The Cerebral Catalyst

Freedom is dying. The forests are dead. I'm in my Ford pick-up driving god knows where trying to get away. But it's no use. I pull out my flask and take a swig. I like the way the flask feels in my hands, like I'm in control. Sometimes I wonder whether that's the reason I drink. The ceremony of it all. But that's not the reason, only part of it. All I can get on the radio is fucking country music. It's a beautiful day in Colorado — blue sky, not a soul on the road. A day so full of possibilities it breeds restlessness. But there's nothing to do, so I just feel frustrated and trapped. Now all I want to do is get laid. Not in my wildest dreams. I'd never have a kid. There's no way I'd bring someone into this soup. The family name stops with me and that's just fine.

You say I sound bitter. Damn straight. I have every right to be. If I'm truthful, and there's no reason not to be because I don't give a shit anymore, I'll tell you why. Besides, lies are a sign of regret, a sign that you still have a conscience. I have neither. I'm old. I'm bald. My knees are shot and I haven't been fucked in five years. That's four good reasons. I could have stopped with the first or the last and that would have been reason enough. I don't have to explain myself to you. You're no better off or you wouldn't be reading this article in the first place. And the sad thing is you'll continue to read the rest because you have nothing better to do and because maybe I've offended you and it feels good to be a little angry. It shows you still care. It replaces the apathetic stupor you've been in. Go on, put the magazine down. I told you, you're a ball-less wonder.

Mountains. Fuck that. There can be no mountains without trees or snow. The hole in the ozone took care of that. Shit, the forests would have burned anyway, compliments of "controlled burns" and love embittered forest rangers.

What's this? Someone beside myself breaking Marshal Law. God, maybe there's hope after all. Someone with a spine. And a dog, too. I slam on the breaks and come to a skidding stop in the parking lot of a drive-in movie theater. Dust flies. By the time it settles I've applied SPF 300 sunscreen and am on my way to the center of the theater.

The man's dog chases a frisbee. The song, "The Hills are Alive with the Sound of Music," booms from the speakers. It's all a little surreal and a bit unsettling. It's hotter than hell. Must be in the 120s. I ask him what's playing. My words seem to float from my mouth and then burdened with their task fall to the cracked earth. All I've had is alcohol. I swear. I haven't touched a hallucinogen in days. The words must have done their job because he answers, "The Sound of Music."

I realize I should have known and feel the idiot.

"It's a double feature. Soylent Green is next."

"That's an odd combination."

"Not really," he says. "In the first, the mountains symbolize freedom in a time of war and oppression and in the second the memory, or should I say regurgitation, of nature," he says this with a wry smile, a witty bastard and too smug for my liking, "serves as a foil for the freedom we once had."

I take a shot of 80 proof and try my luck with the frisbee. It sails only a short distance before turning on it's side, dropping to the ground and rolling in a big circle. The dog retrieves it and brings it back to, let's just call him, Dick. The dog growls. He wants a good throw.

"At least we're not there yet."

"Where?" Dick asks.

"Soylent Green."

"We're closer than you think."

Reader, you're pissed and you read with a condemning mind. You say I'm a hypocrite, that I really do care and that I just proved it. Hell you say; the mere fact that I write proves your point. Bollocks! I write because I'm bored.

"Why the hell are they showing the movies during the day — I can't see a damn thing."

"The blackouts," Dick says.

Damn Arabs, I think. Go ahead call me a bigot. Fact is I don't give a shit about the color of your skin, your god, or who you sleep with. I'm selfish. There was a time when all I lived for was a foot of fresh, but it hasn't snowed in years. My knees couldn't take it anyway. Start the violins, you say. I don't want your sympathy or your sarcasm, only a bottle if you've got it.

Dick asks, "Where's your day-time credential?"

Oh shit! He works for the government. I should have known when I saw the white van. He reads my mind and assures me no action against me will be taken. I hate myself for panicking; and I hate the authority he holds over me. He pulls a black pellet out of his pocket. It looks like an elk turd. He holds it in the air, his left arm stretches to its full height. The sun is behind him now and throws his shadow on the ground. The dog jumps and snatches the pellet in mid-air. A few minutes latter the dog begins to wobble. He falls over dead. Dick scoops him up, struggling with the weight of the white dog. He opens the rear door of the van — it's full of dog carcasses. I get in my truck and close the door.

"Happy New Year," he says.

"You too, and thanks." I begin to head home, my mouth already starting to water.

______________________________________
Niall Berkeley can be found skiing in Colorado while there's still a chance.

posted 03.17.08.

Emergent Properties:

Main

F.A.Q.

About

Archives (alphabetical)
Archives (chronological)

Links - Updated 05.05.08

Books - Updated 05.05.08

Pandemic Poetry

Taglines

Site founded May 7th, 2003, by Project Catalyst.
All written material is the copyrighted property of its respective authors.
All other elements can be blamed on the Cerebral Catalyst Editorial Board.