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At the End of the Line

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This story first ran in the Midsummer 2007 edition of Grub Street Grackle. It appears here online for the first time.

You’re on the wrong train.

When you asked the conductor a minute ago how much farther it would be, he informed you that this train would not get you to the city no matter how long you rode, but that you might as well take it to the end of the line anyway, since you had just passed the last inbound train for an hour and a half. So there’s nothing to do but to fold your hands and accept your fate, locked to the tracks as it is, and see where it takes you.

Nevertheless, it does alarm you that you should have been snatched out of your plans like that, swiftly and without deliberation, as though a careful trap had been laid for you, exactly in the shape of your intended course: the open doors of the train waiting for you when you arrived at the station with nothing to mark what they had in store, offering only a ingenuous display of readiness: “Here we are, sir, at your service,” closing behind you diffidently, without guile.

With one small move, all the possibilities of the evening have collapsed into a single, definite fact: you are going to Fox Grove (which to you is nowhere) to wait in a train station (which is nothing to anyone but the end of the line).

And thank goodness for it. Along with all the unforeseeable courses the evening might have taken, all your anxieties and uncertainties have been dispelled. You’ll have to call Everett and tell him not to wait for you, but you won’t have to worry about how to greet him to his face, what to say to him, or how early you could reasonably excuse yourself. At least now you know what you’re in for.

But isn’t it a little inhuman to be so pleased at the collapse of the prospect of greeting and passing time with a dear friend? It’s not that you don’t like him; on the contrary, you have a great admiration and affection for him. But he does have a peculiar way of paying you such attention that you wonder whether there’s anything in your presence worth noticing, and doubt the honesty of everything you say or do; are you presenting the real you? and can Everett tell?

The train’s steady racket covers every other sound with layer upon layer of distance. The conductor’s announcement of the next stop is dark and muffled, and as the man sitting below your roost on the second level of the train car folds his newspaper, the rustle comes to you like reflected light sluggishly seeping from the bottom of lake. The train slows, and you watch the man staggering mutely out of the moving car as he puts on his coat and hat. As the car door opens, a thought slides open in your mind: you might step off here yourself, and explore while you wait for the next train, perhaps even walk home. It must be far now, but why should that stop you? The evening is lost in any case; why not pass it adventurously?

An excitement rushes from your feet, over your knees, through your thighs, up your back, out through your head, and leaves you. You stay on the train. The stops and starts are so softly punctuated with no one getting in or out of your car, that you hardly notice them. The unbroken movements of ostinato progression between stops at first set you on edge. Your troubled mind wants to continue arguing with itself, but has to work hard to keep above that pulsing, droning noise. At last, having been distracted by annoyance for several minutes, it forgets what it was arguing about and settles down somewhere beneath a thoughtless mental stratum. The rest of the ride is a long and somnolent passage in which nothing happens, like a conceptual poem composed entirely of the results of parsing a manual of agricultural statistics. (“Noun participle preposition article noun: numeral / Noun participle preposition article adjective noun: numeral,” etc.)

The train stops, this time completely. This must be Fox Grove. You look outside and see a small station, but you can’t make out the sign identifying it, so to be on the safe side, you wait for the conductor to reappear in your car and confirm that this is the end of the line before getting off.

On the far end of the station parking lot, empty but for a dead-looking Ford Taurus with no windshield, stands a payphone. As you cross, you try not to notice how dark it is, or how no one could see the pay phone from inside the station (even if there is anyone in there). But you cross the lot without incident, dial Everett’s cell number, and drop all the coins you have in your pocket into the slot.

A friendly disjointed voice asks you politely to “please…deposit…ten…cents.” You double check your pockets, your wallet, and your pockets again, but all you have are a couple of pennies and twenty-eight dollars in bills. Well, shoot. Now you won’t even be able to talk to Everett.

You stand by the phone for a minute trying to discern the tone of that last thought. Meanwhile, you’re getting cold and a little nervous about the quiet, dense shadows populating the thicket of maples contiguous with this side of the lot. You turn your eyes back to the shelter of the station. Maybe someone inside has change for a dollar.

