by Jim Meirose.
Okay, hello. Are you Rennie? Oh yes of course you are, and I hope you are ready. Ready for what, do I mean? No, no. Don’t try knowing because it won’t matter. It never has, doesn’t now, and will likely not be even when it’s all over, and you leave. When you leave, you will believe that you know how you did. No, don’t ask, did at what. You will know at what by the end and will leave feeling you’ve you failed, and wasted this afternoon. What do I mean? Why these questions? No. Do not ask premature questions. Eh, no more fluff and frivolity and meaningless direction now, from me. Sorry, but really I just sweep the place. Yeah. The boss said watch the door while he’s in the back voiding. As such you’ll most likely not see him today. So, even though I may not know what I am talking about, for lack of direction from anyone higher, over here’s the funnel you need to jump into—what, surprised? No, don’t be. And, lastly—before you go—know that the class you’ll confront down there will be observing, as they’re down there waiting to learn something today that I have no idea of what it may be, as I’m only here to sweep the place, and the boss who knows what they’re striving to learn, is in the back, voiding. Okay ready—k’, Jan is the name, eh—what? No it’s not? Oh, don’t be concerned. There are better ways to identify your body than merely some little breath of a name. Oh, how overblown that entire notion and, but—here’s th’ time.
Get ready?
All right—duh, go. As directed, Rennie Sol leapt down the squared off cone, flapping flailing and flopping down, toward what seemed to be just a dot, but it couldn’t be, so. Eh, Rennie; had the real boss been all ‘vailable he’d have said Pay no mind to those cherubim facing each other over there, looking down on that atonement cover got out ‘rom some dump. Down further halfway, it’s halfways way down, and, half as wide goes down toward what seems to be just a postage stamp maybe but just yes way way way down, just as small and small—now Rennie’s fell close enough to hear words. So; here you go—grip down this script. Lights off, comes the deep cone gone all down. Your words are marked. At the bottom someone’s there needing to hear all these things, yes. Paid to hear all these things by the unfortunate and the confused; paid to stop and listen and to seemingly even befriend, so. So, Rennie; down further on even almost all the way deeper down into th’ narrow they’re saying, and, you. You have the honor of being one of those paid to hear before talking; to hear, and analyze, and understand, well before talking; then after first talking, simmer down, hear, and analyze then talk again, but this time, a little bit differently; at the focal point of the semicircular seated student body intending, it must be, to learn how to also get paid to hear and then talk, to say suchlike as, Hello, Sonboy, have a seat. I am frankly surprised to see you here you know; and Rennie it’s yours to play referee.
So.
Here’s the room.
Keep quiet. Just listen,
In the room, Doctor Grundig the therapist uncoiled, slowly hearing his patient Sonboy all saying, Oh, yes. Why? Mom says she’s paid for all these appointments is why. So, I better be here. Be here on time. Or ,it will be my hide, she says.
Your Mother says that?
Yes, she says that. And I don’t know what it means. That bothers me. She’s been doing that lately too much.
What exactly—has she been doing too much?
Saying simple things in ways that ensure I won’t know what they mean.
Why is she doing that, do you think, Sonboy?
Same reason I guess she pretends to believe I don’t have insomnia.
So. Let me make sure I get the problem. Your Mother says things to you that you don’t understand, and she doesn’t believe you can’t sleep at night. Do I have that right, Sonboy?
Almost. Not completely, but almost.
All right. Tell me what I’m not understanding correctly, then. It’s important that we understand each other correctly when we meet. Go ahead.
You said my Mother says things I don’t understand. But, it’s a little worse than just that. I can’t understand anything at all she says now. She’s changed over to make sure I never understand anything she says. Not just once in a while. All the time.
Changed over? You used to be able to understand her?
Yes. I used to.
And then all of a sudden, she started making sure that you’d never understand anything at all that she says?
Yes. All of a sudden.
Do you remember back to the day she changed the way she talks to you?
I—I do not understand the question.
All right. Why do you suppose she changed the way she talks to you?
