P112-A Trip With Mr. Hanks

Harold goes on a bus trip and winds up sitting next to his favorite actor, Tom Hanks and they have a long conversation about their lives.

A long time ago, I went on a trip with my mom and little brother. Well, it was actually two years ago, but with the many events going on, it feels like a lot of time has gone by. We went to El Salvador, my parents' native country, and had spent two weeks with my grandmother and her family. We waited patiently for the bus that would take us to San Salvador where my uncle and his wife, Raquel, live. The buses were long, packed with people of little diversity since we were in El Salvador, and yet had much personality. There were some people selling tamales and pupusas, others selling life insurance. My brother's brilliant idea of bringing his PSP for entertainment backfired when he mistakenly assumed he could stay awake in a moving, flat tunnel. With no camera, the only thing I could use to amuse myself was my own mind. And here is where we'll begin.

THE OPENING: The screen turns on and the HBO logo is buzzing with TV snow. A slow hum plays as "Original Programming" appears under HBO. The screen goes black. The Presenters' logo lights up all of a sudden, cued by the theme song, the big band theme from Woody Allen's Sleeper. Some of the letters turn off/flicker on and off as the theme song plays for a few seconds. The logo is made up of carnival lights, similar to the logo for Boardwalk Empire. 

Harold's car has been impounded after he mistakenly parkes his car in a handicap zone. Since he was in a hurry, he couldn't notice the faint blue paint had mixed in with the asphalt, and that some vandals has destroyed the handicap sign. For transportation, he decides to take the greyhound bus to take him all the way to Arizona to meet some investors. Harold has little confidence in strangers, and packs his supplies to make sure he doesn't interrupt the natural flow of things on the greyhound bus. He finds his seat, plops in his earphones, puts on his sunglasses and college hat, and doses off. His dream consists of an old-style rocking chair and some (Sprite)water filled to the top. He rocks back and forth a few times until he falls off his chair and lands on a bed of spikes.

"AAAAAAHHHHHH!!!"
"Hey, man, what's your problem?!"
"Uh…nothing. Oh, my god."
"What is it?"
"Are you…Tom Hanks?"
"Well, at the moment, I'm the guy who's drenched in his busmate's sweat."
"Oh! I'm, terribly sorry! My perspiration system has been faulty most of my life. The slightest moment of discomfort will cause the dam to break."
"That's…interesting."

Though the conversation begins well, Harold eventually gets to a problem when he asks Tom what his favorite genre of music is.

"Rap music, Harold."
"…what?"

First commercial break.

Since Harold has never come across a situation like this, he is unaware of how to respond to his favorite actor. For a minute, he begins ranting about how flawed Rap is compared to other song styles. The argument leads to Harold childishly berating Tom and his “ridiculous taste in crap.” After trying to convince Tom, Harold pushes Tom off the seat and tells him he's going to the bathroom. Tom tells him to have fun. Harold pushes a little girl, who has waited a long time, out of the way and slams the door shut. Sitting on the toilet, Harold looks around at every detail in the bathroom, counts the amount of toilet paper left, the bolts and screws, and begins piecing together his apology to Tom. Harold steps out of the bathroom and looks at Tom's head, now wearing his "invisible" hat. The little girl steps on Harold's foot and waltzes into the bathroom. Harold walks up to Tom's seat.

"Hey. Hey."
"Do you have something to say to me?"
"Uh, I might've taken my appreciation for goo- t,t,tasteful music a little too seriously and…have decided to keep an open mind about things. To tell you the truth, I've never heard of Run-DMC, or Tupac, or The Furious Five. And, I'm sorry."
"Do you mean that?"
"Yes, I do, wholeheartedly."
"You may take your seat."
"Thank you."

Once the moment passes, Harold and Tom Hanks begin to enjoy their company, almost too much as the bus driver forces them to leave the bus for making a distracting ruckus. While Harold listens to his command and steps off the bus, Tom insists on staying until the bus driver kicks him out. Tom drops face-first onto the desert floor. The bus takes off.

"Hey, you can't do that to me! I'm Tom Hanks!!!"
"Let it go, man."

As the bus recedes into the horizon, an irate Tom and a calm Harold walk together in the desert, just as they pass a sign: "Arizona-1 mile".

