Jawing With Mr. Gibbous

Oh, shit, time to step outside. I could have sworn the side walls of the living room were starting to move in on me. Just like the scene from “Star Wars” where Luke and Han Solo and Princess Leia and that fookin’ Chewbacon, or Chewbacca or whatever were almost two-dimensionalized by a giant garbage compactor. Why are they essentially in a big freakin’ Kenmore appliance? It’s the Death Star. Biggest, most badass Machine O’ Destruction in the Galaxy, and they use compactors? What, no high-power Garbage Incineration ray? What kind of engineering morons were they?

Focus, man, focus. Outside, that’s where I was headed. Wait a minute, I’m already outside. What was I thinking? “That’s your problem, son you weren’t thinkin’!” I hear the bellow of my Little League baseball coach from long ago. After all these years and that jerkface still gets On My Nerves. We won a lot of games that year, but at the cost of being coached by Joseph Stalin’s less-talented younger brother.

Already, I digress. I didn’t come here to bitch and moan about Little League or nonsensical plot points. I just…I…fuck me, what am I trying to say? I take a deep breath of the cold air, and it perks me up. A little. It’s not Arctic Night brand cold, it usually doesn’t get that way here just outside of Mobtown, in the Land of Pleasant Living. But it is cold enough. I look up at the moon through a thin haze of Breath Fog, and it occurs to me the moon is gibbous. “Waxing gibbous”, I believe. I remember tons of trivia like that, and gibbous is when the moon is more than half but less that completely full, right? And waxing, that’s when the moon is heading towards full, right? Shit, I don’t know. I’ll tell you what, I’ll call him Mr. Gibbous for purposes of this transcript. And I just noticed I seemed to have picked a case of the Shift Key Palsy*. Damn, I thought I was Immunized. Looks like I’ll have to crack the seal on some 15-year old Antidote, fo shizzle.

But like I said, I’m outside. I’m looking at Mr. Gibbous (henceforth known as G.) stuck in the sky over my head like the miner’s lamp of God, and he’s staring at me. All one-eyed and, well, gibbous lookin’. The night is quieter than usual, the typical dull roar of I-95 reduced to a whisper. A monotone whisper that sounds a little bit like voices. Voices that make me uneasy. The night air is close, almost thick, like a cold silk bag slowly closing over my body.

Damnit, I find myself wanting a cigarette**. Don’t know why that is, I just do. Something Cool and Full of Bad Decisions***. Tobacco smoke gives me a serious case of the Quivering Bowels and the Yammering Fantods, so actually lighting up would fall in the category of Truly Bad Ideas. I probably just need something to do with my hands while I think.

G looks a little while longer, and he says to me “Irish, bro, what’s up?”

I manage to remain calm. Collected, even. Bastard scared the shit out of me. I twiddle my fingers on the imaginary cigarette I’m holding.

“G, I don’t know. I’m in a funk. A head. A Brown Study, the old timers used to call it, I think.”

Moon man considers this. “You hit a wall or something? You got the Look. Like someone who just stepped in front of a bus. Or someone listening to that version of ‘Rowboat’ by Johnny Cash.”

I laughed. “That’s funny. Yeah, it feels like that. I have been so goddamn busy lately, so much filling up my Nogginspace, I can’t get it all out fast enough,” G nods, or nods as much as a spherical object can nod, “Feels like a full-blown case of blivetitis.”

G paused. “Blivetitis? You talkin’ nonsense more than usual, chico.”

“A blivet” I say, all sage-like, “you know, ten pounds of excreta in a five-pound bag?”
“Oh. That’s a new one on me.”
“Well, suffice to say, that’s what my head is.”
“You do look a little…inflated…if I may be so bold. Have you tried writing all this shit down, maybe talk to some people?”
“You mean talking to someone beyond the guy who works at the liquor store where I get the Guinness and the lottery tickets? Yeah, I’ve been trying that. It’s good, but….” I trailed off.

G said “Liquor Store Larry is a nice guy, but a thirty second transaction is no way to Relieve Oneself of One’s Burdens. C’mon, spill it, bro.”

G was right. No way retail therapy was going to help this. Plus, being as Employmentally Challenged as I was at the moment, I wasn’t exactly in a position to be embarking on my own local Economic-Stimulus-Plan. I sighed, invisible cigarette between my lips, invisible pint glass in hand.

