Tuesday, March 16, 2004

The Trial

[They enter into the friendly neighborhood Herberger’s. Man walks slow, almost sadly, as woman approaches a dress.]
"Oh, like, totally, I love this dress. . .it's like so like good, and stuff. Like yeah."
"Can you tell me why you like clothes again? I don't seem to see it, you know." Man puts hands to hips in questioning manner.
"Like, it's like how they like look on me and like stuff. Like yeah. And I like like how cheap they are! Like this is like a steal! Like look at it!"
"Suuuuure. . ." Man rolls eyes. Whistles.
Woman takes out more clothes. Points. "Hey, which is better?" She shows him a red rose-covered skirt. "This one." She takes it back. "Or." She takes a black skirt. "Or this one."
Man groans. He wants to say, "You know I hate this type of thing. . ." but decides against it. Women get mad at that type of thing. Not good to complain. "I like. . ." He puts hand on face. Heavy thought. Heavy as a feather. "I like the black one. . .it has a nice undertone to your sturdy legs, and it also has a nice bringing-out quality with your face. I think black is your color." He nods at his own genius.
Another test he had passed.
He had done good. Lies only go so deep, and a skirt can hold them.
~~~~
[They enter into a friendly neighborhood Software Etc.]

Woman eyes man in games. "Aghhhhhhh. . ." says woman. "Agggghh." Man ignores her.
"Look here! Look—look! They've got Tetris. Tetris! Would you believe that? Tetris! What do you think? Hm?"
Woman eyes man in games. "Aghhhhh. . ." says woman. "I think we should leave. . ."
"What?"
"I think. . .I think we should leave."
"No. No, we can't leave! Don't you see all they have here. . .it's great! It's great, it's just great."
"Aghhhhh. . .I'm hungry. I want some food! Aggghhhhh. Can we just leave?"
"No."
"Please? Please?"
"No."
"Aren't I more important than games. . .aren't I?"
"No."
"Aghhhh. . .screw you." Man grabs her.
"Stop right there lady."
"Hm?" He puts Tetris in her hands. Puts ET in her hands.
"Which one's better, you think?"
Woman rolls eyes. She wants to say, "Aghhhh. . .I don't care. Can we just. . .leave?" But, instead, says, "ET. . .ET I think."
"Are you sure?"
"Hm?"
"Is that your final answer?"
"What are we playing now? Are you Reg, me some loser idiot going for a million?"
"Yes. Yes you are. Is that your final answer?"
"Can I use a lifeline?"
"Maybe."
"Maybe?"
"Yeah, maybe, babe. Maybe."
"Okay. So can I. . .then?"
"Which lifeline would you like to use?"
"I'd like to poll the audience."
"Okay. Audience, press either ET or Tetris on your keypads now." Man screams, "WHICH GAME IS BETTER? ET OR TETRIS?"
"TETRIS!" a man screamed.
"ET!" another said.
"NEITHER!" one said.
Then, their voices coalesced. "TETRIS!"
"So they said Tetris."
"Yeah. Aghhh. . . okay. I'll go with Tetris, then?"
"Final answer?"
"Yes, Reg."
"And you're—you're—"
"What? Oh, what?"
"You've just won. . .absolutely nothing!"
"That's lame. Agghhh. . .can we just leave?"
"No, we can't."
"Why not?"
"Because I want to look at some more games. Is that okay?"
"Ummm. . .I guess. But one thing. Hold on there."
"Yeah?"
"Why do you like games so much?"
"Why do you like clothes so much?"
"You answer first."
"No, you answer first."
"Agghh. . .fine. I like clothes because. . .well. They're so fashionable and—and they're so. . ."
"So what?"
"So pretty. And I like how they look. They just look right."
"Really? They just look right?"
"Uh, yeah. They do."
"I think you lie."
"What?"
"I think you lie."
"Aghh. . .why would I lie?"
"Because you're a woman."
"Women lie?"
"Some."
"Some, being me?"
"Yeah, being you."
"Pff. Right."
"Pff. Yes."
"I think you're the liar."
"Oh do you? At least I didn't have to use a life line."
"Oh sure, Reg. Now you're the big tough guy."
"Yes I am. And if you'd excuse me, I'd like to look at my games."
"You still didn't answer my question."
"I don't answer questions."
"Why?"
"I'm a muse. Can't you tell?"
"No, I can't."
"That's too bad."
"Is it?"
"Yes."
"Aghhh. . .right, and I'm a bunny too."
"You are?"
"Yeah, umm, I am."
"Well, Ms. Bunny, would you marry Mr. Muse?"