Because she doesn’t want me to understand.
All right. You also say she doesn’t believe you have insomnia?
Yes. She doesn’t believe.
How often does she tell you she doesn’t believe you have insomnia?
Whenever I tell her I didn’t sleep last night.
Did you ever tell her you didn’t sleep last night after she changed to making sure you’d never understand a word she said?
I—I don’t think I understand your question.
All right—since she has changed to making sure you can’t understand anything she says, have you told her that you never sleep at night?
Yes.
And what did she say?
I—I—I don’t think I understand your question.
All right—let’s try it this way. Has she ever said she doesn’t believe you can’t sleep at night since she changed over to making sure she says nothing to you that you can understand?
I—
Pause it all there, turn away, ‘n say at the students. Okay, let’s think this much over. Since every one of you students are here from desire to become one of those paid to hear, and then talk; to hear, and analyze, then talk; then, to hear, and analyze, and then talk again, but; a little bit differently; then to hear, and analyze, a bit off, a bit even more differently—the vacuum before them filled with this, that, and the other potential answer this Sonboy might give, these being numbered, ranked, and rated as as as such as, this; 1. Sonboy may say yes she has, or, 2. Sonboy may say no she has not, and, 3. Sonboy may say he does not know what she said. So, class—while the tiny fragile answer-spring bud is germinating season after season within said Sonboy, how about a short but lively debate, or, but differently, a friendly, ad hoc, flashmob-style verbal pillow fight amongst you hippos, out in the open air town square behind the back wall, where you can sit down as the soldiers did who cast lots for the seamless final garment of the Lord Jesus Christ, at the foot of the very tree he suffered through this, and all the rest just one meter above them, you may cast lots for the likewise seamless simple answer the Sonboy may give at the face of the one of those paid to hear, and analyze, and then talk; then, to hear, and analyze, then talk again, but a little bit differently; then to hear and analyze a bit off a bit even more differently, so. Go before he knows what he’ll say yes or no or no or yes go go beat him go go beat him go go go! Answer immediately!
Answer!
Yes, Chef!
At that; the Red-head yon Phyllis student-the-younger arose, rasping from von-professor’s soft overtop the rough fact that a yes from Sonboy, would be an admission of his lie. Hard Peter the Intelligent switched several quick gears and leapt in atop her, stating, What I believe is that he will say yes. Lucy Von Pinkieness, AKA the brutish short girl which could not attend today, said, A yes can only be if he understood Mother’s denial of his insomnia. That will be a slip on his part. So, I will speak for her. Et oh, but on the other hand he may be white lying. This slip must take place for the following reason. It is not my fault that I look exactly like her. Telling more what he feels than what was actual. The reason lies in the way Sonboy’s Mother has approached his entire life’s training up until now. Just as it is not my fault that I sound exactly like her. Rennie the Sol knows. Because the average elapsed time between occurrences of her denial of his sleeplessness may be causing him to not say yes she did, as much as yes, he must have. He must complete one thing perfectly before starting another, you understand. Just as it is only a coincidence that each day a spokesperson for her appears claiming to neither be her or any of the hundreds of her preceding spokespersons. In that case, if I am to strictly interpret the professor’s question, he is lying. To Sonboy, a lie is just another task to be completed. I really do not blame your poor earthbound minds for not being able to accept this predicament. Ask Rennie the Sol there. Or, he may be half-lying, otherwise known as half-truthing. Having two or more lies in process at the same time dooms one to discovery, disgrace, and failure. Cast upon the original version of myself, it was. That’s something even the most honest people do without thinking, all the time. It would be better for Sonboy if he had never been born. The original Lucy Von Swatfly-Pinkieness was a lie. And I feel that this is because, when in social settings the likelihood of the answer to any question being a half-truth, is more likely, than if the answer is given in a state of complete solitude. That is, if he wavers from the path set by his Mother. Much like that being foisted upon us by this arrogant unashamed version of her Sonboy. And it occurs to me, she can never be. So here it is. This Sonboy, like Ms. Swatfly-Pinkieness, has avoided the depressing fact that he is now just a faded copy of himself. That’s because if a question