The problem with any episode that directly involves a celebrity is that the star cannot be enough to hold the episode together and that his presence has to make sense in the show's world. My excuse for Harold meeting Tom is that Tom is my favorite actor, and much like the South Park creators only caring about their favorite actress being on their show, the same rule applies to me. My guest list of stars would be Tom, Larry David, John Lasseter, other Pixar directors, and the Seinfeld cast. Perhaps its a bit limited but those are the rules. The show as a whole is carried by the regular cast and the occasional minor characters. It's a luxury that many animated shows don't take advantage of. Another problem is that the episode is entirely experimental in its concept, harkening back to the 'show about nothing' basis established in famous Seinfeld episodes The Parking Garage and The Chinese Restaurant, in that the whole episode revolves around the conversation with Tom Hanks and Harold. This episode would be an effort in trying to entertain the audience but also in writing dialogue that Tom would agree to say. If I could write one version of the conversation and have it approved by Tom, it would be quite an accomplishment. Above all, this episode would be the oddball of the season but in a risk-taking and enjoyable way.

Ideas That Will Never Happen: VOL ONE!

What you are about to read will never happen. It doesn't matter how much money you contribute, how many brilliant minds you stuff into a cramped room to make the idea comprehensible, it will NEVER happen. Though the mind is free to create whatever scenarios it can, even it is fully aware of some ideas that poison the mind and endanger it. This is one of those ideas.

This guy vs this guy.

In a CGI, 15 minute short film. For those who have played Sonic Unleashed or Bioshock, you might have some idea how this could've worked. Shortly after completing his latest adventure, Sonic decides to retire from the adventure business. Making his hasty decision, Sonic heads back to Central Park(since every movie has to take place in New York), Sonic recalls the first dash he ever had. I'm not a fan of Sonic's voice work so he would be silent the whole time. He remembers the people he accidentally bumped into, the first time he ran across the park's pond, and at sunset when he slowed down for a moment to see the changing colors across the skyline. His retirement ends shortly when he sees an advertisement for a travel agency offering a cheap trip to Greece. Forgetting his own speed and sudden lapse into poverty, he rushes over to the closest agency and asks about the lowest price. He steps into the agency, a few seconds pass, and the door flies off the handle as Sonic dashes into a nearby dumpster and hides, waiting for the police to pass. Sitting in the dumpster makes Sonic realize how uncomfortable it can be to be a blue, anthropomorphic hedgehog, especially in an enclosed space, and decided to run all the way to Greece with his own two feet. He becomes a notorious "freak of nature terrorizing the defenseless citizens" and is up for capture by the government. His only crime is to accidentally blast past a five-year old holding a dollar bill. Such impeccable speed causes the dollar to slip through the boy's hand and drop right into Sonic's. With the first dollar he's ever owned, he buys an ice cream cone from the only person who's intrigued by his existence. He bids a quick farewell to the vendor and runs off. His trip in Greece is fun until he hears a rumbling beneath his feet. Looking back, the ground cracks and crumbles until an enormous drill blasts from the ground and spins quickly. The drill chases Sonic's tail until poking Sonic and stopping him momentarily. Sonic tumbles to the ground and grabs onto the drill, spinning him at ridiculous speeds until releasing him in a burst of blue light. The drill stops and recedes back into the ground. Sonic, running at top speeds, runs away from the mysterious being chasing him and dodges every obstacle he approaches. Shortly after, the drill reemerges and chases Sonic. Sonic approaches a gap, grabs a pole, and changes directions. The being unexpectedly crashes through the ground and reveals its entire self. It is a Big Daddy from Bioshock. The Big Daddy grabs onto the edge and hurls itself back onto the ground. Sonic is far away from the BD so the BD runs towards him and activates its rocket shoes. The BD approaches Sonic and reaches for him with his molded and rugged hand. Sonic dodges it, breaks a pipe, and hurls it at the BD's helmet, sticking it. The BD removes the pipe and uses it to swing at Sonic. Sonic narrowly avoids the BD's close swipes until the ground below him breaks and Sonic and the BD falls into the sewers. At this point, my 10th grade mind turns off and goes back to studying for a test.