“I have been of a mind lately, to bare my soul, let it all hang out, air out the ghosts and demons so to speak. Its exhausting business, ya? And there is a lot of Good Folk who have been helping me with this exercise in Finding The Buddha. And I am ever thankful for that.” I paused. There was a skittering sound from the stand of trees just down slope. Squirrels, fox, rabbit: neither I nor G could expand upon that aural happenstance.

“The problem is most of them folks are far away in Space, and therefore, outside of my particular physical sphere of Actuality.”
“Sphere of Actuality? What, pray tell, is that?”
“It means they aren’t in the same room with me. It means that most of them are remote enough as to make a Chance Encounter or Spontaneous Meeting out of the question.”
“I see. This bothers you, I take it.”

“G, anyone ever tell you, you’re an ‘effin genius? Sorry, dude, that’s unfair. I’m...Tense. Jittery, in the style of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Yeah, it bothers me.”

Twenty, thirty, forty heartbeats make themselves useful by pushing the flood of Memories I call a bloodstream through the viaducts lacing under my skin. The cigarette twirls again.

“Bothered, indeed. And I think I know why.”
“Illuminate me, O twisted One” G chuckles, “hey, illuminate, that’s funny! Get it?”
“Yeah, fuckin’ laugh riot. Riiiotttt. Now, shush and let me ‘splain.” I took a mental pull from the pint.

“See, I use to not put much credence in the importance of Face-to-Face communications, the power of Touch, as the greeting card makers might say. To me, it was all just data and information. Words and such, they mattered in the utility of themselves, not what they could mean beyond the surface. The People, they flummoxed me if the talk got beyond the obvious face value.” I noticed my hands were beginning to shake.

I continued “But that didn’t matter, see, because I had purpose, as defined by my chosen Career Path, and nothing else had the top spot.” My voice was quivering. G made a small noise, like rocks grinding over each other. He said “Mistake, I take it.”

“Yeah, you could say that. Let me break it down for you. See, this whole World Wide Web and Chat and Twitter and Facebook and Gmail mulligatawny I’ve been consuming by the gallon these days is a fine meal, indeed. I have been getting my Recommended Dailies of conversation and love and respect and Funny Shit. Fine folks all over this big blue marble we call home...”

I don’t finish the sentence because my throat tightens around a bolus made of Cold Night Air mixed with Gratitude. I choke and cough. G tactfully holds his silence. The muscles work in a furious spasm to get around the words clogging my larynx.

“Folks have been mighty kind to me. Without the benefit of Electronics, I never would have made Acquaintances that I find indispensable now.”

“But there is a catch, G.” How to ‘splain?
“Computers and fiberops are great, I dig it. But, at heart I’m a Bricks and Mortar man.”

“Fitting” G chuckles, “given that you were an Architect.” Were? I think. Then it hit me. G-money was right. Were.

“G, it’s like this. Bricks and Mortar, in the trade, that translates to ‘Physical Manifestation’ if I may sling some lingo. Electrons and Data and all that abstract shit, I’ve had my fill. I want Hands On, I want Face to Face. I want to share Breath and Salt, to get all Arab-like.”

“I want to shake some hands, give some hugs and tell people In the Flesh just how much they mean to me. And I owe a few pints, too.”

G laughed, low like an earthquake. Rather, a moonquake. “That’s a tall order, chico. I don’t reckon as I can help you with that. I’m sorry.”

“You shine on them like you shine on me, right?” I asked.
G pondered that for a bit. He nods again. “Yeah, I do. Why?”
“Well, when you shine, tell them I love them, I wish I could share some air with them.”
“I’ll do my best, bro.”

I took a final drag on that invisible cigarette, stubbed it out on the deck rail, and flicked it over the side. The pint glass was down to a lovely skein of Belgian lace, clinging to the sides. I set it down on the rail as I looked up to G.

“Thanks, man. That’s all I ask” I said, turning to go back inside. The moon slid slowly down the dome of Heaven, love diffusing in an argentine glow.


*That cIII, he’s got Thunder in his head, he does.
**I can also blame this on cIII. Just about every time I read one his posts, I want a smoke.
***Thanks, cIII. I owe you one.

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NOTE: I almost forgot the Contest. Speaking of gratitude, many thanks to Captain Dumbass for this reminder - I lifted this from his post of today: "Before we go anywhere, make sure you stop by The Wise (*Young*) Mommy today. It's the start of the He Said/She Said pissing contest. Confused? Just go. Well, not yet. I mean, read me first, right. Today's contenders are Cajoh and Irish Gumbo. There will be blood." SO, go! Read! Vote on Thursday!