Back to You, Houston (7).

Back to you, Houston.

Roger that, Roger. Over.

Nope, it’s Marge. Over.

I thought you were dead. Over.

Negative. Luis was. This is my day job. Over.

< cluck >

Lost On Cloud Seven And ¾

Hey! Who are you?

― I'm your new Muse. I've been waiting for you.

I didn't recognize you, you look so different.

Not that I don't appreciate your new city-style, but...

But it doesn't show your body as much as your yoga clothes do. I must confess I'm attracted to visual impetuses. Aren't all men the same? I mean not boring but visual; compared to women who are more... cerebral – not to say mental and risk a slap or two for that.

― Are you just one of those dirty old man, then?

Oh no. Discovering a person through her words or his mind at work is more exciting to me than flashing flesh, for my pleasure lasts longer in conversations – even in cold weather or water – than with body exposition.

― Just don't bore me to tears.

I won't. I want to make sure we're on the same wavelength. I am engaging in a conversation, not trying to get you naked for a peep show. Where have you been? I missed you. I couldn't find you anywhere. I thought I'd better put an ad in the paper for another Muse. And guess what? I got three answers. They were all from men.

― I can't believe it.

I'm telling you the truth. Had you read my journal or my mind, you would have known already. It doesn't matter now. Do you want me to bring you a glass of something? No, ok. Where was I? Oh yes. So I thought I'd lost you, I was ready to return to normalcy and a regular week schedule. But you're here and I'm very happy. The only thing is that I have to share myself and my time with you, I am not capable to invest all of it and of myself with you. By capable, I mean able. By invest, I mean devote.

― So why didn't you say it in the first place?

Ok, let me rephrase. The only thing is that I cannot devote myself and all my time to you. I can only share so much of my "normal life," you know, like... No, of course you don't know what's a normal life. You're a Muse, it's obvious. And yet, you are so human, so feminine, so attractive, so sexy, so smart and so cute in that wool top and that pleated skirt.

― Really? Thank you. You look kind of cute yourself, specially your butt. Hasn't anyone told you before you had a nice ass?

I do not pay attention to compliments and it is rare that I make any – therefore that was a compliment to you. But you know that, you do not respond to the obvious, you do not delve into arguments or long debates of intentions. Like a shrink you study me and you know more about me than I about you. And yet I feel like I've known you my entire life.

― Of course. You created me.

But you're here with me! Does that mean everything is true? You're for real? Or do you live in a parallel time and space? Are you in my InterZone only? Too many questions, right? Oops, another one. Ok. So, what's the weather like where you come live? Darn, another one. Please, don't leave!

I guess I can't even ask you to marry me, hey? Not that I will or won't, I'm only joking. You see, I'm not from here, and I don't even know if you understand me. Perhaps you are also a stranger in this land; your eyes are melancholic, or nostalgic. I can decipher the same sadness in my heart at times, when I reflect on my past, on my country. And so I can tell of the spell you do not try to... dispel because it is a part of you that has stayed behind, in time and space. As it was for me, and yet I am happy to be who I am here and now. I suppose because this is what counts, right? Otherwise, what does one have to get up in the morning and smile first?

You do not respond. You are waiting for something to happen, or maybe for nothing. I cannot tell if you wish for or dream about someone. If I were allowed to pose a question I'd ask, Do you have a Muse too? Is he a she or is she a he? Does it matter? Who's the bearded man I saw you with? Am I jealous? Are you kidding? Is he your father, brother, lover, accountant, or your divorce lawyer? You see, I am trying to get to know you better. Ok, the American way, I've been living here for so long that I do ask What do you do sometimes, instead of How do you do; I do not kiss nor hug people anymore, specially men; I keep my hands and elbows at a distance from the person eating next to me. I know it does make sense to them, and so I oblige them. But with you, I feel like circling your shoulders or your waist with my arm. I feel like kissing your eyelids and running my fingers to untangle your hair and push it aside your eyes. I'd lean over and closer as to tell you a secret and then I'd ask in the hollow of your ear, Did you see that bird of paradise flying in the rainbow? (If I were allowed another question, that is.) I would adjust the collar of your shirt while looking straight in your eyes and ask permission to ask you a personal question.

