Dear diary,
During the month of May in the year 2021 AD, I climb down from my top bunk and open the window. I jump outside and land in the grass. It is sunup: the day is beautiful. Someone passes by on the street before me, walking her dog. “Good morning,” she smiles and waves. “Good morning,” I say.
Now I walk diagonally across the street and go stand before the garage at my neighbor Bruce’s house. I politely knock on the panel of the garage door. “Who’s there?” sez a voice from within. “It’s me, Bryan,” I shout. The automatic garage door now opens and reveals Bruce standing next to his workbench. “Hi there, Bry! What can I help you with?” “Actually,” I say, “I just came over here to see if there is anything that I can do for YOU — do you need help with anything?” “As a matter of fact,” sez Bruce, “yes I do. Will you help me move all these dishes of food into my pickup? I was just going to bring a truckload of haute cuisine to the center of the metropolis, to feed the needy.”
So Bruce and I carefully stack all the dishes into a series of balanced towers on the bed of his pickup. Then he climbs into the driver’s seat and I sit on the passenger’s side, and we drive to the city. We stop in the center of the metropolis, and Bruce pushes a large red button on his dashboard which starts the hydraulic motion to lift the bed of the truck and empty the load in the street. Many people in eveningwear now emerge from the shadows and light the candles at the tables and sit down to dine. Bruce then honks the horn twice and burns rubber while leaving the city.
“Where are we going now, so fast?” I say.
“Down the road,” Bruce smiles.
So we drive for a while. Then we see a sign that sez “Ammo Shop 5 miles.” “Hey,” I say to Bruce, “could you drop me off at the Ammo Shop when we come to it?”
So Bruce drops me off at the Ammo Shop and his tires leave me in a cloud of smoke when he races away. I hear a police siren in the distance.
Now I grab the door to the Ammo Shop and try to open it. It is locked. I read the sign that is displayed prominently in the window: it sez “Mon thru Fri: Open 10 AM to 3 PM. Closed Sat & Sun.” I look at my wristwatch and it sez “9:55 a.m.” “Dang, five minutes early again,” I remark to myself.
“What’s that you say?” sez a white rabbit with pink eyes.
“I’m early,” I explain to the rabbit. “The shop doesn’t open for another five minutes.”
“Ah, I see,” sez the rabbit. Then, after a few more minutes pass in silence, the rabbit asks “Do you work here?”
“No,” I say. “I just wanted to browse their selection of ammunition before I tackled the next thing on my agenda today.”
“Oh,” sez the rabbit. Then, after a few more minutes, he sez: “What’s next on the agenda?”
“Um, let me see…” I say, while I reach into the breast-pocket of my flannel shirt and unfold the paper. “Wow,” I say, “I have a lot of stuff to do.”
“What’s the next thing?” sez the rabbit.
“I gotta go to the cleaners,” I say, pointing at a line on my itemized list.
The rabbit finishes eating a dandelion; then he sez: “The cleaners? Do you mean like the laundromat?”
“Yes,” I say, folding the paper back into a neat little square and replacing it in my front pocket.
Now the door to the Ammo Shop jingles open and a large man fills the frame. “Welcome,” he sez; “we’re open now. Can I help you with anything?”
“Yeah, I’d like to browse your ammunition,” I say.
The large man nods; then he looks at the rabbit.
“I’m just eating dandelions,” sez the rabbit.
“OK,” sez the large man. “I’ll be napping in the back room; just wake me if you’d like to make a purchase.”
“Will do!” I say, as I follow the man into the store. Before I let the door close, I give a wave and a nod to the rabbit, right at the moment when the gold part of the weed that he’s eating disappears into his mouth. He nods back and returns to foraging.
So I gaze long and long at the 9mm ammo. Then I move over to the 12 gauge shotgun rounds. I nod while squinting: “Cool stuff,” I remark to myself.
Then I leave the shop. The jingle bells on the door wake the large man from his slumber, and he comes out and sez: “Are you leaving without buying any bullets?”
“Yes,” I say. “I was only browsing. I have no desire to make a purchase, at the moment.”
“OK, suit yourself,” the large man yawns and shuts the door. I hear an explosion. The door reopens and the large man sez: “That was me, sorry — I just dropped something.”
I nod and salute and then begin to hitchhike. I put out my thumb and pull up my pant leg to show a little skin, and the first sportscar that approaches slams on the breaks.
“Get in!” sez the woman. She is a voluptuous blonde, of course. (This is a Bryan Ray story.)
Once inside, I tilt my seat back and place my hands behind my head and cross my legs and close my eyes.
“Long day at work?” sez the blonde.
“No, I do not believe in jobs,” I say. “I am against working for pay. I only do it for free. So, at the moment, I’m just trying to relax and enjoy the ride. I like your car — it’s comfortable and sleek. You yourself are also extremely beautiful, and your voice is attractive. But, more importantly, I can tell that you’re intelligent by the way that you speak; plus you have an enchanting aroma.”