Why this will never happen: First of all, the most unlikely paring of characters and the amounts of contracts for each character to appear in the film. Second, it's a short film that would require the cooperation of a major film studio to finance the film. The fact it's a CGI film would also complicate the cost. Third, the Sonic I'm describing doesn't exist in modern society or at least in SEGA's society. Making Sonic silent would anger the existing voice actors, and reduce the interest of younger fans who don't understand the beauty of a simple foot-tapping gesture compared to some saying, "Gotta get movin'!" Fourth, I've never played Bioshock and don't know what the Big Daddy's role in the game is. For the short film, you can infer that Big Daddy is a government experiment made to capture Sonic. I don't know if this is completely contradictory to the source material, but for that reason alone, the inclusion of the Big Daddies wouldn't make any sense. Also, admittedly, the scenario I've described isn't very convincing, but believe me, it would be one of a hell of a production if it ever existed.

P101-The Goddamn Pilot

We are introduced to Harold and his family as a chance occurrence at Harold's job causes Harold to get the opportunity of a lifetime.

The first episode of a series has to be good enough for a network to pick it up, and I would consider this first episode as a misstep, much like South Park’s first episode. The title already shows a series that is trying too hard to be original, and finds itself in a difficult place.

THE OPENING: The screen turns on and the HBO logo is buzzing with TV snow. A slow hum plays as "Original Programming" appears under HBO. The screen goes black. The Presenters' logo lights up all of a sudden, cued by the theme song, the big band theme from Woody Allen's Sleeper. Some of the letters turn off/flicker on and off as the theme song plays for a few seconds. The logo is made up of carnival lights, similar to the logo for Boardwalk Empire. 

The episode begins with a bird’s eye view of the Howardson’s home, a lovely scene to begin until a bird suddenly explodes due to the sun’s rays. The camera pans towards one of the windows which is a black square and only a faint glow from an alarm clock. We see Harold’s room in pitch black until the light turns on revealing Harold exercising with an anesthetic arm(for some reason). His son Hal knocks on the door and tells him breakfast is starting. We are introduced to the whole family at the breakfast table, as they talk about current events such as Hal’s upcoming science fair and Harold’s usual rant about how terrible his job is. Harold realizes he’s late for work and rushes over to his car, jumping over the cooked bird from earlier and nearly running over a person as he backs up from the curb. Commercial break. We cut to the office building where we see many people busy at work on their computers, and then to Harold. He is an accountant at a successful business. We see his desk which is littered with sketches and drawings of sorts, mostly of a character from his childhood, and see the back of a picture frame. The camera turns to see the picture which is an autographed picture of John Lasseter instead of a family portrait. Harold talks with a dissatisfied customer and stumbles on certain words. “I’m sorry that happ- happened, but-but’ (away from the phone) godfucking damn it! (on the phone) ‘but there isn’t much I can do about it.” His frustration leads to him slamming the phone towards the wall. He hides his face shamefully until an old man sits on the opposite side and asks for his help. The man turns out to be The Editor, a famous animation director who created his own studio ten years ago but has yet to create a successful film. The Editor sees Harold’s drawings and is instantly impressed. He asks Harold for an interview to which Harold agrees to. The episode ends with a shot of Harold at his new desk at Flowers United and a picture of the family, albeit an embarrassing one he was supposed to have ripped up.

Altogether, it’s not a terrible episode as an introduction, although I recall the original conversation at the table as confusing and filled with shit jokes. Also, the meeting with Harold and the Editor seems very unlikely to happen so easily and may need either a different place or with Harold already working at Flowers United. Also, the opening is too strange and has to be changed. As a pilot, it’s clear that writing one is difficult and I can’t imagine the amount of people today who are trying to get a pilot picked up by a network. This may have influenced my decision to avoid that section of the entertainment industry as it will be stressful and self-destructive. My art teacher has recommended trying to make a graphic novel eventually which I will most likely try. Despite what I’ve said of the pilot, it is a good introduction to the characters and maybe if I have time, I’ll try to write it again.

Short Story

Sorry, we are currently experiencing some technical difficulties and will return with our regularly scheduled programming as soon as this blogging interface becomes less broken. Thank you for your patience.
  