"I—I don't know. Do I get a wedding ring?"
"No. Those are for humans. We're not humans."
"Oh."
"Will you marry Mr. Muse?"
"Maybe."
"Maybe? Well, maybe isn't an answer."
"I don't answer questions. Can't we just leave?"
"No. Now let me look at my games, would you?"
"Aghhh. . .fine. But hurry up."
"I will, I will. And we're getting that Tetris game too."
"Yay."
"Yes, 'yay' is right. Now, I'm going to look. Just—just go over there and flirt with someone, or something, would you?"
"Me? Flirt? Okay. Sounds better than you. Hmph. Sounds better than you ever will."
[Man sees his reflection off of one of the game’s covers. His eyes lock onto his eyes and he cannot believe what he sees.]
“Hey, hold on. I just realized something.”
“What?”
“We sound so lame. . .I think there’s something wrong here.”
“Hm? What is it?”
“Ehhhhh. . .I’m not sure. I’ve got this feeling.”
“You’re scaring me, you know. What’s it about?”
“I think it’s. . .déjà vu. Yeah. I think that’s what it is.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I am. I just have this feeling.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah. I think I am. But. . .but, I feel something. It’s right at the tip of my tongue.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“I don’t mean to.”
“I know.”
“I think I should start looking at my games then. . .”
“Okay. Sounds good.”
“You aren’t really going to flirt, are you?”
“You’re such a tease.”
“Heh.”
“Of course I’m not going to flirt.”
“Of course you’re not.”
“Yeah. Okay. I’ll see you soon. Agggh. . .I hope it’s soon.”
“I’ll try not to be long.” Woman walks off. Wanders around aimlessly.
[Man decided not to tell the woman. He thought she wouldn’t understand.]
Man, aside, “I think I know what it is now. I think I know. I am merely character created by some God; some intricate creator of me.
“And this God has made me in the image of a stereotype, and has made her in the image of a stereotype. A strange, penetrating albatross this is; strange indeed.
“Strange to know that every motion I do is mimicry; that each act I do isn’t real. If only I could be real. . .if only I could be real.”
[Man had seen what he really was in the reflection of a game: he had seen he was just a stereotypical man. He had the big geeky glasses on and had the look of a geek. That was not how he saw himself. Man was supposed to be strong and cunning, brave and virile. He had come to the conclusion he was a walking cliché then.]
Woman walks over. “What are you saying, honey?”
“Nothing. Nothing, it’s not important.”
“Okay. If you say so. Aghhh. . .can we go?”
“Mmmm. . .I guess. But first I’m going to buy this Tetris game.”
“All right. I’ll be waiting outside the store; I’ll be on the bench out there.”
“Okay. See you there.”
“See you there.”
[Man stays a while viewing games. He feels like he will cry because he cannot believe that he is a walking stereotype. Man cannot hold tears in and cries up front to the cashier as he buys Tetris.]
“Oh, man, I can’t. . .I can’t believe this.”
“What is it sir?”
“I’m a walking stereotype!” Man clasps arm around cashier. Cries in shoulder. Sniffles and whines.
“Get off me, ya goddamn nut!” Cashier shoves man off him. Picks up phone and calls police. Man is taken away for questioning.

[He is in an interrogation room, a white, empty, penetrating room.]

“So. . .uh, sir, what is the problem, exactly?”
“I’m a stereotype, officer! You’ve got to save me!”
“This guy is nuts.” Officer leaves and calls the mental asylum. Man sits in interrogation room and cries. He starts talking.
“Oh, my God, why would you do this to me? Why?”

[Men come in and take him away. He is taken to a mental asylum and locked in a cage. Some time passes and he is let out of the cage to have lunch with the others. An alienist* follows him around as he speaks to another inmate.]

“Why’re you in here?”
“Quid pro quo. First you tell me something, then I tell you something.”
“I’m here because I’m a stereotype.”
“You mean because you think you’re a stereotype, don’t you?”
“I don’t know. So why’re you in here?”
“My name is Hannibal Lecter. I am in here for murder.”
“Oh. Interesting.”
“Have you ever heard of a woman called Clarice Starling?”

[Just then bell sounds. Lunch is over and he is taken back to his cell. The alienist sits in his room on a chair as he lies in bed, thinking.]

(“Wait. I just realized something,”) he thinks. (“Hannibal Lecter isn’t real.”)
He knew then.
The alienist, by the name of Mitchell Smith, sat back and continued to jot things as they happened.

*An alienist determines the sanity of a patient.
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