You'd nod, daring. And I'd want to know if you are... left-handed.

You'd tilt your head, still daring. And you'd say, "Not for everything."

I'd nod, daring, and I'd say something foolish like, "Beer or wine for dinner?"

But I know that you know that I know you'd say "Both." And I'd say, "Both hands?"

And you'd say, "Yes, to hold my beer." And you'd kiss my nose, saying, "So cute!"

And I'd swallow hard at the heat of your body so close, so close that I'd be able to smell your scent.

We'd know that. The same spicy taste would invade the back of our tongue, breathing would be difficult for a while. We'd walk side by side to the streetcar stop like zombies, knowing perfectly that once there we'd talk nervously about something that has nothing to do with the weather or the IRS. We'd speak at the same time and loudly. And a big black mama waiting in the shade would laugh her heart out, "You two better get a room right now!" Didn't we see our hands and lips on each other? Don't we know we're standing in between the tracks? "I mean right now!" Can't we hear the approaching monster and the fierce ringing of its bell? Why don't we feel the rain and the warm wind?

Paula Johnson.

Passengers on American Airlines flight 1549 to Las Vegas.

Your departure gate C36 has been changed.

Please proceed to gate C16.

The man switches buttocks on the molded black plastic seat, I'm not going to Vegas.

His belly grumbles with great resounding proportions, Oh God! The bean burrito on top of fish tacos wasn't such a good idea.

His plane is ready at gate C35, the waiting area is packed with blackberryists, cellphonists and laptopists. He feels lonely in the crowd, uneasy in this active hive.

He tries to imagine a palm tree, the beach, anything related to his trip to Florida. Nothing lasts more than a fleeting instant. He brushes aside his lack of inspiration with the trite phraseological truism of all times: I'm sure this vacation will do me good.

His cellphone vibrates in his clenched left fist, tearing him away from thoughts concentrating like clouds before a thunderstorm. "You have 72 new messages," says the tiny white characters on the blue screen. He shakes his head, sighs and presses the download button.

For a moment of exasperating length, he doesn't remember where he is flying to, or from. Those damned Doritos give me heartburn!

A sense of urgency settles in his gut, literally and figuratively because he hasn't had any will this last week to seclude himself and write, even in his head, a single meaningful scene. What's happening to me?

The thought is frightful indeed, for he hasn't had such a thought about himself, ever. Oh, doesn't he so perfectly remember smiling with condescendence to other people afflicted with the curse of the writer's block? "Write anything, any word, and don't stop, it'll come back before you know it," he used to tell 'them.' This morning, in his hotel room at the Holiday Inn, he had brushed his teeth with more vigor than intended and admonished himself in the bathroom mirror with the same advice he reserved for others but the words had felt like a leitmotiv panacean platitude, drooling out of his mouth along with the toothpaste foam.

Paula Johnson is needed at the F8 counter.

Paula Johnson!

Another acid reflux forces him to swallow with a twitch of the head. He searches his belongings for the salvational Maalox, uncaps it with shaking fingers and quaffs it with relief before he even feels it. His eyes meet those of a little boy staring at him. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, steals a glimpse at his watch. Regular folks think that time slips like sand between fingers. For him... Well, when he was himself, time slipped like butter in The Last Tango in Paris; now, he wonders about the people around him, busy with gadgets, seemingly trying to catch up with lost time, communicating among each other without the need to speak face to face or with one another, having virtual relationships, getting P2P frills and thrills, making B2B deeds and deals, and above all appearing to have a hell-of-a-good-time while ignoring the rest of the world.

Passengers on American Airlines flight 1549 to Las Vegas.

Your departure gate C36 has been changed.

Please proceed to gate C16.

More people keep walking to gate C36. They ask the guy still on the mike. They look puzzled.

I repeat... Please proceed to gate C16.

