Status: On hiatus indefinitely.
This Night, Walk The Dead
Nowhere Better To Go
"Wait a second!" I heard him say
I span around without really stopping.
"Yessum?"
"Where are we going?"
"I’m not entirely sure. I suppose there’s somewhere you’re supposed to be?"
"Uh, yeah. I’m meant to be working."
"At 1 in the morning? Sounds like a pretty pitiful job to me."
"Well, not working as such, I’m meant to be playing tonight. Well, I was anyway."
He trailed off.
"Playing….?" I questioned. "Playing racecar? Playing hopscotch? Playing mummies and daddies? Although if you wanted to play mummies and daddies you could just go and get yourself a real baby, but you can’t just go ditch the baby back into the toy box when you’re done then, because of course, social services doesn’t like that. Sure, you can adopt a kid and feed it bleach for thirteen years, but chuck it in a box and they get all up in arms about it. It’s like they have a little sensor implanted in their brain that goes off whenever a kid gets put in a box. The kid could be bleeding to death, but oh-no, it’s not in a box so it doesn’t matter does it? The kid could be mentally scarred from things it’s seen, but it’s FINE, because it’s not in a box!"
"Do you do that a lot?" he asked me
"Huh?"
"The thing where you start talking about one thing, but end up talking about something else."
"I suppose so. But back to the question. Playing what?"
"A gig. Show. Whatever you want to call it. But our singer passed out. It was meant to be the gig. You know, the gig where the important crowd is watching. But then he has to go and get totally smashed. Who drinks their own body-weight in alcohol anyways?"
I assume that I’m not meant to answer this question. Because logically, nobody can, you would kill yourself. But then again, why should anybody go by logic? The logical answers are usually the answers you don’t want to hear.
"So then back to the original question." I say. "Where are we going?"
"Is that directed at me? Because if you do recall, I was the one who asked it to begin with."
"Yes." I say, looking up at the approaching buildings.
“Is that a yes, that’s directed at me, or yes, you remember I was the one who asked?”
I ignore him for a moment, then I pause in the doorway of one of the buildings.
"Ja."
"Yah? Is that german too?"
"Was tun du denken? Idiot."
"Hey! I’m not an idiot!"
"Could’ve fooled me. Now are we going in or not?"
"Tell me what 'vas toon doo deng ken' means first."
I sighed impatiently. "What do you think."
"No, just tell me!"
"I just did."
"You should be more appreciative to me you know. I could’ve just left you there."
"Trust me on this, you didn’t do me any favours." I grabbed the door handle and turned it. "So are you coming in or not?"
He shrugged. "Nowhere better to go."
So I pulled the door open and we went in.
I span around without really stopping.
"Yessum?"
"Where are we going?"
"I’m not entirely sure. I suppose there’s somewhere you’re supposed to be?"
"Uh, yeah. I’m meant to be working."
"At 1 in the morning? Sounds like a pretty pitiful job to me."
"Well, not working as such, I’m meant to be playing tonight. Well, I was anyway."
He trailed off.
"Playing….?" I questioned. "Playing racecar? Playing hopscotch? Playing mummies and daddies? Although if you wanted to play mummies and daddies you could just go and get yourself a real baby, but you can’t just go ditch the baby back into the toy box when you’re done then, because of course, social services doesn’t like that. Sure, you can adopt a kid and feed it bleach for thirteen years, but chuck it in a box and they get all up in arms about it. It’s like they have a little sensor implanted in their brain that goes off whenever a kid gets put in a box. The kid could be bleeding to death, but oh-no, it’s not in a box so it doesn’t matter does it? The kid could be mentally scarred from things it’s seen, but it’s FINE, because it’s not in a box!"
"Do you do that a lot?" he asked me
"Huh?"
"The thing where you start talking about one thing, but end up talking about something else."
"I suppose so. But back to the question. Playing what?"
"A gig. Show. Whatever you want to call it. But our singer passed out. It was meant to be the gig. You know, the gig where the important crowd is watching. But then he has to go and get totally smashed. Who drinks their own body-weight in alcohol anyways?"
I assume that I’m not meant to answer this question. Because logically, nobody can, you would kill yourself. But then again, why should anybody go by logic? The logical answers are usually the answers you don’t want to hear.
"So then back to the original question." I say. "Where are we going?"
"Is that directed at me? Because if you do recall, I was the one who asked it to begin with."
"Yes." I say, looking up at the approaching buildings.
“Is that a yes, that’s directed at me, or yes, you remember I was the one who asked?”
I ignore him for a moment, then I pause in the doorway of one of the buildings.
"Ja."
"Yah? Is that german too?"
"Was tun du denken? Idiot."
"Hey! I’m not an idiot!"
"Could’ve fooled me. Now are we going in or not?"
"Tell me what 'vas toon doo deng ken' means first."
I sighed impatiently. "What do you think."
"No, just tell me!"
"I just did."
"You should be more appreciative to me you know. I could’ve just left you there."
"Trust me on this, you didn’t do me any favours." I grabbed the door handle and turned it. "So are you coming in or not?"
He shrugged. "Nowhere better to go."
So I pulled the door open and we went in.