Illegible Latitudes

Immune to normalcy

You don’t want me, just my personality. Tell yourself to dive deeper and glance three times at the John Wayne Airport, please. I’m anxious. Anxiety is like having to wear an itchy Christmas sweater all the time, but this is more than anxiety. There’s always a calm before the storm and on this occasion it’s jazzy nirvana and rain sticks. In walks my real estate broker, Hiroshima. His signature clueless smile comforts my uneasiness and we shake hands. I can taste his ashy breath and remember when someone described him as “what Andrew Garfield looks like but only when he’s crying.” He pours us predictable amounts of wine and starts to talk about retroactive events.

“It’s good to see you again, pal. I admire what you’ve done with your hair, like some sort of experimental Charlie Brown thing. So, I went to the cinema this morning and saw that new movie. What’s it called, eh, shaving, slaving, ah, Saving Private Ryan? At the end of the movie, there was a number available to anyone who needed someone to talk to if the movie affected them on a personal note. They hung up on me because they said it was only for actual veterans who were dealing with P.T.S.D.” He coughs and I ask him if he would like some water. “No, more wine please.”

Everyone has something they appreciate that isn’t there anymore. My dog, taking on the role of a matriarch, eyes me down and holds a USFL poster up as a scare tactic. Sometimes I wonder about her and her quirky behaviors indicative of meth use. She’s addicted to McDonald’s and hides wrappers in my recessive genes. Bob Marley once said emancipate yourselves from mental slavery; none but ourselves can free our minds. There’s an irony about writing about mental breakdowns and then having one. Hiroshima is here to find me a new mind for the best price on the market. His phone rings and he makes a few comments before answering.

“Look at this, pal. It’s one of those new phones made entirely out of cells. They call them cellular phones, ha.  Can you hear the dogs barking? That’s my ringtone. Peter! How’s that new mind treating you? That’s great to hear. Yeah. Everybody’s got dead homies, Peter. You got it. You got it. Alright pal, we’ll reminisce some other time. Ciao.” Hiroshima’s vocal chords enunciate words so clear that he could teach English to a group of Eskimos just by them listening to him.

He hands me a cookie that I perceive as chocolate chip and pulls out a clipboard with Generation of ’36 in bold font. I like them but they affect me. With tolerable uncertainty I nibble the edges off. I don’t want to hear stories. I want to hear the truth. There must be another inhabitable mind in the universe for me to live in. My vision blurs momentarily and I now see everything in neon. It feels as though I’m travelling eight times the speed of sound toward anything I look at but I never crash. Those fighter ships in Star Wars travel at tremendous speeds and they never crash either. L’appel du vide. My thoughts are cross-breeding faster than Gregor Mendel and his pea plant experiments. It is what it is. Candice Swanepoel reminded me that we’re the last generation that can do something about climate change. I’m here to remind you that there’s also a climate change going on in your mind. Hubris and humility. Workers are not machines and there are humans who roam inside Rome that wish they could live in Baltimore and balty more. Like presidents in high school giving lobotomies.

Hiroshima shows me laminated pictures of minds faster than my eukaryotic cells reproduce. We’re going nowhere fast. I must pick my new mind now, not later. Later doesn’t exist. Later is like getting emotionally attached to magnesium. Later is like eating a snow cone that doesn’t have all of the syrup on the bottom while you’re at the top eating ice with a mild sensation of watermelon flavoring. The minds are never identical. I admire the hiatus between what I know and don’t know. I see a mind that catches my attention. It’s made from scratches, not scratch. Disoriented good deeds have been scratched into it. I want it.

Self-praise thinks. I fill out the paperwork for my new mind and Hiroshima takes my outdated mind off my hands. He talks about another one of his strange experiences and then leaves, setting my new mind on the coffee table. I look at it with some of my eyes and admire the detailed alchemy not easily understood by the masses. It has an element of the unknown to it. I insert my neo mind into the void my old mind once filled and take it for a spin. Planet eaters. Nothing feels different. It’s as if this new mind hasn’t changed anything. How could I be so foolish to believe that I could buy a new state of mind? I look at my half eaten cookie. Hiroshima dropped a bomb on me. It’s a plot twist more impactful than learning that Austin Powers and Dr. Evil are brothers. This cookie isn’t chocolate chip, it’s raisin.

Author's Note

Comments are appreciated

Reviews

[Rana]

It was really cool when I realized real estate referred to the mind, how delightfully unconventional. The broker was quite a well-crafted character too, a very smooth con man, so amiable and entertaining and funny. I can totally see him fooling other people easily. "Can you hear the dogs barking? That’s my ringtone."- haha, such a showman. I'm sure he faked the call.
"She’s addicted to McDonald’s and hides wrappers in my recessive genes." -really good.
"There must be another inhabitable mind in the universe for me to live in." - intriguing.
"...none but ourselves can free our minds."- This line seems to be the message conveyed through the tale. Like, we can't escape or ignore or dispose of it, we've got to face it and free it volitionally. Make our minds happy homes. A wondrous story.

[Gaston Villanueva]

The thought you put into all of your reviews is incredible
I truly value it
Thanks again Rana!

[Rana]

I guess I catch your bug, you're incredibly thoughtful in all your works Gaston :)

[Ovi-Odiete]

Great and Superb....
Gaston....

[Gaston Villanueva]

Thanks for the review!

[Chadvonswan]

"what Andrew Garfield looks like but only when he’s crying.”

There were a lot of gems in here. I'm glad I finally got around to reading this. the ending was great: Hiroshima dropped a bomb on me. Bahahaha. I always wondered too how Han Solo never crashes into anything at all going light speed.

[Gaston Villanueva]

It's a Star Wars mystery
Thanks for the review and Happy New Year!

[Chadvonswan]

What's the coincidence plan for tonight