And they run the opposite way. Many announcements had been made. Actually, one every two minutes for the last half hour. But 'they' kept coming and going, moving apparently on conditioned reflexes, like cattle or as if sleepwalking. How did this country become so powerful? He sighs at the world at large and then at the Maalox bottle in his right hand, the cap in the left and... and then he sees that the child has come nearer, just a few feet away, and that he is still staring. Gee! How long have I been like this? He blinks. The image of his morning reflexion in the bathroom mirror flashes against the screen of his eyelids; closed, the toothpaste foam; opened, the staring kid; closed, opened, close, open, toothpaste, staring, foam, kid... This is embarrassing!

Paula Johnson is needed at the F8 counter.

Paula Johnson!

His mind dispels the awful feeling. Why are they making this announcement in the concourse C? He leans down to put the antacid container back in his bag, Who is she, anyway? He is distracted by the feet of the kid approaching, one, two, one, two, up to his bag wide open on the floor, "Mister, you have white stuff all over your mouth," picking his nose and staring. Or waiting. "What? Where?" Instinctively he wants to rub his mouth, then realizes he's still holding the Maalox cap, Darn! He bends swiftly to check the damage in his bag, the bottle stands at a perilous angle on a heap of blank pages – his next manuscript, as he calls it – strewed over his personal effects. Am I asleep or what? He caps the bottle with a sigh, his third or fourth, then he remembers the little boy, "Thanks, kid!" But the kid is already going away, down the row of seats, stopping by someone else as he had with him, to point and say something, and the person would get active, awake perhaps, or so he thinks that's what's happening, he's not sure, something bothers him, That guy looks familiar. And then he becomes dizzy, This is me? Not only that, but the scene repeats itself on and on like an infinite series of mirror reflections, "Hey, kid! Come back here!"

The spell disappears, he finds himself waving his right hand above his head vehemently, squeezing on the fortunately-capped Maalox bottle. Nobody pays attention to him, maybe it's his lucky day. He wonders if the kid were not an angel come to give him a sign, shake his torpor, his numbness. Nah, I'm just imagining things. He ponders, Wow, is my brain working now? Thanks to the kid. Where is he? He scans the waiting room, surfs over fat slouching bodies, shaking white-haired heads, kissing youngsters, Texas hats and cowboy shirts. What else is there in a Texan airport at a Florida departure gate? The question is a silly one, of course, but it leads him to search for more colorful descriptions.

A vibration calls his attention to his lap where he dropped his cellphone to get his medicine. "Download finished successfully," blinks the message behind which he sees the kid's face winking at him before vanishing. WOW! With his free left hand, he wipes his face one more time. There are traces of dry Maalox in the palm, The kid was right! He picks up his cellphone mechanically, I've got to know who he is.

A few people stand, unmistakably gawking in one direction; in fact, most of the eyes of the travelers to Florida are aiming in the same direction. He rubbernecks, then takes another gander. His look lands on a petite femme walking around in an extremely light, short and practically transparent beige batik dress with V-cuts in the fabric on her arms, chest and back. Now, that is... What he means to say is rather incoherent and he's most certainly not far from the truth; a good percentage of the male population at the gate could care less if she was, or not, wearing a dress made up with scarves knotted together for either artistic or exhibitionist purposes. Like tennis spectators, they follow her fast-paced sylph-like motions through the waiting area, back and forth to the counter, or to the trash bin at several occasions for no apparent reasons but, perhaps, to cool off. Or to cool down, points the man to himself because it is obvious that, first she isn't dressed for winter, and second she isn't wearing much on her tan slim hips. Could be one of those teeny-tiny skin-color thongs.

Past the first languid moments of bewilderment, he is filled with curiosity: who walks around dressed like this and talking vehemently... Oops, I just used that adverb. Who walks around dressed like this and talking with such conviction on her cellphone stuck between shoulder and ear while flapping the air with both arms like a mad orchestra conductor?

Paula Johnson is needed at the F8 counter.

Paula Johnson!

