Posted by nigel1 on June 30, 2003 at 19:41:35:
The Passenger
In a way, he was very unlucky. And in a way, he was the most fortunate of men. Very early one summer morning, because he liked to be up and about very early in summer, while it was still cool and dark, he squatted in his backyard over a basin of chessmen soaking in a vile methyl chloride solution. He planned to refinish them, and turn a set of mediocre wooden chessmen into a nice set of wooden chessmen. He would also, or so he planned, touch them up on his new Taig mini-lathe. A nice project! As for his other project, the rather serious one, he was not so sure. As he scrubbed at his chessmen with a wire brush, taking care not to splash the paint thinner into his eyes, he felt great contentment with his modest house, his modest yard, his modest job, his modest life. With a variety of projects, all of a very small scale so far, he structured his life's time. He could not help but think of Hemingway. He, Arlon Demby, engaged in the same sort of existential play as that great man's safari hunting and trout fishing-- a series of deliberate time-structuring games. At least, he felt that if he put his mind to it, he could make the case. Killing the young woman renting the house next door, now, that was a horse of another stripe. He had the weapon, a .22 automatic rifle purchased from a pawnshop. He had a box of "long rifle" ammo and that would be more than enough. He would empty a ten round clip into her at most. And he knew how he would do it, having found it possible to spy on her while she sunbathed in the backyard next door from the roof of his house. Oak trees on both sides of the fence dividing the properties, their branches and leaves, provided enough cover. He'd actually taken the rifle of up there already (with no clip) and examined her lovely young bikini clad body through the scope. He'd put the crosshairs on her belly button, he'd seen the sweat pooling in the lovely dimple. He could shoot her in her belly if she happened to be on her back, or he could shoot her in the back if she stretched out on her stomach. He could put holes in her breasts, or he could put holes in her buttocks, and if she happened to be oriented the right way, he could put a round up her ass. Of course, his life would change profoundly after that. It would be the end of life as he knew it, but an obsession grew in him, surely as a cancer might grow. He sighed. It was so nice out there, with his chessmen. The sun would rise in an hour or so. The mosquitos bit him but he didn't care. Would he have to give it all up for a few minutes of unspeakable pleasure? He glanced up, not expecting to see any stars, given the glare of streetlights all over the neighborhood. There was something up there, and it was like nothing he'd ever seen before. The closest approximation would have been a ferris wheel laid on its side, rolling about in a lenticular fog-- he was stunned! He clapped his hands over his ears! The sound! Methyl chloride splashed the sides of his face, and over his ears. Tingling methyl chloride touched his sparse hair and instantly his scalp began to burn and itch. Groaning and cursing but taking his basin of chessmen with him, he stumbled into his house, stubbing his toe along the way. He set the basin on his kitchen table and put his head under the kitchen tap, letting the water sluice the paint thinner away. Then he took a shower and found it almost impossible to stay awake long enough to dry himself. He went straight away to bed and fell into a profound sleep.
From Arlon's diary:
(8-7) I believe the story has ended, that is, the story of these chessmen. The paint is dry, it does not rub off, and all that's left is the anti-climax of felting. At last! The end of an era, and one of this summer's great achievements! Another great triumph was surely the electric hedge clipper, cleaned and oiled and reconditioned at last! I'm better than ever! Oh yes, don't forget the beanbag chair. What a find that was. Why was it discarded, I wonder? Only needed a bit of scrubbing, and now a greater sense of ease and comfort awaits me. At long last!
(8-8 ) Yes, my chess adventure is at an end. The refinished pieces are felted and in their box. All is done. Done is all. Rather an anti-climax after so much sweat and bother. Got paint thinner splashed on me.The result seems hardly to have been worth the effort. Now I have four usable sets, and that is quite enough!
(8-9) I can't quite get over the fact that the chess dream has ended. I'm amazed by the incredible struggle. To some extent all the pleasure of these chessmen is spoilt. Neither am I convinced that this new finish will prove to be durable. I can safely say that I'm very tired of re-finishing them. I can also safely say that I deeply regret painting the white pieces red, years ago, as this rash act led to all subsequent hassle. I should splash them with methyl chloride and begin again! Yes! Am reminded of The Worm Ouroboros or some such, read it so long ago, but can't ever forget the ending, or the beginning. Etiolated degenerate brits spending all their time reading-- "believe I shall read of bit of Pancreaster, or perhaps a bit of the Poofter Chronicles." Gimme a break! Get a life! And all the while brave souls splashed Hippocras sauce over their Botargoes and did great deeds. No! I must be content. Someday, I might find a set like them, as they were before I fouled them, and then I can toss these out. Surely, there is such another set! I value them so much, because of their proportions. They are the most perfectly proportioned set of chessmen I have. If they had an imperishable enamel finish, why, that would be amazing! Apart from such considerations, it is quite a fine day. Most lovely, with very moderate temperatures. On a day like this, I would like to do nothing. No, not quite nothing, not quite true. I would like to avoid disturbances and upsets
(8-13) Today I must have come quite near to heat exhaustion or something related that involves similar discomfort. I tried to take a nap and seemed to have slept, but when I woke I was in the middle of a puddle of dampness. I was not sweating at that moment, but I must have sweated heavily earlier. I was confused. I seemed to be not fully awake, and I could not shake off the confusion! That was an hour ago, and I am only now coming around to something like normalcy. It must have been magnificently hot today!
(9-23) Oh god, spare me from more of this heat! The summer should be done! But it lingers like General Franco (still dead). Yesterday I felt I must die. It has been so hot, and so dry. One feels like flopping smack down on one's knees and offering to give the vile deity a blowjob, if necessary, if only to call off the sweltering, bloody, endless dismal tale that is this summer. Seems I had something to do, something grand a while back, but it is gone. I can't recall it. I have only the lingering memory of a keen anticipation of pleasure, a memory of tingling in my loins, and at this point only a memory of loins, of what it felt like to have the beastly things! Would rather deal with Mary Mother though, tongue on clit perhaps, but that is forbidden. Humorless cunt in any case. Am afraid humor is the devil's work, forbidden on the CELESTIAL PLANE. I happen to know that the CELESTIAL PLANE is not very much larger than a Lockheed Constellation, and although it is powered by mystery forces, it is not all that fast. Zeus is the pilot and Satan is the copilot. They spell each other on that long, globe-girdling mission to nowhere, sowing doom from the cargo bay. It hardly matters who is at the controls. Is Mary Mother aboard? Is she the doxie who files the flight plan? Are there any passengers? These are the mysteries that only death can solve!
(10-15) Well, the weather has moderated somewhat. Those chessmen-- I really must do it. I'm going to get out the paint stripper tonight and re-finish them. But this will be the last time.