Originally typed in December of 2009.

Pt. 1

I arrive a minute before the deadline, 11: 59 am, in tattered clothes and ripped jeans. This is my evening wear; my noon wear is still at the Laundromat’s. I think it’s been there since yesterday or Friday at the least. I know certainly in that period of time that the pink shirt with a blood splat on it and the plaid jeans have to be in the cart at the Laundromat’s, I just forgot to collect them. They should still be there. Anyway, I’m feeling pretty confused right now. I can hear the electrical surge from the neon sign, attempting to advertise a product at the worst possible time. People can read the sign since it’s in huge letters and it’s daytime. Why would you have the lights on at this time of day? I blame the restaurant owners’ laziness on this one. For some reason, everyone who’s passed me in the seconds I’ve arrived here has chuckled when they saw the sign. It’s a stereotypical neon sign, an aggressive shade of orange, in all capitals, nothing original. It has to be an inside joke of some sort, a city-only kind of joke. I would never know since I’m from Cincinnati.

48 seconds have gone by. Make that 52. I look in both directions to see if the girl is coming. It would be a better impression on her if I was already there, with a rose in my hand. No, too clichéd. Chrysanthemums, she’ll love those. Maybe.

The door handle feels like it was imported from Antarctica, my fingers are magnetized to it, and it feels as if every cell in my hand is becoming converted into frozen drops of water. It wouldn’t be a superhero kind of thing since only my hand would be affected; it would actually be a deformity.

The place looks okay, but I don’t see what the big deal is. The walls are painted professionally, but I sense an illusion happening here, that I can grab a part of the wall, tear it right off, and discover…something. Each waiter, despite having a fancy appearance, seems to be the kind of people who spit in your water, many times so I wouldn’t know what’s up. But I can tell. They are the gossiping individuals who continually complain about the client they had, pointing out every single flaw they could detect from him or her. I don’t know where they can get to with that information, maybe use it as a conversation starter at a party. Stepping into the place gives me an instinctual reaction to grab something and pull me out of a pit. The poor guy who took his time to paint this abomination on the whole floor. I commend him or she to have carefully dotted the floor in different colors to give a realistic interpretation of what sand may be like. What a shame. My table’s not too bad; it is right at the window with scarlet red squares and circles as part of the fabric’s design. The lighting reminds me of a theater, with the closing monologue seconds away from happening. Bit terrifying in a strange way; I can’t really see any of the other patrons. I can hear them, but it seems as though as I am all alone. That’s an exaggeration. It’s not that bad.

The only thing I know about this girl is that she’s a grammar freak. Contractions, prepositions, if it’s not in a sentence, it’s not hers. She gave me an unenthusiastic answer towards what she would be wearing when she comes here. White shirt and blue jeans. Lots of ‘Shelly’s have passed by, some of them guys. When the world at my normal field of view becomes boring, I begin to stare at the chand-no wait, ceiling…FAN! That’s right, ceiling fan!… I look at the fan. Such a fascinating piece of furniture. Wooden in each ‘blade’, a redwood oak kind of color, held together by a cylindrical figure of the purest white chemical science can deliver. Vrwhrrr, vrwhrrr. Such a peaceful noise, you could get a group of toddlers to stop crying simultaneously with this miracle from non-existent heaven. I can look at this fan for ages. I try to find one ‘blade’ and wish to join it on its never-ending journey by circling my head in rhythm with the fan.  Achieving Nirvana…

“Hey, stupidass!”

Damn. I stop moving my head to search for the origin of the screaming banshee. It’s a guy, at the table across from mine, mid-30’s, facial hair apparent, brown hair, blue business suit, and the typical ‘much too expensive for your own good’ type of watch. Can’t quite see the company name, maybe a Ro-

“Hey! Dumb fuck, over here!”

“What seems to be the problem, officer?”

“Do you have some kind of mental problem or something?”

“I don’t think it’s up to you to know that kind of information.”

“Well, there must be something wrong with you. Why the hell are you looking at the fan?”

“The, the fan?”

“Y...yes?”

“Well, um, you see that, um-”

“Whoa, what’s the problem? Can’t admit you’re a dumb fuck or what?”