is intruded into a person’s state of complete solitude, the state of complete solitude is ripped away instantly. Thus, he is most certainly lying about not being able to understand anything his Mother says. This is according to the majorette’s manual Mr. Rennie the Sol is shouting over us from in the background, yes, and worse each day he’s issued a new copy, each day more faded with extensive penciled-in marginational revisions. Hiccup. Each day, harder to read. Each day, bringing in a new lie. Popped up like a soap bubble. Just as quickly gone. Sonboy does not want to know this is most likely caused by the dimness of his mind. And as time goes by and the copies pile up he will dim and dim and dim until no one can see him. That’s because a question given in any form of media whether written, broadcast, stated in person, or blown out through electronic sound equipment of any kind at all, immediately spawns a bubble of social intercourse around the questioned party. To shore up his self-esteem, he’s dreamed up another reason. No one will be able to see him anymore. I believe Sonboy will answer yes, but the probability of it being a half-truth is high. She has to be purposely saying things in such a way that he can’t understand. But somehow the copies will continue to be made. Similarly it’s likely to be a white lie, fib, falsehood, deception, cock and bull story, or possibly even have a large resemblance to a classical old wives’ tale. Or, more specifically, that they can’t be understood by him. Since he allowed himself to degrade to the point of being invisible, it is impossible for him to alert his inner staff to waken and hit his fat red internal stop button. This is what I think, now. Eh? Eh? Yes, it’s what I think. Anyone else listening in, will understand completely. It’s impossible for him to tell them to trip the breakers. But, of course if I think it through again over again it will no doubt be stated slightly differently each time. Here’s a big point. He can’t order them to pull the power plugs. This fact causes me to deliver one final caveat. To accomplish that which Sonboy claims, his Mother would need to be a verbal magician. There’s absolutely nothing else he can do to slow, or stop in any way, the thinning and thinning and thinning down of himself. The caveat is that the probability of my position moment over moment becoming an obvious and total fabrication will be directly proportional to the number of times he is asked and re-answers. His Mother’s talent would need to surpass that of the rarest type of wunderkind. Otherwise the thinning and thinning that he never dreamed would begin to erode him away pare him down and slice him to totally nothing, all gone. So; I better not have no more no no no more at all to say. She has mounted a place up in the balcony where those who have flattened themselves up against the solid-stone ceiling of superintelligence stand enshrined. In the end, Sonboy will be nothing more than the heel of the bologna left when the last good slice is taken away. Then into the trash he will go. Back to you, professor Grundig. Only they who have reached the point where they can never dream of shooting higher may mount that balcony. The last sound from Sonboy will be the dim rush of his slide down the trash liner to the bottom of the can. Only those who have reached a weight that they can never dream of any diet taking them below may mount that balcony. The top goes down over him then, and so, I am afraid, that in the end he will find he’d never been at all. Only those who have reached a top speed the surpassing of which would by sheer force of pressure blow them to atoms may mount that balcony. Sonboy’s Mother has been admitted there; how does that lead to a conclusion about Sonboy? Here is how. Like Rennie the Sol’s said, over-repeatedly; dreaming that this big lie is true smothers away his deep depression. Over his head he has pulled a thick blanket of believing that any effort expended to at last bring him down needs to be so strong as to be forever memorialized. Hence, he derives a sense of worth. Ad nauseam. We predict that when he finally answers you, Doctor Grundig, his words will boil down to expressing just that. Oh? Yes? Me? Oh yes, I see you professor. Of course, I am finished. I am finished, and can have no further opinions on any topic. Having glimpsed the eternal, I can’t go on and accept that all that’s left for me is to die. To that end I will now use this pistol. Ad nauseam after ad nauseam after, intoned the smooth pipes of junior candidate R. Sol. Yes, I will use it now but, before passing I yield the continuing hosing of this rock-hard flow onward to the most high malcontent, that wrapup-girl herself; Sandra Pinkie Paul AKA Lucy Von Swatfly and soon to take one more name in the name of escape from disgrace. Here’s the beef Sandra! Gah take it from here—but no.
