3 boring conversations

Dear diary,

Today I just wanna imagine a series of boring conversations that go nowhere.

First, in order to converse, you have to find another person to be your conversation partner. So, OK, I guess I need to exit my house. Scary. It’s 5:04 a.m., it’s pitch black outside, and there’s a continuous drizzle of rain — the temperature is on the verge of freezing, but it’s not quite cold enough to make snow. The streets are wet. I walk down my driveway and head straight forward, in the direction of uphill.

Eventually I reach the marketplace. There are a number of tents representing different vendors and merchants. All their entry flaps are zipped closed (it’s super early, as I said) except for one; and this tent is dimly aglow from some interior light-source. There’s a wooden sign in front of the tent that says “DOUG THE BUTCHER!” with a flashing green christmas bulb serving as the dot to the title’s exclamation point, plus a handwritten scrawl with a hand-drawn arrow pointing at the bulb which says “If this light is green and flashing, feel free to step right in and buy some hog-flesh.” So I peek inside the entryway.

“Greetings!” says a friendly voice. At the counter is a large man with a huge red face, smiling widely. He’s holding a machete, and there’s an enormous carcass of a pig directly before him on the countertop. The carcass is split in half and headless.

“Hi,” I say.

“Up early!” the man says.

“Yeah, I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to take a walk. I’m surprised your shop is open at this hour.”

“Name’s Doug!” says the man.

“Ah, so you must be the proprietor.”

“I work hard! Dropped out of school at fifteen and jumped straight into the hog business! Been doin’ this for fifty years now!”

“Wow, that’s a long time. Longer than I’ve been alive,” I say.

“You a youngster? What’s your sign?” he asks, sounding deeply concerned.

“Well, whoever configures the star charts keeps changing the dates; but I think I’m a Pisces.”

“Ah, FISH. I see,” he says. “I’m a hog man, myself.”

“I like both fish and pigs. I’ll eat pretty much anything, as long as it’s rightly prepared so that it doesn’t make me sick — I’m paranoid about foodborne illness. Actually I guess I’d rather eat pork than seafood, in this day and age, cuz I’ve heard that the oceans are all poisoned and the fish are basically made of plastic now. Or like nine tenths plastic, cuz that’s all they eat. My name’s Bryan, by the way.”

“Well, pork’s the way to go, if you ask me. I raise my hogs right. Feed em right. Fatten em up, spice em. Here: try a bite—” and he gestures toward the carcass.

“Thanks, OK,” I say, and step forward.

“Use the fleshhook,” he says.

So I take the triple-toothed fleshhook and strike it into the carcass. What it brings up, I put into my mouth.

“Very good,” I say; feeling slightly rude to be speaking with my mouth full, but it’s so delicious that I can’t help but give praise.

The man’s smile widens. “Said your name’s Bryan?”

I nod.

“Is that so. Well I had a son named Bryan.”

“Well I had a dad named Doug,” I reply. “But he was more of a beef guy than a pork guy.”

“A beef guy, huh?” says Doug the butcher. “Beef guys are alright, in my book. I just prefer hogs. Hogs are smart; they’re like house-pets — they’re really not too much different than hounds. They’re almost part of the family. Give em a name, and ya start to grow fond of the lil oinkers. I tell ya: I love my hogs like they’re my own children. There ain’t a single hog I’ve ate that ain’t given me a tear.” And I can see that his eyes are brimming.

“I’ll tell you what,” I say, after a moment of contemplation; “I think I’d like to purchase a breakfast platter. How much would you charge for, say, all this meat around the ribs right here.”

“That’s supreme quality rib-flesh, son! I’d normally charge around a hundred dollars for that; but you’re a good man, and I’m in a good mood this morning, so I’ll let it go for twenty-five.”

“Deal!” I say. But then when I reach in my pocket, I realize that I left my coin purse at home.

“What’s the matter?” Doug the butcher can tell I’m distressed.

“It’s just that I can’t find my coin purse. I coulda sworn I brought it along — I normally just leave it in the breast-pocket of my suit-coat, along with my keys, but I must’ve forgotten to replace it after taking it out last night; cuz I was tossing it from hand to hand while watching the television. Looks like I’ll have to use a credit card.”