Maybe she's narcissistic or she wants to attract everybody's attention. Nah, that'd be too easy, she's calling for help. His mind turns her into a princess, a princess kept prisoner in a remote ancient monument in the middle of a jungle infested with blood-thirsty insects, animals and ghosts; the sexy outfit turns into remnants of her royal clothing savagely torn by her jailer, another King Kong who ripped her undergarments to make a quilt with the rest of his collection.

Passengers on American Airlines flight 1549 to Las Vegas.

This is your final boarding call.

The other passengers seem to be the hirelings guarding her; the plane, a resting withstander dragon, perhaps a colossal anaconda, maybe an optical illusion created by a powerful wizard to hide the escape route from her dungeon whose ceiling is filled with odors of sulphur and burnt flesh coming from lit pyres and other hell fires strewn on the red earth.

Please proceed promptly to gate C16.

He becomes a modern Don Quixote, now perfectly aware of the challenges, imbued with knowledge to solve ancient alien puzzles, highly trained to fight and kill countless orc minions, to fend off wandering souls seeking to control his body, he's ready to climb the highest mountains, to descend the most hellish underworld and if necessary to enroll an army under his banner. I will come, I will see, I will conquer!

Paula Johnson is needed at the F8 counter.

Paula Johnson!

Across the waiting area, she flits about like a butterfly with her anorexic body barely veiled by the fabric miraculously still hanging on her fragile silhouette crowned by a long lank and floppy maroon mane which flies around her as much as her tissue trappings.

What he sees is a diaphanous queenly damsel in peril; he knows she's surrounded by the undead, bound to sacrilegious grounds, enslaved for eternity, unless...

She stops strolling, stopping the movie in his head, stopping life around them, stopping time even. Has she read his mind? She examines him intently. Besides her tiny but grown-up female external shapes, her true womanhood resides in her eyes, as if they knew every person's wildest dreams.

He is shaken by her scrutiny. He doesn't blink, he doesn't breathe.

Good afternoon passengers on American Airlines flight 2034 to Fort Lauderdale

This is your pre-boarding announcement.

At this time we will be boarding our first class passengers.

We are also inviting those passengers with small children...

and any passengers requiring special assistance, to begin boarding.

The houri activates herself to pack computer, phone, iPod.

Several wives elbow their better halves into a deep state of helplessness.

His reason comes back, prompting him to get ready, Back to earth: she's a passenger, I'm a passenger, life goes on and I'm a fool. He gathers his papers, quietly zips his bag closed. But the knight errant in his mind rushes in the belly of the beast to secure the princess's escape route, to kill approaching enemies.

Moments later, he sits in the far back of the so-called monster. He can't ignore the mental turmoil of the speaker announcements about safety, the overhead compartment and all electronic devices to be turned off.

The behemoth snake of his imagination swallows hordes of dybbuks, fiends, gnomes, hobgoblins, imps, Nibelung, ogres, sprites, a few freak free-lance foreign freebooters and three mercenaries from Belgium. The ruffians settle down without attacking our hero, almost ignoring him.

He feels insulted by being deprived of his creative control, This doesn't make sense!

The knight errant observes the scene as well, This is mostly strange, have I turned invisible to them? He ruminates his chances of success, No need to kill them, then; they'll stay and rot in hell after our escape. Nonetheless, he is jumpy about the brouhaha and the gesticulations of the army in front of him. Not for long, the crowd freezes. He stretches his neck, seeks for hints, Have they killed her? Is somebody bringing her corpse in? That would explain why they didn't attack him, for their guardian duties would be over. Alas, I fear she is no longer and my quest remains unfinished.

The seething and the hubbub from the mongrels resume; she's alive and well, there she is, entering the stomach of the monster. He jumps back into his armor. The herd begins to stand up. He's armed to the teeth. She motions for the throng to calm down, to sit. They obey. She walks the aisle like a real princess. He was mistaken; it's her plane, the passengers are her subjects, their heads turn and bow reverentially at her passage. She keeps walking and smiling, walking and smiling all the way to where her savior sits in white shiny armor, she knows he loves her as her own personal knight errant.