"Is this the place for that kind of language?”

“Just answer the question."

“This fan…means a lot to me. It is a part of me, the indescribable part- Wait, who are you calling?”

“My girlfriend, Betty. She’s not gonna believe this one bit, that I finally met a client for her services.”

“What’s her job?”

“Psychiatrist. Ugh, this takes forever.”

“Wait just one goddamn minute! I’m not crazy. I’m just in love.”

“In love with what?  Something that in a few years will end up at the dump?”

“Hey, you and I are headed towards the same place, too! Cept mine will be nicer and with a marching band to boot. And…1, 2, 3...19…13 mourners!”

“287.”

“That’s impossible! That can’t be the amount of people who love you.”

“Oh, but it is…and counting.”

“Good for your ass. I’m gonna go back to what I was doing.”“Telling your beloved Kenmore how you enjoy kissing her 4 extra arms? What are you even looking at anyways? There’s no point in following one ‘blade’ around in circles. The quick rotations of the blades make the whole fan seem like one unit. There’s no need to go around in circles when you can just look at ONE, single unit!”

The spectators around us shouldn’t be letting this happen. Just like in a dogfight, all they do is watch patiently as the two dogs bite into each other’s flesh. They don’t care about the emotional connection between me and my beloved, and for that, I don’t care about them. I was seconds away from pushing the dude’s chair, when the waiter walked up to him, holding his dish. Sandwich at a restaurant? Whatever, it’s that guy’s life, that guy’s choice, and…that guy sucks.

“Here’s your sandwich, sir! Hope you enjoy it!”

“Yeah. Can you get…a bag, a doggy bag, please? I think I’ll eat it later.”
“Um…sure. Let me, um, direct you to the kitchen.”

“Thank you.”

Strangely enough, my hatred towards this person made me that much more curious about him. Why is he really uptight? Did he have a difficult time at work today? More questions kept popping out, some of which I began to write down on a napkin. I wanted to see this guy again, still hate him, but more learn more about him so that my hate seems sensible instead of careless. The guy turned around and approached my table. Casually, but I still felt alert and grabbed the salt shaker.

“Here.”

“What’s this?”
“Betty’s card. You might want to hold on to that. Just in case.”

The smug bastard. I can’t believe he…Ooh, she’s cute. 

Pt. 2

Shelly should be here any minute now. All she’s told me about her so far is that she loves horror movies, preferred junk food is raisins, and plays part-time basketball, so for some reason, I can imagine her as a tall person. There could be many possibilities as to what a person can be if the only thing you've seen that's theirs is digitally reprinted text on a screen. Maybe it's her imminent appearance or the argument I had with the jackass, but suddenly I'm not very hungry. Strangest thing, I had a craving for a turkey sandwich with pumpernickel bread, slathered with honey mustard, and now, nothing. Not even water.

Shelly comes, skipping into the restaurant, politely speaking to the-wait...who's the person called? whatever, she talks to him, the guy points toward my table, and she walks to it. Turns out I was wrong about Shelly. She's pretty short, actually, reaches my neck, at least I think. Much cuter than Betty at least. Brunette, one line of hair that covers 5% of her left eye, pretty outfit. She's pretty. Oy, I'm a jackass. There's more to her, absolutely, but...right now, nothing particularly descriptive jumps out about her. Her shirt's blue, has a pocket protector, don't really know. Oh god, look at that color. Blue on every finger. Why do people do that to themselves? Does that really make them more beautiful, painting those already hideous abominations. I can't even look at my own  group of those bastards. Shelly sits at my table, on the seat right across mine. She...oh, it's not a shirt-takes off her jacket, revealing the white shirt she promised. Cept its more white than I imagined. I don't know if it's her Mona Lisa-esque face, or her simply divine combination of colors in her eyes, but something is making that shirt so damn bright. Ach, my eyes.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Some dust flew into my eyes."

"Are you sure it wasn't sand? Ha, ha, ha!"

I get it. Floor looks like sand. Ha.

"So, what'd you do to get here?" I asked politely.

"I drove."