“Ya know what — go ahead and eat for free. Just take what you like. You’re a hungry man, and I’ve got top-choice hog-flesh. No charge.”

“Are you serious?” I say: “Wow, thanks! I hope I can do something to repay your kindness someday.” And I accept the platter of ribs that the man holds forth.

“Maybe someday I’ll take you up on that offer to repay,” says Doug. “What’s your trade, son?”

“I’m a writer.”

“What kind of writing?”

“Just aimless, experimental. I like weird stuff that doesn’t have any obvious meaning. Or normal, grey, dull, flat anti-stories that have no point.”

“Tell ya what. Write me into one of your anti-stories, and send me a printout. That’ll make my day.”

“OK! Will do!” I say. Then I hasten out of the tent flap, eating the hog ribs.

*

Outside, the sun has risen, and all the other tents in the market are now open for business. The green lights on all their shop signs are blinking attractively. So I walk past tent after tent, nodding and smiling to the greeters that are positioned outside of each entryway. The friendly greeters are all unclothed and stunningly gorgeous.

I continue to walk until I reach a desolate field: it is murky brown and dusty, and there are gnarled, leafless branches from trees scattered about. From the mouth of a cave located in the far distance steps a figure. It appears to be human. As it comes nearer, it turns out to be a man wearing sweatpants and a hooded sweatshirt, with old white tennis shoes on his feet. When he gets close enough for me to hear him, he shouts:

“What are you doing here?”

I answer: “I was just wandering around the landscape after eating breakfast. I got up early this morning and went out looking for conversation. I just spoke with Doug the butcher, and then I came here.”

“What’s your name?”

“Bryan Ray.”

“The writer?”

“The famous writer. And who are you?”

“Everyone here calls me The Dragon.”

“The Dragon? You’re kidding.”

“No. It started as a nickname in high school, because my behavior closely resembled that species of creature. You know all the myths and legends — it’s the standard story. A fierce dragon lures womenfolk to his cave and keeps them in finery, and treats them like princesses; initially these women are kinda scared, and they half-wanna escape, however they also really enjoy the life of luxury that the dragon affords them: they like having access to his treasure chest; so the damsels never do altogether leave the beast; and eventually some fascist knight is forced to intervene. That type of scenario happened to me all the time, when I was younger — I was a good-looking chap; I was one of the best rugby players in this universe. You wouldn’t know it from seeing me now. I really let myself go. Now I work at the used video-game shop that’s carved into the cliffside yonder. I like video games because most of them have at least one chapter in them where you get to pretend to rescue a princess from a castle. If earthly damsels were anything like those damsels in the video games, I would never have retired from my former profession. But I’m happy enough now, having escapism as a substitute for the Glam Life. Plus I like your books, Mr. Ray; they’re fun to read. They keep me company; and they also keep my mind off this tedious, dead-end culture that we’re all trapped in.”

“Amen to that!” I say.

“You hate our culture too?”

“I completely despise it.”

“Hey, good to hear,” says The Dragon.

Then there’s an awkward lull in our exchange. Soon he lifts up his arm and looks at the back of his hand, as if he’s checking the time, although he’s not wearing a wristwatch. “I really should get back to work,” he says. “Nice meeting you.”

“Likewise,” I say. And we walk off in opposite directions.

*

(I think this next conversation will be the last one, cuz I’m getting tired of truthtelling.)

Alright, so, after talking to that man in the sweatsuit, I walk directly north, to the land of ice. When I reach the Colossal Frozen Diamond Saloon, I sit by the jukebox, in the windowless area at the back of the room, and order a strychnine. The maidservant brings two:

“You look like you could use a double,” she says.

“Thanks,” I say, “I’ve had a long haul. Been up since five a.m. talking to roadies and freaks. The only thing that turned out positive about this day is when I ordered breakfast — I was planning on just stealing some oatmeal from a local police-horse, but then this butcher waves me into his tent and offers me some of the best hog-flesh I’ve ever had in my life.”