But he's not a knight errant, he's on vacation to cure his writer's block and therefore he has to imagine something else, Quick, quickly, quicker! She is coming. The only free seat is at the window on my right. OK, I got it, maybe she's a famous actress from 1st class looking for the bathroom. No, they have their own in the front. She is getting closer. Wait, perhaps she is restless. Oh god, this is going too fast, what am I going to say, what's going to happen?

He wouldn't have time to prepare, to even react, she'd be right over him in an instant and she'd say, Sorry to disturb you, I'm late, I was on standby, they waited until the last minute to (Ladies and gentlemen welcome on board Flight 2034) And he'd say, Oh, the window seat? (with service from Dallas/Forth Worth) And he'd stand up, Sure. I mean, (to Fort Lauderdale) yes, of course. (We are currently third) And she'd smile. (in line for take-off and) I don't mean to (are expected to) but you have (be in the air in approximately seven minutes time) some white stuff all over your mouth. And he'd say, What? Where? And she'd say, There and there, and there; everywhere, in fact. And he'd say, I couldn't hear you. (We ask that you please fasten) What? (your seat belts at this time) The announcements! (and secure all baggage) Hi, my name is (underneath your seat) WHAT? (or in the overhead compartments) And she'd repeat, Paula Johnson. And he'd think, What!?! But he'd say, Please to meet you. (We also ask that your seats and table trays are in the upright position for take-off) And he'd want to put a name on her perfume, some Oriental scent for sure, he'd replay over and over their handshake, her dry icy long fingers without rings lying inert in his palm as if she were truly back from the dead, he'd try to peek at his prisoner princess, not as glamorous as he had imagined, almost androgynous, borderline android like Minako the cyborg from his previous story. (Please turn off all personal electronic devices, including laptops and cell phones) And he'd think that reality is indeed stranger than fiction but then he'd snub it as too much of a cliché, and he'd turn his head to the window, to her Junoesque silhouette drawn against the light of the day. (Smoking is prohibited for the duration of the flight) And she'd catch his eyes and she'd say, I wish they'd stop (Thank you for traveling with us) WHAT DID YOU SAY? (Enjoy your flight)

I said I wish they'd stop those announcements.

Yes, me too.

She arranges the loose folds of her sheer silk vesture, I saw you in the waiting area.

Yes, me too.

Her face appears darker in contrast with the outside brightness; her body, as sculpted in a black marble polished like a Rodin sculpture, I noticed you were staring at me, oh yes you did, but your eyes didn't pop out of their sockets like the other people. Her statue animates itself with a shudder and then a laugh, These planes are freezing, aren't they?

Can I offer you my jacket, fetch you a blanket?

Can I ask you a personal question, instead? What were you thinking when I introduced myself?

You wouldn't believe me.

I know what you were thinking. You were thinking, this girl... they were calling her name all over the speaker system for at least an hour and now she's here with me. Right? Do you want to know why I'm here with you? I'll tell you why. I wanted to catch the next plane to anywhere. That's why I was on standby. Kind of daring, isn't it?

Yeah, I agree. I'd never do a thing like that.

Oh, but at the gate you were thinking of me as a captive in some sort of Gehenna.

How do you know?

I just do. So, weren't you trying also to catch the next plane to anywhere?

Well, you've got a point.

I know.

My turn to ask you a personal question.

Shoot.

I don't mean to pry... but why did you want to catch the next plane to anywhere?

She dismisses my polite excuse, Don't be so politically correct. She shivers one more time, I think I could use one of these blankets now. It's a long story but, I guess, we have plenty of time before our arrival, haven't we? You see, my real name is not Paula Johnson. Give me another blanket, please.

Why are you telling me that?

Because you were dreaming of me so nicely, I like the idea of a knight errant to save me from my enemies. She pulls on her hair and rubs energetically her bald-smooth skull, Leukemia, they gave me three months. Do you mind cuddling with me under the blankets? I'm scared of flying.

. . . .

. . . .

"Sir?"

