Fiction 02.08.06
STARTING THEM YOUNG
705 words by Stanley Lieber
Tomorrow is a holiday, but today is not. My parents are at work and I'm stuck here at the babysitter's house, sitting out the two or three or four hours that I'll be trapped in this room, lying on my palette, dreaming without sleep about every possible other thing I could be doing with my time. I don't know why she puts me in here. (Granny is not really my grandmother. But this does not prevent her from locking me into the spare bedroom after lunch, leaving me there until shortly before my parents arrive to take me home. What am I meant to be doing, in all of that time? To Be Announced, I suppose. Granny has not been forthcoming on this topic.) Today's focus is a new assortment of military adventure toys. Particularly, the pre-visualization for a flying machine whose swept wings must be made to contract upon the release of a certain switch (I presume to be located somewhere along the aircraft's aft fuselage). I'm having a bit of trouble figuring out precisely how the wing mechanism will work. Something to do with strings or wires of some sort, all obfuscated from the child/operator. The picture is as yet fuzzy... Also up for review is a full-size, realistic combat uniform, infused with what I will for marketing purposes refer to as "the scent of battle." These two ideas should tide me over until the big door unlocks, clicks open, at around four o'clock. If I concentrate upon this pair of images intently enough, conceive them in great enough detail, covering every possible feature, I am convinced -- no, certain -- that they will have materialized in my bedroom closet by the time I get home. I'm not sure why I choose to believe in this notion, but, well, I confess that I do. I suppose it amuses me to do so. Consider my age. First then, the aircraft. "Dad is insatiable screwing his daughter," a voice states aloud, sounding quite satisfied with itself. It is only mildly distracting as I am quite used to this sort of thing by now. I shrug vaguely without losing my train of thought. It is laughable, really, these attempts at derailing my progress. "Japanese teen showing her hairy pussy," the voice continues. I have no trouble ignoring even this, and so carry on with the daydreaming as if no auditory phenomena were taking place. All is calm. "Homeless guy wearing a new 8-ball jacket." That tears it. Finally I have had enough, break down and reply: "Little cutie screams as she gets drilled on her new boss's desk. Okay? Is that what you wanted to hear? May I proceed now?" I have prepared myself for a dramatic pause, but the voices promptly fade into a perfect silence. I could almost actually go to sleep, in this quiet. Would that all of my projects could be undertaken in such sublime stillness. I'm quite certain the balance of my output would yield a sharp increase in quality. "Now to get back to work," I think. "Innocent Gays getting modernistic IT anally." I won't even dignify it with a response, this time. Why do they even bother? And yet, I have to admit that after all of this I am finally distracted. Remarkable, the advances in invasive advertising technology. Granny knocks gently as she comes in, clutching a packet of my medications, casting a knowing look back to me as she begins unscrewing the top of one of the bottles and sorting out a myriad of little colored pellets into the concave depressions of her hand tray. She looks down at me as I accept the tray from her and start popping the pills. "You were diddling yourself in here, Plinth." "No," I say. "You're hearing things, old woman." I think she is smiling at me but it's hard to tell because she's so old that her face is quite wrinkled even when she is asleep or watching the telescreen. I assume she was joking, that she didn't actually see me with my hands on myself. There, now I am certain she is smiling. This is ridiculous. As if I needed anything else to think about. That's all for today, Diary. |
creative.commons.attribution-noncommercial-noderivs.2.5