Sonboy, restarted, moved to answer the question.
Before I answer, Doctor, said Sonboy—may I ask you a few questions of my own?
I’m sorry, Sonboy. But I have a rule I apply to every client. After you’ve answered my last question, you can ask me as many as you want. I’ll repeat my question once more to be sure it’s clear. Has your Mother ever said she doesn’t believe you can’t sleep at night since she changed over to making sure she says nothing to you that you can understand?
I of course will answer, but I also have a rule. When I am moved to ask a question, I must ask it before I do anything else. It is something in me, which if violated, sickens me down quite immediately. You as a Doctor are not to sicken patients down. May I ask it?
I just told you. Answer mine first, Sonboy. Then, you have the floor. I have never heard of such a condition that will instantly sicken one down. Please answer.
I won’t. For health reasons, which I have told you, I need to ask mine first.
I have told you that you can’t. I won’t tell you twice. You heard me tell you the rule perfectly well.
Your rule is unfair and arbitrary.
But it is my rule. Answer please.
Why?
Because—oh, ha, hey, there, you—you almost got me, Sonboy. That was a shrewd one, but—you can’t trip me up, son. Very sly to toss me that tiny question, to trip me down. But I won’t answer, Sonboy. It seems we are stalled until you give in and answer mine.
None of that’s true, Doctor. I didn’t want to tell you at the time, but I already tripped you up. When I asked may I ask a question, you answered, I just told you. Answer mine first. I said nothing then, out of respect. But since you nearly did it a second time, I felt this was constructive feedback that you needed to hear. Since you deal in words, after all.
Doctor Grundig’s mouth twisted slightly and the twist could have gone either way but smoothed out over into a slight smile.
Very good, Sonboy. You have a way, you do.
So do you, Doctor. Your will is very strong.
Thank you, Sonboy. But, the question—
All right, you win, snapped Sonboy. The answer is no.
No? Are you sure of that Sonboy? Your Mother never said she doesn’t believe you can’t sleep at night since she changed over to making sure she says nothing to you that you can understand? No is the answer?
Ah, yeah—but that wasn’t your question.
Oh, yes it was. What question different from that did you answer?
You asked me if my Mother said she believed I can’t sleep at night before she changed over to making sure she says nothing to me that I can understand. To that question the answer is no. Why did you even ask me that? I told you at our first session that she does not believe I have insomnia.
Sonboy. That was not what I asked you. Not even close.
Yes, it is! I told you that at the very first session! How can you possibly not know that?
But that was not what I just asked you! I asked you if she said she doesn’t believe you, since she started saying things to you in ways you don’t understand.
See Doctor, it’s starting with you now.
What’s starting with me?
You’re saying simple things to me in ways that ensure I won’t know what they mean!
How? What was it about the question I asked you that was said in a way to ensure you wouldn’t know what I mean?
You could have asked it simpler. I would have got it then.
How could it have been simpler?
You could have simply asked me if my Mother told me she didn’t believe I have insomnia before she started saying things too complicated for me to understand. That’s only got twenty-two words, whereas—
But—but wait, Sonboy. Again, that’s not what—
—no, no, no! Don’t interrupt! Yours is to listen, not to interrupt! Your question had twenty-nine words. That makes it too complicated to understand, in my book—proved by the fact I didn’t understand. Good work, Doctor Grundig!
Good work? Wait, no. That was not at all what I asked you, Sonboy. Let’s go over it slow. That would be worth doing, I think—
No. I want to be done for today. You’re just like my Mother now. I thought you might help me. It’s clear you cannot.
Sonboy, wait. Calm down, quiet, no. That is wrong. Listen—
No. I want to be done for today.