"Hey... what?" His neck is stiff, his heap of papers is blackened with his handwriting, the Maalox bottle in his left hand is empty. "What do you want?"

"Are you flying with us today? We're about to close the door of the airplane."

"I'm coming."

"One more thing: do you know you've got white stuff all over your mouth?"

Epilogue.

And so, that's the way everything happened.

As an aside note, for the chronological account of the story, you should have followed the alternate page numbering notation on the top left corner of every other page.

This monumental manuscript has a history bigger than the story it relates. To make a long story short, know this: the manuscript was destroyed four times, stolen once, misplaced twice – we think – but luckily it had been backed-up thrice on the latest-model of the famous Axelian Archivator.

What you have read, which helped us make a humble contribution to human annals, is a collection of compiled handwritten notes kept by literate illegal aliens during the shooting of the movie – not their shooting – plus the A.A. backup files and a Swahili bootleg copy of the novel my blind sister found by accident in Chinatown. Unfortunately, she sent it to the wrong address. Fortunately, it was a real address. In Kossovo, Belarus – not the Serbian Kosovo, the Belarusian Kossovo. Anyhow, we are very grateful to the local postal mistress who only kept the parcel seventy-three days under a bushel of yak butter before sending our lawyers a blackmail letter demanding in exchange a signed picture of GW. (1)

Alas, and as you know, one of our seven GW survived but she refused to get involved, so we had to forge the picture and the signature. The package arrived in Guantanamo Bay two weeks and two months later. My poor sister, bless her heart, she had to pay the postage, another lawyer and a translator to force the guards to let go of her wooden peg leg; they said it looked suspicious. In any event, it was promptly freed after Madame Cleve telephoned to the warden.

This being said and duly registered at the Library of Congress, rest assured your name has not been reported, yet. We hope you enjoyed the produce of your money-spending. Please fill in the customer-satisfaction form at the back of this, and have a nice day. Surf's up!

(1) GW stands here for GhostWriter. We have been told that other people are currently using these letters of representation with more or less acumen than the men and women we hired as our very own personal GW – we had seven; one survived, two never showed up.

Reboot Sequence.

He pointed to behind his right ear. "In case of emergency, please do not panic nor hesitate, simply press my reboot button, see, just like that." And he pressed the button behind his right ear.

Of course, this was not supposed to be done during normal operations, this was to be done just before the DSOB (1), as the message stipulates always:

        Event ID: CX1000-1561.3300.4100-8669.1582.4684.

        Error 41, kernel-power, critical error.

        A fatal exception error has occurred at USER:101ABORT. The current user

        has been terminated.
 

        ●    Dial 711 to terminate the user job application.

        ●    Press the reboot button again to restart your DNAndroid unit. You will

            lose three seconds and your last order in the kitchen.
 

                                I repeat, dial 711 or press the reboot button to continue...

This is not a drill nor a test nor a joke. Current specimen is being reset. Due to risks of electromagnetic viral infection, stay away from subject until full recovery.

Internal buzzing, a WHOOSH and then a SWISH, CLINK and CLANG, a RATCHET, FLUSH and KISS.

He shook his head, his shoulders, hips, knees and then his feet, "Much better. Be right back."

(1) Death Screen Of Blue: a souvenir from the old Microsoft Windows Operating System BSOD blue-screen white-message saying that the electronic apparatus  had ceased operations because of a hexadecimal-coded reason.

Déjeuner sur l'herbe de votre sofa

aka Breakfast On The Grass of Your Sofa.

Madame, Laissez-moi être un des coussins, Ou un Indien sous vos coussins, Ou un de vos cousins germains, Pour épouser votre corps au moins, Me faufiler en esprit, loin, Loin, très loin sans vos machins, Afin de pouvoir des deux mains N'être que tout à vos petits soins Jusqu'au petit matin

Madam, Let me be one of the cushions, Or an Indian under your cushions, Or one of your kissing cousins, To espouse your body at least, To mentally slip into you, far, Far, very far without your doodads, And be able to, with both hands, Take care of your very needs Until early morning