Shahin: October 2007 Archives

a gentleman would walk but never run, just like this new guy who started working the other day. he wears white everyday, buttoned up all the way except for the neck, starched collars with a couple of hair strings peeping out from below his also white t-shirt underneath.

he's very proper, always says hi, nods if you catch his eyes on the way to the men's room, or the director's office in the corner. he speaks very slowly, but not too slow, just very clear. he's got a low voice, thick and deep and easily audible, he never raises it. he spews as few words as possible to convey his message, as if he pays sales tax on every single one. he only talks business, with the most subtle smile on his face.

in his small nylon lunch box he carries fruits for breakfast and a sandwich and a tomato for his lunch. he takes his lunch in private, noone ever sees him eating. you just know he's just had lunch if you catch him rinsing off his tupperware in the kitchen. he pops a soda in the afternoon, same time, same can. noone knows if he finishes, he rarely takes a sip. nevertheless, you'd find his can in the recycling bin at the end of the day, everyday.

there was a bee in the office today. v announced its presence with a short cry from her cubicle. then it bugged d and s, and then it was on my monitor and i waved it away. then i heard a loudest slap from the next aisle. i turned around to catch the new guy whirling like a mad man in the middle of the his cubicle, slamming his big white hands together every which way, panting nonstop. he suddenly froze with his hands clammed supposedly on the insect, crunched them together for a while, and dropped the remainder on the carpet and stumped on it with a firm and loud thud.

he straightened his collar, nodded at a few of us staring at him, and sat down at his cubicle, completely in peace with the world. we heard him slurp his soda today, i think he finished it too.

an apple a day keeps the bottle away. he ran out of apples today, or was it yesterday? maybe today, just a few years back.

on his right shoulder he's got a barcode tattoo from a kleenex box once full of white two-ply tissues, clean and scented and folded with ungodly precision. do you feel shitty in general? did you have a shitty day at work? did you just break up and feel like shit? did your significant other defecate on your whole entire life? well why don't you take a tissue from him and vent all of your crap into it? please dispose responsibly when you're done, and also be considerate, don't take too many, there are others behind you with their own shit with nowhere to dump it.

did you not get a chance to use him today? no worries, there are a few tissues left for tomorrow, and the day after, and the next day as well. oh please don't, he's totally fine. it's not like he's never used human tissues to wipe off his own shit. what goes around comes around, ten times stronger, some times a hundred.

a bottle a day safely keeps all these shitty thoughts away, for a few hours, until he wakes up in the middle of the night, panting, looking for the white clicker of his bedlamp, and remembering for the millionth time that he's moved out today, or was it yesterday? or seven years ago?

i hope you don't exist.

just in case you do, i hope you didn't create everything, say human beings. in case you're there and you did actually create human race, i sincerely hope the common belief that you know everything is but only a popular rumor.

because if you exist and you created mankind knowing very well what they'll go through during their miserable little trailers of a lifetime you are most definitely the sickest, meanest, loneliest, most fucked up being in the entire universe.

please tell me you don't exist.

they come over last night after the longest time. he and he and he, my partners in crime. we sit down in quiet around the decanter and four glasses, one and two and three until someone talks: let's drink a last one to the one who just died. let the festivities begin.

he then produces a rather peculiar package out of the side pocket of his jacket, wrapped in newspaper, smothered in blood. he proceeds to unwrapping a slab of raw steaming meat out in the middle of the sushi table in front of him. fresh hot blood oozes out of its corners as he carefully slices it with sashimi precision and hands us each a few juicy crimson pieces, upon which we start chewing absentmindedly. once rinsed down with another pour the other presents some chopped liver lightly braised in bile and kidney broth followed by two racks of fresh raw ribs still withholding live breathing lungs in between. once garnished with sea salt and fresh red pepper flakes we take turns in poking our fangs into the lungs, tearing a couple of ribs apart and passing the rest to the next one around. more wine, and more wine. he says something without expecting a response, and he gets none.

though still pounding, the blackened heart reeks of rotten dried blood. he starts peeling off the dried crust as tears start to blur his eyes, the next peels another layer of somewhat softer tissues and we keep peeling and peeling until all that's left is a pink piece of muscle the size of a small toe with all our four faces soaked in tears flooding our of our swollen eyes. he sets the finger on fire and we stare at it burning slowly into a a black piece of char filling the air with its stinking odor. wine, more wine. noone says anything.

then they leave. the funeral is over and the remainder of the deceased is now part of our bones and flesh, his blood running inside our veins. it's a good thing we got rid of his rotten heart, we're all better without it, without him. i speculate about when they'll come back to me again, and who's next to die. until then, i keep drinking the rest of the wine in the world, one decanter at a time.

i hope i'm next.