And. As before. And again—with this, the Doctor paused the session, turned to the student body, nodded, folded his arms and spoke, saying, There. There. What have we just seen, children? And based on what we have seen to this point, what have we, or hey wait, let me rephrase—what have those of you who have what it takes to actually succeed in netting a career in getting paid to hear, then talk, then, to hear and analyze then talk; then to hear and analyze then talk again, but this time a little bit differently; and then even more differently, and more differently, and still more differently, and even sit a little differently, then, after rising, take a step or two, then pause, and stand differently from other people, causing them to wonder and wonder, which, of course, when unresolved, always slides things all downhill. And, if we let it slide downhill too far, sooner or later we will be brought up; examined; charged and accused; and perhaps maybe even sent for some vaguely defined medical help, and what’s worse then? What’s after that, my children? Can you even imagine what’s after that? Oh, I hope not. If you truly do not know what that slope leads all the way down to, let’s make sure you never find out. Okay? Yes, okay. So; here’s how we make sure. We make sure by facing you with this harsh challenge. The challenge is to prove you deserve to march forward and join the ranks of the professional elect. I dare those of you, with the beans to stand, with absolutely no preplanning and, to tell me boldly, without a trace of insecurity of either voice or demeanor, what you have learned from what we’ve just witnessed. All right! No kidding! Here goes—who will be first to rise? I am waiting.
Thus, up the sloping rows of the amphitheatre style lecture room, rows of heads across, all different, but together, in lock-step abruptly oriented precisely aligned with the professor’s imaginary top-secret x-axis. And, simultaneously, across the wide convex rows of the same amphitheatre style lecture room the same ranks of heads, all different, but together, in lock-step likewise and the same abruptly aligned with the same the professor’s imaginary top-secret y-axis. With all in alignment, he passed to the next step; on the broad white board back front of hisself the professor drew a precisely correct diagram of the area, and, armed with a fat jet black dry-erase marker held high ready to record the results pan pan oom-pah, he stated; I have learned we’re at the bottom of a sky-high cone. Marker mark. I have learned that words are slip-ry as fishes marker mark—mark that down. Next actor; I have learned the good Doctor politely bade Sonboy to be comfortably seated. Marker mark. Like a good honest son of a folk most likely down the farm, bred and bearded, all huck, ohhhh. Marker mark. It’s now clear Sonboy’s Mother’s pushing Sonboy into these appointments. Marker. What have I learned thus far, professor, you ask? Here’s what; you have learned one word, and that word be bitch—where from that but, mark it down, uh. Imagine poor Sonboy’s dismay when nothing Mother said to him made any sense any more. Jot down jot jot—jot! Next actor; I have not learned a thing professor, I feel this is a fraud, okay, all right, good-bye. Marker down mark. It’s clear Sonboy’s being deceptive, and fears being caught all pants-down. Jot, mark—write. Down! Tap. The effects of your signing up for this session here are—are—are nearly worn completely off. We are trying to learn to say the same thing over and over and again and again, but; each time a bit differently. Scrawling flow of a longnose dry jot. It is wrong for you Sonboy, to quit in the middle. I have learned not to trust you, Doctor-ah-doc, Sonboy deftly replied. The doctor having completely lost control of the session, Sonboy felt powered to leap unto free and full random deviation mode, and loudly shouted, instead of the mandated three possible answers to Embry’s Riddle, a difficult and unauthorized fourth, shocking the Doctor. Marker mark. Thus the Doctor fell back, arms out for protection. Sonboy’s been cursed with an incompetent Mother; which renders the results off any such session, frighteningly unpredictable, but.
Then; from the wide curved tall audience, Rennie Sol yonder Von Snotnose gasped loud, all a-shudder, Jot jot jot-punch et-tu fastly app smoothly app gliding down the quick-quiet—jot that down fast—which translationed on into, Great job, Mister Renpasta; as I also told Sonboy, right from the heart of my massively violent eruption-by-the-sea, to do right by ‘is mum.
Jotdown; jotdown. All piqued, all jotdown.
