is lending it to me."

"Helen's mother? You mean --"

"Yeah. We're officially an item now. We're getting hitched next March."

"Holy shit. Peter Pan is finally growing up."

"Don't remind me. I wanted to stay young forever. Come here, big guy. Give me a hug."

"A manly, two-fisted, testosterone-laden hug, of course. Without a hint of weakness."

"God forbid."

One Manly Hug Later
"You have two choices. Either you and Helen keep in touch, or I'll have to hunt you down and kill you like dogs."

"We'll relish the challenge."

Helen's Hints for Everyday Living
Don't worry about whether your relationship is going to last forever. Nothing lasts forever.

Don't agonize over commitment. Make a decision. You can always make another decision later, if you absolutely must. Remember, relationships only end in two ways: breakup or death.

Visiting Tom in the Hospital
"Hi, Tom. How are you?"

"I can't feel my legs. How do you think I feel?"

"Sorry."

"Fuck that. I didn't mean to make you feel guilty. It's just that -- shit, I'm never going to walk again. I won't be able to ride a bicycle any more, which means that I'm out of a job. I gotta spend months in physical therapy, which is going to hurt like a son of a bitch. And I gotta figure out how to get enough money to buy a comfortable wheelchair. The one I get from the hospital is made almost entirely of rust."

"What a drag."

"Still, I have to look on the bright side. I have all the time I want to write, and pretty women feel sorry for me. You know, Flatman, if you're looking to improve your sex life, you could always consider severing your spinal cord."

"The frightening part is that I'm actually thinking it over."

"Then again, I doubt George Wallace got laid a lot after he got shot."

"Good point."

"Yeah."

"Well, I gotta go."

"Are you coming back?"

"Yes, of course."

"Good."

Religious Tract #16
From "Safe in the Arms of Jesus" by (Paddy) Charles Emmons: I am no longer able to work because of my stroke, but I have a wonderful Saviour Who has promised to supply my every need according to His riches in glory.

Doug, a Few More Weeks Later
I hate November. Everything is dark and gloomy. Nature is waiting for death to shut everything down. I feel old and slow. I have panic attacks. I feel trapped in my own body. I feel cold hands on my shoulders. I don't look back, because I know what is gaining on me.

One cold November night a couple of years ago, when I was taking a theatre course downtown, I discovered the giant Redpath Sugar factory at the foot of Jarvis Street. The building is a hulking square monstrosity built back when the waterfront was the economic heart of the city. To me, it's like a giant totem. I stare, mesmerized, at the bright neon red letters spelling out the company name.

My usual late-night trip starts there and then heads east to the abandoned Canada Packers factories on Front Street. A generation ago, these buildings hummed with activity day and night; now, they're rusting away, their employees long since laid off or dead. It was on one of those trips that I saw him.

He rode a bicycle, just like I did. His face was obscured by a long beard; those parts that weren't covered in beard were covered in dirt. He seemed totally at peace with himself.

"Flatman. So we meet again at last."

"You know who I am?"

"I've always known who you are."

"Wow. Tell me about life."

"Life? Life is a tale told by an idiot, signifying nothing. Life is a brief, beautiful flicker of flame in a vast, empty darkness. Life is infinite possibility and infinite despair. Life is life, man."

"You got that right."

"And have you ever thought what it would be like to fuck Alicia Silverstone? You know, that cute geeky- looking girl with the great body from the movie Clueless? Can you imagine slowly taking off her schoolgirl skirt, running your hands over those beautiful buns, and then sticking your finger up her --"

"Shit! You're Roger! The Missing Link!"

"Nobody else."

"I didn't recognize you under that beard. Don't you ever wash anymore?"

"Washing hides the inner man, Flatman. I want to revel in the inner man, in all his glory. Besides, women love the way I smell."

"Jesus Christ, for a minute I thought you were -"

"What?"

"Never mind. Five bucks says I can beat you to Yonge and King."

"Dream on."

Things I Learned from Ecclesiastes
4:10: For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow; but woe to him that is alone when he falleth; for he hath not another to help him up.

9:10: Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest.

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