"You...uh, didn't...have any trouble? Didn't...um, crash in the middle of the way? Pick up...a murderous hitchhiker or(cough, cough)"

"Are you nervous, Darren? There's nothing to worry about. It's just us and other people we don't know."

"No, of course...(cough) Waiter!"

She's so fucking beautiful, I can't comprehend it. Suddenly more descriptions about her appeared like menu options, right in front of her face. Hair: Each strand could be used to knit together the most beautiful sweater fit only for Venus' apparel, but, then Shelly would be bald... ...hm. Nose: Only the likes of Michelangelo could carve a perfect replication of the curve on her nose. I would kill any other artist who would attempt such a feat. Eyes: The amount of colors in her eyes could be found and identified in a Kandinsky piece, yet each color meshes together into a united front of... color! Brown has never been this beautiful. That's just the face area, being described right now, I could spend weeks, literally weeks, describing every definitive aspect of her body, except then, I would have to assume a new role: Darren, recently graduated college student, mama's boy, stalker. Not worth it. 

"Do you need some water? I have a water bottle in my bag."

"Ach, yes, prease-"

She grabbed the bottle, and threw it across. Bad idea since I'm such a butterfingers. The bottle bounced off the right side of my palm, then the left, hit my forehead, and then stopped. Tightly in between my hands. It wasn't going on anywhere. For some reason, I couldn't get that damn cap off, twisted it, smacked it on the table. I had to ask for her help but, almost immediately as I thought that, her slender, perfect fingers tapped the bottle, a slight twist, and the cap was off. She must've understood my struggle as she threw away the cap. Or maybe she does that with all caps, I don't know. 

"(chuckle) Go on. Drink up." she said, with a humorous smile.

As you wish, my darling. Must've been either out of my mind or trying to impress her as I drank the whole bottle in one gulp. Kept burping the rest of the time, also. I apologized for every burp I would make, even some that we both couldn't hear. Such an interesting woman, obviously I was wasting my time with those chat conversations we had on the intershit. Okay, it's not that bad, but face-to-face conversations are my preference to one-line-one-minute--wait-two-minutes-for-response conversations. Really loves horror movies, she retold the first 15 minutes of The Exorcist in descriptive detail. She can watch Child's Play and tell me all about it so people can stop bitching to me about never seeing it. That  fucking red-haired midget. Plays basketball, but actually is a professional at golf. She could give me some pointers. Grammar freak, maybe two months ago, but not so much anymore. She's trying harder now to switch from her essay voice to her casual voice. It must've been her parents' fault for that, switching from whatchyall doin' to what are you all doing. She actually has a pretty impressive vocabulary; She could help me with some of my job resumes and make me sound smarter than I really am. This could work out.

Pt. 3

"You wouldn't believe this guy. He just starts barking at me, for no reason, just cause I was looking at the fan. He has no sense of furniture appreciation," was my attempt at chit-chat.
"I know what you mean." She puts her arms flat on the table, holding her head up and staring dreamily at me. Or is she bored? Huh. "Once, I came to an electronic department store to purchase cables for my high-definition surround sound system, and I just couldn't stop looking at this fascinating component that hung up on the wall. The-Most-(word to be determined later) component I have ever seen. I still don't understand why to this day."

I chuckled, a bit too loud, however. I just couldn't stop looking at her face, until my neck started aching. This was a chance to really observe the scenery. 

"Sorry, my neck hurts a little. I need to-move it around. You know."

"I don't but, heh, go on ahead."

Turned to the left, the right, up, down, diagonal, oh shoot.

Blue. Fingernail. Paint. I completely forgot she put that on her gorgeous fingers. Ugh, I can't understand why she had to do that to herself. What does that improve, anyway? Is it a beauty issue? I just don't understand. She's definitely not my counterpart if she does that to herself. How dare her! Damn that blue, it keeps tempting me to stare right back at those things, those careful brushstrokes repeating themselves over and over. The crime was done, a few days ago, at 8 pm, in her room, with every light turned on. She had to staple her fingers to the table to do this crime. The light's suddenly went off, but she kept going, torturing those terrified fingers till the deed was done. Heartless...harlot! "Is your neck getting better?"

"Uh, kind of."

You dirty, fucking bitch.

"So...what are you going to get? I think the waiter's getting impatient," said the siren.