The blonde stares at me intensely, trying to figure out if I’m a simpleton or a genius, instead of watching the road. As a consequence of her distracted driving, our car wanders into the oncoming lane, and four police vehicles are forced to veer off the bridge that we happen to be crossing: All of them plummet into the ocean.
“You really don’t work?” she sez. “No profession to speak of?”
“I refuse to work,” I say, leaning back in the passenger seat and closing my eyes; “it’s against my religion.”
The woman stares at me, as more cops veer off the bridge. “You’re not pulling my leg?”
“Why would I do that?” I say. Then I open one of my eyes and meet her gaze. “Is it so strange to be sane? What’s become of this country, since I last woke? Please don’t tell me that you yourself are gainfully employed…”
“Of course!” she sez. “I work in real estate.”
“Ew,” I wrinkle my face.
“What’s wrong with that!?” she exclaims.
I think for a moment, then I answer: “Nothing, I guess. It’s just… ugh.”
The blonde woman slams on the breaks. The sportscar screeches to a halt. “No, you need to wake up and tell me exactly what argument you have against my chosen profession, or I’m kicking you out of this car.”
Reluctantly I sit up a little and look at her again. “Alright, listen,” I explain. “I could talk your ears off right now, offering you various proofs of how gross it is to be a real estate agent; but I think it would be faster and more enjoyable if I…” Then I fall silent.
After a few moments, she lightly punches my arm: “If you what?”
“Look,” I say, “if you’re truly in real estate, then you must have a place that you’re trying to sell — say, a mansion or an old gray castle: something like that?”
The blonde blushes slightly, “Well, yes: I am trying to move a couple apartments, at the moment.”
“Apartments in Manhattan?” I perk up.
“Yes,” she sez, straightening her posture.
“Alright, a Manhattan apartment will serve just fine,” I say. “Step on the gas and bring us to your most expensive property, ASAP.”
The woman cocks her head and studies me, apparently trying to think if this whim is worth following.
“The pedal on the right is the accelerator,” I say sincerely.
The woman shakes her head and narrows her eyes. “OK, mister,” she sez, “I’m willing to humor you, only because I suspect that you’re an incognito spook. So this better end up as the best experiential point ever made, otherwise there’ll be hell to pay.”
I make the “Quit gabbing and start rowing” hand motion while I recline back in my seat and close my eyes.
§
She wakes me when we reach her place on Fifth Avenue. “We’re here,” she pushes my shoulder.
“This is it?” I look up at the building.
“This is the place I’m trying to sell,” she sez.
“The whole thing?” I say.
“No, stupid. I’m gonna take you to the apartment,” she opens her door. “C’mon, follow me.”
“We’re just gonna leave your car right here in the street?”
“The valet guys’ll get it. They know me. C’mon.”
So we take the elevator up to her unit. It’s a luxurious space.
“OK,” I say, “time to get to work.”
“Ah,” sez the blonde; “so, Mister ‘I am Categorically Opposed to All Forms of Labor’ is suddenly ready to ‘get to work’?”
I look at her expressionlessly, “Well, you’re not paying me, are you? Plus, this style of work I enjoy.”
She rolls her eyes. “Alright, whatever.”
“Now, first off,” I say, heading toward the kitchen and miming the shape of a bucket with my hands, “where’s the cupboard that has a large pail filled with fragrant mud?”
“Second on the right,” the blonde sez, “or, rather, second from the right.” She points to the space above the sink.
I open the door and, sure enough, there is a large pail filled with mud. I take it out and hold it up to my nose while inhaling deeply: “Ah, that’s a really good scent — what is that, coconut?”
“I think it might be coconut oil, or cocoa butter or something,” she sez.
Still holding the bucket near my face and looking up, I say “What do you normally use this stuff for — is it a facial mask? Like, is it supposed to help cleanse your pores or something?”
“Uh…” the woman ponders, apparently searching her memory, “yeah, I’ve known people to use it as a mud mask, but you can also put it on your arms and legs — basically anywhere; it’s cool and relaxing, and you just wash it off with water. It leaves you feeling fresh; and it’s got that nice fragrance.”
“I see,” I say. Now, having breathed my fill, I set the mud pail onto the floor; then I look up and ask: “Is this the only one you have?”
“There should be several more of them, right there in the same cupboard,” sez the blonde.
I go search again: “Ah, yes, here they are. I just need one more,” I take a second bucket out of the cupboard and place it next to the first on the floor; then shut the door carefully.
Looking at the mud pails sitting side-by-side on the floor of the apartment, the woman asks: “What are you planning on doing?”
“Watch,” I say. Then I rub my hands together and daintily step forward, one foot at a time, submerging my shoes within the mud.
“Wait — what are you doing, hon?” the woman’s voice is tense.
“I’m gonna track mud all over the floor,” I say. “Is this not a free country?”
So while she vainly tries to stop me, I step out of the pails and walk all over the apartment, leaving a trail of thick, muddy shoe-prints everywhere I step.
“I’m calling the cops,” the woman is frantically thumbing her mobile phone. “Hello, police? Yes, there’s a madman who has broken into my apartment, please come quick…” she gives them the address, “yes, I’ll stay on the line.”