“I used to love pork, myself,” says the maidservant. “But about five years ago, my mother and father both died of meat-based diseases, and the rest of my family died as well. My whole town died, actually — we got struck by a giant meat-bomb, like a piñata filled with ground beef that descended from the heavens and cracked open like an egg, and everyone who ate the beef died of moral complications. Therefore, to this day, I no longer eat any soul-food. I don’t believe that other living creatures should have to give up their life so that I myself can live. And plants don’t own the rights to their spirits, so we can legally murder them. That’s why I only buy from certified vegan butchers, like Doug from the Circus Mart in Thief River Falls.”

“Wait — you mean Doug the Butcher, from that tent down the block from my house!?” I almost spit-take my strychnine.

“Yeah! That’s the devil!”

“Hold on; you’re telling me that his carcasses are 100% false death, meaning that they contain zero trace of animalia resin or any thing generated via the sacrament of fornication!?!?”

“Yes,” says the maidservant, “Doug the butcher, alias Saint Doug of Burnhaven.”

“Wait — this son of man commutes all the way from Burnhaven?” I am flabbergasted.

“That’s right. Nobody ever knows when he sleeps, but he arises at sundown (about four p.m.) each banking day, and drives more than umpteen hours until he reaches our local marketplace, just so that he can be in that tent before sunrise, to serve insomniacs hog-flesh.”

“Which you’re telling me is not genuine hog-flesh.”

“Right. It’s basically an idol made out of cornmeal. He just creates it in the shape of a pig, by way of the molding process, and carefully hand-paints all the parts to resemble bone, flesh, and blood. And these paints are also vegan, non-toxic, and edible.”

“But how does he make the meat taste SO good, I wonder.”

“He’s a master at his discipline; a true artist,” says the maidservant. “Practice makes perfect.”

“Yet how do you explain all the beautiful greeters positioned outside of the tents in the vicinity? There’s at least one per tent. You can’t tell me that those employees are also related to him by marriage.”

“No,” she says, “they’re all his biological children, tho they’re literally motherless. For Doug the butcher is a family man as well as a job creator. Single-handedly, he has fashioned a heaven on earth.”

“Well I’ll be darned,” I whisper.

“Hey, listen,” says the maidservant; “my shift ends in ten seconds; would you care to take a walk with me outdoors? Our walk could terminate at the entrance of Doug’s tabernacle, and we could dine there together.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I say.

So we take a romantic stroll on the beach, which is a shortcut to the marketplace. Pulling back the tent flap, we see Doug’s large red smiling face. “Welcome back!” he announces.

“Doug,” I say, “you’ve gotta level with me. How do you make your hog-flesh so delectable? You had me fooled, hook-line-and-sinker, earlier this morning. I assumed I was eating actual pig, and here it turns out that your whole con was a fact!”

“Magicians normally don’t reveal their secrets,” he explains; “but I’ll tell you how this trick is done, because I like you.”

“Thanks!” I say.

“Yes, seriously: thank you,” echoes my dinner companion, the maidservant.

“Alright, now listen close,” explains Doug. “What I do is: first I press the cornmeal into the mold; then I bake it on low heat for seventy moments; then I remove the contents and brush them with flesh-colored marinades. Then I go back and do the same for a whole nother hog.”

“Rinse, wash, and repeat,” I remark.

“Egg-zackly,” says Doug while pointing at my face. “And then, when I finish one pair, I take these two cornmeal hogs that I breathed life into, and I command them, and say unto them: ‘Increase, multiply, and replenish the earth!!’ So they fornicate with each other and bring forth seed after their kind. This seed I mash into the shape of cornmeal, using mist from the yard out back to maintain elasticity. Then I use a special spice, and sprinkle it in before I split the carcass, and that’s what gives the hog its piquant taste. After the meat has been seasoned, I place it in a giant wooden ark and let it soak till it’s sodden, which usually takes about forty nights; then I release it into the wild. The last thing I do before the customer approaches my tent flap is behead the animal. That way, the scene is primal enough to seize the attention of the viewer. For the viewer completes the artwork.”

Having finished our dinner conversation, we now return by way of the beach to the Diamond Saloon and live happily ever after.