Von Snotnose went on with, Oh. So. The best thing for Sonboy, eh quite the quick-toothed Sonboy he’s proved he is, is to. Marker mark. I mean, professor, you’re s’posed to be in control here. Have you checked, as, this; did someone actually compute calculate tally up down y’all that, eh off, as is required to ensure effective class preparation? The average elapsed time between occurrences of her denial of his sleepnesses—now, did somebody actually figure this down, Doctor, eh ott? Jot quicker oof damn the typos catching the gist is what counts. Heah heah! You know, the customer is always right comes to mind, Professor, but I knew that already; I don’t need a fat fleabit sheepskin on my wall like yours to prove I knew that, but —you’ll be out of blank white soon, Professor. I’ll give you no more to write down today.
Let’s pay attention over there. Something is happening,
Yes; the Doctor swung smoothly toward wrapping things up with, So, Sonboy. Go home and sit down with your Mother Sonboy, and have a chat. Marker. Sonboy, she loves you. She knows your dim mind is not your fault. Jot-scrawl oops! Dropped it, damn.
After a few hours Sonboy spoke softly, with, I have learned my love for my Mother is something I have taken for granted all these years, Doctor. Marker mark. I have now obtained a hundred copies of your person self-generated since you began your retch-jag. Loop that cute curlicue, Prof. Since my Mother is making these appointments. Marker mark. Why is she up there all mounted in your balcony, Doctor? You display a perfect Palmer method approach to cursive, doctor. Were you taught that technique by the Sisters of Mercy, Doctor? Note that down too. That fact is very key. Hippo. How otherwise have I have learned to take nothing at all seriously like I do?
The Doctor nodded, spent, but pushed out with, Marker mark. Have you ever gone belly to belly with your Mother on these issues Sonboy? Marker mark. Good point, you should go mano-a-mano with her nibs-ness big Mama-san, Sonboy. Marker mark. Nothing actually but nothing’s the truth Sonboy. Marker mark. Solid-stone ceiling of superintelligence? Hah. Hardly. Erase that, please. It stinks all purple. Flow the script down. Flatten the loud pedal through the boards Sometimes, children, it seems so geenavava jeek-song’s roundy rounding too loud in yo’ heads mayhaps, my hippos. Marker mark. Eh, Sonboy?
Yes, but. Before I answer, Doctor, may I ask you a few questions of my own?
Okay, so noted.
Here; so far today, nothing at all has been learned here. Marker mark. There are no rules at all that can apply me or my Mother. Marker mark. After all you deal in words and should know this also. Hence, the white cold flush down the back stomach sick spasms but no not too bad yet no not yet perhaps later on the back of me, you, and every student back there observing, bringing us to the end of our very first day.
A mindless meaningless exercise this.
Yes, Rennie Sol!
In full conclusion, believe it or not.
Big wild fantasia crossclass summing all memory, this—is the day keep it or shed it snakeskin carapace larva pupa scrubscales pain pain rub go not eat grow or not win or not get there or not go go go, hoot—this and all this, and this that and this.
Called on in class—yes Rennie Sol! You can do it!
—not that but this yes this this not some com hippo—
Brought to the board.
—Spoke in public—
Geenavava jeek-song’s roundy round too loud in yo’ heads mayhaps my sweets?
Doctor Grundig’s mouth twisted away slightly, and—
Ganglethrist—pull it off, Rennie! Rennie and Rennie and Rennie Sol—pull it off boy!
—the twist could have gone either way—
Have a fat quaff o’ this liter of Jebitterkmonk’s gin tonic.
—but thank God smoothed out into a slight smile.
Rasatavariance montitor-meters pegged to the top.
—So I think I may have got the part, Helen.
Go. But there see it’s over that was easy don’t you agree, but. I am just the broom guy.
The boss is still up in the backway out voiding.
Have a day.
—There is some slight chance if I keep my fingers crossed, I got a shot at having got the part after all—
Out the door, biscuit. Got you leashed up so you will be safe.
How’d it go Ren-Ren?
—is some slight chance if I keep my fingers crossed, I got a shot at having got the part after—
Still light out see here. Good.
Bushed baby?
Ah so. Hey now. Where’s that dinner?