Who Is Jan Snupij?
Click to read entry viii.
Click to read entry vii.
vi.
While the oom-pah band droned on, Jan Snupij sat and carefully folded his napkin into halves. He folded it into fourths. He considered folding it again but remembered his ale; he took a few gulps of that instead. He stared at the faux marble tabletop until the dark veins and clouds formed into patterns. A pirate ship. The Savior Jesus Christ's face. Jesus Christ on the pirate ship, waving a sword at a flying horse just off the prow...
"Sorry about taking off like that," said the curvy girl who slid breathlessly back into the seat across from him. "I just saw some friends over there I haven't seen in a long time." She waved across the crowded bar and laughed prettily.
"No problem at all." Jan Snupij did that thing with the bottom of his face that Skinless Paul assured him was a smile. "The waitress brought your drink," he said, motioning to the concoction on the table in front of her as if he had conjured it himself.
"Oh, good!" Her eyes sparkling in her round glowing face, she picked up the glass and sipped from it. That was the exact moment, watching her take a bit of ice into her mouth and crack it, that Jan Snupij saw the cosmic farce he was participating in. This brilliant, cheerful woman in front of him wasn't seeing him sitting there trying to smile at her. And worse she wasn't talking to him either; about her job, her “art” classes, her strange disgust with what she called her "body." There was another man sitting where Jan Snupij was, across the table from her in a bar much like this only it was inside her head. This usurper behind her eyes looked just like him, he supposed, or damn well close. It was to him she spoke, offering words chilled by crushed ice.
When the realization hit, he felt his body go deliciously slack. It was like the point right before you wake from a howling nightmare where you realize you're dreaming. He felt his smile swell against the onrushing words. I'm not even here, he told himself. He looked past her to the stage. The singer, a skinny redhead of indeterminate sex, seemed to be bobbing its head in agreement.
Jan Snupij threw himself into the conversation, feeling like a prisoner on the eve of release. He made small affirmative sounds at the back of his throat. Every time he opened his mouth to say more, he was silenced by another runaway train screaming from behind her teeth. She cut off one of these abruptly, making it fall off its ralis. She widened her eyes. "Oh, wow! Will you excuse me? I just saw someone else!"
"Go right ahead." Jan Snupij used this as an excuse to siphon off some of the laughter that had been building under his shirt. "You're quite the butterfly!" At this she laughed and rolled her eyes and hurried away. From somewhere behind him, he heard a long, pained “Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii,” followed quickly by another. He didn't turn to look (as a rule he never turned to look at anything) and imagined with a sudden shiver the tentative ghost-hugging going on back there.
Inside his head the flesh-words were waking up. He felt his spirits lift as his bones tuned to the pitch of their voices. They flew circles around the angles of his brain, some of the more restless ones riding his arteries out to the tiny holes at his wrists. He watched these march in tight spirals on his skin and laughed quietly.
You're still here? Fuck, we thought for sure you'd be done by the time we got up!
No, still here, he thought, But I'll tell you what, my friends: never again. Never. Fucking. Ever. He rmembered his ale again and cheerfully emptied the glass, then rolled down his sleeves, the flesh-words echoing with their laughter.
Click to read entry vii.
vi.
While the oom-pah band droned on, Jan Snupij sat and carefully folded his napkin into halves. He folded it into fourths. He considered folding it again but remembered his ale; he took a few gulps of that instead. He stared at the faux marble tabletop until the dark veins and clouds formed into patterns. A pirate ship. The Savior Jesus Christ's face. Jesus Christ on the pirate ship, waving a sword at a flying horse just off the prow...
"Sorry about taking off like that," said the curvy girl who slid breathlessly back into the seat across from him. "I just saw some friends over there I haven't seen in a long time." She waved across the crowded bar and laughed prettily.
"No problem at all." Jan Snupij did that thing with the bottom of his face that Skinless Paul assured him was a smile. "The waitress brought your drink," he said, motioning to the concoction on the table in front of her as if he had conjured it himself.
"Oh, good!" Her eyes sparkling in her round glowing face, she picked up the glass and sipped from it. That was the exact moment, watching her take a bit of ice into her mouth and crack it, that Jan Snupij saw the cosmic farce he was participating in. This brilliant, cheerful woman in front of him wasn't seeing him sitting there trying to smile at her. And worse she wasn't talking to him either; about her job, her “art” classes, her strange disgust with what she called her "body." There was another man sitting where Jan Snupij was, across the table from her in a bar much like this only it was inside her head. This usurper behind her eyes looked just like him, he supposed, or damn well close. It was to him she spoke, offering words chilled by crushed ice.
When the realization hit, he felt his body go deliciously slack. It was like the point right before you wake from a howling nightmare where you realize you're dreaming. He felt his smile swell against the onrushing words. I'm not even here, he told himself. He looked past her to the stage. The singer, a skinny redhead of indeterminate sex, seemed to be bobbing its head in agreement.
Jan Snupij threw himself into the conversation, feeling like a prisoner on the eve of release. He made small affirmative sounds at the back of his throat. Every time he opened his mouth to say more, he was silenced by another runaway train screaming from behind her teeth. She cut off one of these abruptly, making it fall off its ralis. She widened her eyes. "Oh, wow! Will you excuse me? I just saw someone else!"
"Go right ahead." Jan Snupij used this as an excuse to siphon off some of the laughter that had been building under his shirt. "You're quite the butterfly!" At this she laughed and rolled her eyes and hurried away. From somewhere behind him, he heard a long, pained “Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii,” followed quickly by another. He didn't turn to look (as a rule he never turned to look at anything) and imagined with a sudden shiver the tentative ghost-hugging going on back there.
Inside his head the flesh-words were waking up. He felt his spirits lift as his bones tuned to the pitch of their voices. They flew circles around the angles of his brain, some of the more restless ones riding his arteries out to the tiny holes at his wrists. He watched these march in tight spirals on his skin and laughed quietly.
You're still here? Fuck, we thought for sure you'd be done by the time we got up!
No, still here, he thought, But I'll tell you what, my friends: never again. Never. Fucking. Ever. He rmembered his ale again and cheerfully emptied the glass, then rolled down his sleeves, the flesh-words echoing with their laughter.