"Uh, I don't know. I'm not really hungry."

"I think I'm gonna- Sorry, I mean, going to get something with fish."

Too bad that those fish don't have any nails so you can plaster your shit all over their fins.

" Maybe I’ll get some appetizers. Tiny burgers, or crackers with cheese."

"Mmm, the salmon looks good. Mm,mm!"

I can't take it anymore! I just can't look at those things any further. From my perspective, all I had to hide those freaks was to...well, I can't quite describe it, but with my hands together, I placed them right below my nose, closed, and squinted my eyes for to put the focus only my hands. She wasn't an idiot, she knew something was going on.

"Wait, what are you doing?"

"I'm sorry but I just can't look at those things anymore."

"Excuuuse me?!"

"Those things. I can't look at those things anymore."

"And why can't you look at those things anymore?"

"Well, they're right there, right in front of my face, presenting their supposed greatness to the world. And just to make both of us clear, they're not that impressive, either."

It took her a few seconds to comprehend that line, and a split second for a rebuttal. 

"You know what? Fuck YOU!!!" 

She stood up, grabbed a cup from a table, and splashed it right in my eyes. My manliness told me to just stay quiet, and swallow this unfortunate occurrence with dignity, but my common sense told me to scream and never stop screaming, till it was appropriate. A week later, I told my mother about this incident, and she told me, clearly and offensively, why Shelly became offended.

 

Oy, I'm a jackass.

Accident on Freeman Ave.

Originally typed in 8th grade.
 
This is the beginning of my creative writing career, and the very first time I was able to express myself without censoring my thoughts. Also, it was the final project for my 8th grade creative writing class. Since this was my most enjoyable project of the year, it did take a while to realize the story is severely flawed and incomplete. The story has an interesting plot, but it moves quickly and never feels complete. I remember a generous ovation the first time I presented the story to the class, but for an eighth grade story, it is depressing and overly dark and paints a picture towards how my first year was in a new school. Even with a story like this, it still has to be acknowledged as an important first step in my exploration of a new idea, and as life shows, every mistake is a step forward. Inappropriate content ahead. Read with caution.

Part 1

Everything is black. I don’t hear a noise. I guess no one else is here. I take off the sheets and try to walk. I fall straight to the floor. My back is really killing me, my feet feel like mush, and my spine seems as fragile as glass. Damn. That annoying ring tone is playing again. It seems like forever till I grab the cell phone from the table. I accidentally push some ornaments and they fall on the floor and break on impact, the water splashing on my fingers. I check whose calling me and at that moment, I lose my breath. I frantically crawl to the kitchen, open the refrigerator door, and gulp down a bottle of water. I check who it is again and find out it was from my friend Elizabeth. It was a text message that read, “GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE! WE NEED TO TALK!” If Elizabeth doesn’t use the landline phone, I can tell it’s not good news. It feels like forever till I can finally stand up and walk normally. Forgetting that I actually have a car, I toddle to Elizabeth’s house while negative thoughts are pouring into my mind. Why does she want to see me? Why is she infuriated? Why in hell did she use the word ass? Walking nervously to the front door, I touch the doorbell and get an unexpected reaction. She opens the door and I become aware of her eyes filled with tears, runny nose, quivering mouth, she held tissues tightly in her hands, and says, “Curt’s dead!”

For a reason I can’t explain, I accidentally say, “whose dead?”

“That’s not funny!” she yells while wiping away her tears. “You know what I’m talking about, JOHN!” She’s right about one thing. I do know Curt but I don’t know why she’s yelling. Curt, a quarterback for the high school, known as a jock, always had a huge ego, and my best friend. He always acted like an ass at our high school years but we had been friends since preschool, always shared laughs and told ourselves inappropriate things at sleepovers. Yeah, nothing would keep our friendship apart…or so I thought. The day I thought as hell turned out to be more than that…it’s also death. “Do you remember that accident, John?”

“Don’t remind me about that day, damn it!”

“He was your best friend and you killed him because of your carelessness!”