“Hey, where do you keep the hammers?” I shout from the far side of the room.
The woman points to another drawer in the kitchen. So I track mud over there and fetch a hammer and begin to pound on the water faucet.
The curved neck of the faucet breaks off and a geyser of water shoots up and hits the ceiling. “Ooh, that’s cold!” I say, when the shower begins to fall.
The blonde’s phone gets ruined and stops working because the liquid corrupts its electrical innards. Plus, the blouse that she’s wearing is made of a thin, white material that becomes translucent when wet; so the flowery print of her brassiere now shows thru prominently — it is a very sophisticated gold and emerald pattern.
“I’m just gonna use this hammer on the windows over here,” I shout over the sound of gushing water. Then I head to the perimeter walls of the apartment, which are made predominantly of tall glass panels — they present a spectacular view of the city. I break each one easily.
Now, after smashing more than half of the east-side windows, I grow bored and toss the hammer out onto the street below: it lands on a taxi and causes a huge explosion. “Hey,” I say, raising my index finger, “where do you keep all your pitchforks and torches?”
The woman reaches into the pocket of her blouse and pulls out a pack of matches.
Now the cops break down the front door and begin firing their guns all over the apartment, breaking a lot of the remaining windows, and causing the refrigerator to spring a leak (my guess is that they hit the water line for the automatic ice maker). “Freeze!” they shout.
“Guys, welcome!” I wave eagerly to my uniformed friends.
“Bryan Ray? Is it really you?” all the police officers holster their weapons.
“Yes, the famous author, in the flesh,” I say. “The one who wrote you all those fan letters.”
“I keep MY letter right here on my person,” sez one of the cops, as he draws a piece of paper like a boutonnière from his collared shirt; “for it lends me purpose and courage, when I’m out here in the weeds, in the shit, doing battle against hardened criminals.”
The gorgeous blonde woman who called the cops now looks distraught.
“Hold on a sec,” I say to the boys in blue; “I think that my ladyfriend is about to faint.” Then I walk over and drape my arm around the damsel and ask: “Are you feeling OK? You look a little pale.”
“I’m alright,” the blonde replies; “I’m just taken aback by the fact that the cops actually do seem to know you — for I had hoped that they would arrest you. Thus I’m upset because now I fear that I will never be able to sell this apartment.”
“Cheer up,” I say, while lifting the woman’s pretty face very delicately with the middle finger of my right hand; “you’ll sell this place, no prob. Worse dumps than this have sold. It’s a realtor’s market, right now, in Manhattan. Everyone’s trying to screw everyone out of everything.” Then I look down at the pack of matches that my blonde ladyfriend had handed me from her sopping blouse earlier, and I remark: “Do you think that these wet matches will still ignite?”
“I suppose so,” she sighs.
“Hm, I better try one, to make sure,” I say. Then I strike one of the soggy matches on the patch of phosphorous sulfide that happens to exist on the seat of the woman’s pleated pants.
“Ah! It roars to life!” I hold the flame up like an object of worship. “Alright, now let’s get to work burning this place down.” I then set fire to various objects in the apartment. I toss the wet matchbook to the cops, and they share it and help me commit arson.
“Excuse me, dear friend,” I tap the blonde real estate agent on her shoulder, after the place is engulfed in flames; “could you tell me where you keep the two-man power augurs — like, the ones that can be employed to bore holes in the ice, for fishing in the wintertime.”
“They’re right over there,” the blonde points to a storage shed in the master bedroom.
“Ah! Thank you so much!” I say.
I then retrieve a two-man power augur from the supply shed and ask one of the police officers to help me bore a hole in the apartment’s floor.
“No, not here,” I shout, slapping the cop’s hand when he tries to press the tool’s “ON” switch while still in the bedroom. “I don’t want to make a hole above the downstairs neighbors’ bed — that way, we are liable to frighten them; for they might be unclothed and groping each other. I was thinking that it would be a better idea to go out and bore a hole in the living-room floor, so that we could maybe install a fire pole from this apartment to the one below. Don’t you think that that would be fun?”
“Absolutely not, and please never slap my hand again unless you want to get murdered,” sez my pal, the cop at my side in the master bedroom of the burning apartment. “The reason that I was trying to start the engine on this two-man power auger is PRECISELY because I wanted to drill down into the bedroom below us. For there are probably adulterers making love down there, and we can then watch them and cast stones at them (Gospel of John 8:1). — Are we not men?”
I frown, finally discerning this officer’s intention; then I answer with the proper call-and-response chant, while slapping the officer on the face as hard as I can; after which I lean forward and say sternly into his ear, “Snap out of it, Raca.” Then he helps me drag the giant tool down the hallway; and we start the augur in the living-room and bore a hole where I initially said that we should, while the place is burning down.
Lifting the blade out of the floor, we toss the auger aside and get down on our knees. “Ooh!” we both say, because we see something that we like. (I’m not going to tell you what it is — I want you to imagine whatever you desire.)
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