Author: Elruade

Chapter 3



        Even though it was getting dark I left the house and went for a walk in the rain. I have a nice raincoat for the occasion, 100% waterproof. I once swam in the ocean with it on. It was an immense weight that were pulling me down, and my friend called on the lifeguard to save me. My ears were underwater and the sounds were muffled. My heartbeat were that of the sea itself it seemed. I looked up, my eyes on the water’s surface. I enjoyed the sight of the lifeguard running towards the water. It was a tiny shape but well-formed. And behind him the immense city. Construction is always the thing. You can hardly enjoy the beach with all the cranes and all the cement, the wood, the filings, and the workers on break, looking so uncomfortable on the beach when their not working. The paradox of the working man is all-pervading. You can’t get anything done and you get stressed out. When you are not getting anything done you get freaked out. Or how should I put it? It’s just that the worker will look out of place almost everywhere he goes. And just when the worker reflects on his work, he has stopped entirely.

        The lifeguard swam up to me. His wet hair fell over his eyes and he was gurgling loudly. I was floating in my raincoat on the water’s surface. I had found out that the coat was good for floating as long as you are on your back. Perhaps there is cushioning. My hears made a coughing sound as they enter and exit the water. It was so peacefull I could die; he asked if in fact I needed to be saved. This seemed to me such an amusing question so I relished it for some time and didn’t answer. He swam back in silence. I felt he had understood something that may well be revolutionary for a lifeguard.

        Waves carried me back to shore. My friend stripped me from my coat and unbuttoned my shirt. He defended himself; you might get a tan, he said. And he made it sound so that it was difficult to say if he liked a tan or not. We’d been together for just a few days but we hung out together every single moment. (but we are not married) In his face I couldn’t say if he liked me with or without shirt. He threw my coat carelessly onto the sand. The sun were up high but somewhat weak; I wondered what it could do at such an occasion. Were we there for the sun or did the sun in fact amuse himself looking down on us? They say you can never look into the sun, so you can never read his expression either. I’d say it is always one of extreme indifference. On some days it is just about intolerable.

        I dried up and out. My beard grew another centimeter. The beach became more crowded as the day progressed. It was all so slow and languid I can’t remember much else. It seems to me that I remember only the most insignificant things, like that lifeguard trying to save me. I’ll tell you what. It is amusing and you can share this sort of thing with others, but besides that, fuckit.

        As I remembered I stepped into a puddle the size of Alaska. I looked down and as I did I looked up at the largest building in the city, Corral Tower. The image was distorted by the ripple effect. A sudden hunger attacked my innocent stomach. Isn’t the stomach just innocent? Who says food is what it needs? Maybe it’s something else entirely. Hunger is just a bully who puts words into his mouth, like ‘I’m hungry’. But I can’t hear what my stomach says, for that matter.

        I dropped into some lame bistro and ordered a sandwich and milk. I had eaten it in less time than I had to wait for it to be ‘ready’. Ah, it’s not hunger anymore, now it is disgust. Disgust is in fact the same feeling as being full. It is more emotional but it lies in the same cranial cavity.

        I was back home just a little after nine. There was a message on the receiver.

        -Meet me tomorrow 12 o’clock at the museum. We can discuss this telephone call then.

        What a guy, leaving something cryptic on the telephone. I think about 99% of telephone calls are direct and meant to get some money out of you. Very few calls end like that, or have anything ceremonious about them. How about it; telephone art. It is a fine idea. An artful message, something totally indirect. It will be very short. Almost like a quotation. Like a little poem, something descriptive of a mood.

        Just last week I experimented with calling people up saying it was ‘911’. I’d phone any random number and repeat the message I had practiced all night.

        -Please do not hang up. This is Emergency 911. We have reports that you are having something emergent come out of your belly. We will immediately dispatch if it’s what you want. Please don’t hang up.

        Well, except for my voice—I couldn’t stop it quivering—this was exciting for its novelty but very taxing on me.


        This was all long ago. Everything is different now!


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