“Now wait just a-“I stumbled back and sat on the couch by the wall. Killed Curt? Why the hell is she saying that I killed Curt? “That’s crazy talk! I wasn’t anywhere near Curt when-“

“Well you could’ve at least stopped him before he did the last decision of his life. You didn’t think at all of what could’ve happened and…” she went on and on and on for minutes but it felt like forever, the most painful torture I could ever get.

“Okay, I’ve had enough of this! I’m getting the hell out of here!” I leapt off the couch, stormed towards the door and flung the door open.

“You step out of my house and I’m calling the cops. Then you’ll become a runaway and your life will become so screwed up that you’ll want to commit suicide!” Those words flew into my eardrums, became transmitted into my brain, and chilled the rest of my body. But I still grabbed the door handle and slammed the door shut. I start running for my life and wondered if she was bluffing but I didn’t want to take any chances. I immediately reach home and turn off all the lights. By this time, I’m breathless and fall to the floor. Can’t believe this. Of all the crappiest things that ever happened to me, this is the whole shitload. Things have happened and I can’t change it. But I still remember that accident clear as day and maybe I can reveal whose fault it truly is.

Part 2

A normal, cloudless afternoon, students from campus with vehicles would drive away to hang out with their girlfriends, or go to the movies, or whatever the hell they would do after school. I, on the other hand, would just drive home and type on the laptop for hours and hours and hours, thinking that I’ve wasted my entire life. Then there’s Freeman Ave, a crosswalk which gave me frozen nerves, every time. I had a certain feeling that sometime, at that very crosswalk, chaos would strike. And strike it did. Kurt was driving next to me in a Honda Accord, in shimmering jade. I drove a Volkswagen Buggy, in unembellished red. By the millions of times he was beeping that horn, I could tell that he wanted to race. No damn way was I gonna risk my neck in an insipid stunt as that so I drove away, trying to lose him. Unfortunately, I had just “started” the race so he tried to catch up. I couldn’t take this any longer so I called him on my cell phone and screamed the F-bomb in his ears. He knew that I wasn’t kidding so he said fuck back at me, told me he was gonna find some other sucker to race, and then hung up. Curt began screaming towards random people to race and they either called him drunk or a mentally retarded ass. One person reluctantly agreed and the race was on. This would be his fatal mistake. I drove behind them, in case anything happened. It was an intense race with twists, turns, and nearby runovers. Ironically, the next street coming was Freeman Ave. Curt was in the lead. He didn’t look at the traffic lights. From our side, it turned red so the other side just became green. The cars kept driving even though Curt was in full view. I jumped out of my car before someone rammed into it. The other guy smashed Curt’s car from behind and pushed it forward. Curt’s car was instantly crashed from the left and began spiraling when another car smashed it from the front. People began dialing their cell phones and calling for help. When his car began to spiral, I just ran away from the scene and hoped that he was okay. I had fainted while running and then everything went blank. The last thing I remember is the wailing of ambulances.

My god…the worst thing that could’ve happened but I survived and he didn’t. And it’s my entire fault. Had I’ve told him not to insane enough or imprudent enough to race in the hazardous, urban city he would still be alive right now, enjoying popularity, acting like a big ass big shot, and snapping twigs while playing football. I grab my skull tightly and massage my brain to think clearly; what do I do, should I accept his death, should I move on, should I…cry? A big boom disables my concentration and suddenly the door flies off. It’s smashed into the wall and breaks into pieces instantaneously. That bitch did call the police and wants me to pay for my crime. Another option pops into my head and I choose it immediately as it came: Run. I climb from the floor and rush to the bathroom. Bullets are instantly fired and destroy everything in sight. I nudge the window open, inch by inch and leap out. It’s a painful landing as I fall on some razor-sharp, bristly bushes. I wait for a while and quickly rush under the sewers. One sniff and I start coughing like hell. The odors of dead animals, shit and urine from all over the city mix with the sea green, chocolate-imitating liquid all in one ostentatious aroma. Well, are you happy now, you bitch?! I’m a runaway from a murder which is believed to be my entire fault, police are chasing me day in and day out, and you’re dead, Curt! Form loss of blood, smashed bones, shards of broken glass piercing your skin, I don’t know how it happened but you’re dead…and very soon, when the cops find me, I’ll find you so we can do that race that you wanted, no matter how long it is.