You step into the fluorescent-lit room and immediately wish you were still outside. There are two people in here, neither of whom you want to ask for change: on a bench along the opposite wall is a long-haired, scruffy man with a thick brown mustache and an old flannel jacket, who seems to be asleep; on a chair immediately to your left, unmoved by your arrival, sits a tanned and skinny man, who is busy demonstrating that it is possible to hold a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon even if you are missing three and a half fingers on each hand. At his feet are two plastic six-pack necks, one empty, the other still holding two more beers.

It wouldn’t be prudent to affront these individuals by walking out again upon seeing them, so you rush over to the corner farthest from both of them, across from the sleeping man, and sit down.

You miss being on the train. You try to recover your monotony-induced state of nirvana by sinking under the buzz of the fluorescent lights and counting the bricks in the opposite wall. But every time you approach the proper tedium, you remember that you are surrounded by decrepit freaks, and have to start over. In the midst of your fourth attempt, a fly lands on the sleeper’s nose. He twitches and swats the air in front of his face, provoking the drinker to laugh a throat-raking laugh, which in turn more thoroughly awakens the sleeper, who raises his head and blinks twice, frowning back at the disturber of his slumber, then turns to you, who suddenly realize that you have been staring, caught in the spectacle. You turn your gaze quickly back to the wall, but it is evidently too late; once the long-haired man has raised himself up and stretched out, he ambles in your direction, takes a stand a foot in front of you and calls out, yawningly, “Airridge any?” This is an extremely witty thing for him to say, judging by his fellow’s explosive reaction, more frighteningly wheezy than his first burst of laughter.

After struggling briefly to come up with the proper form of address for an inarticulate vagrant, you settle for, “What did you say?”

“Yarefidgennious?” He repeats obligingly.

“Am I… fidgennious?”

“Yarefitchennies!”

Now you are really at a loss for manners. Having already heard his query three times without coming any closer to apprehending its content, you begin to doubt whether yet another repetition would be acceptable; rather than annoying and insulting the man by making him ask it yet again, you consider how you might best pretend to have understood. You are just getting to like the idea of “It depends on the situation,” when the finger-poor drinker, his laughter having subsided, creakily elucidates, “Dale just said, ‘Ya…ever…pitch…pennies?’”

“Pitch pennies,” You repeat blankly.

“Hitch bennies!” Dale declares enthusiastically, and somewhat more distinctly, as though having finally succeeded in teaching you to enunciate it properly.

Relieved to learn that you can now answer the question, you reply, “What does that mean?”

Too late, you realize the folly of answering with another question. Now this uncomfortable conversation is destined to continue until you come to comprehend the meaning of “pitching pennies,” whereas you might have ended it decisively with a simple, “No and I don’t care to, thanks.”

Dale gets up and crosses to the middle of the room, fumbling in his pockets. You can guess from his gait and his breath (which you smell even at this distance) what happened to the other nine beers.

“C’mere,” he directs you.

You don’t actually want to get any closer to Dale, but you don’t see what else you can do now that you have so recklessly expressed an interest in pitching pennies, so you get up and meet him in the middle of the room. Having got you there, however, he seems now to forget your presence, he is so preoccupied with searching his pockets. He has only four of them, three on his pants, and a breast pocket on his jacket, and all appear to be empty, so it shouldn’t take long, but he has already been at it for a full minute.

You’re thinking about sitting down again until he sorts it out when he calls to his comrade, “Hey, Vern, ya otny bennies?”

You remember that you have a couple yourself, but you don’t want to draw any attention to your wallet, so you let Vern consult his accounts. He puts down his penultimate beer, leans to one side, reaches into his back pocket, and miraculously produces a small handful of coins, which he then sifts through with his left half-thumb.

“No, Dale, I got nickels,” he rasps.

“Thall do,” Dale accedes. He takes two nickels from Vern and hands one of them to you. “O, kay,” he begins with a tutelary air, “Now just tothsa benny gensa wall.” He scoops his arm towards the wall to demonstrate a “tothsa.” “Ntry to lannit axlo…as close to the wall…” He breaks off here, as though unsure how to finish, and settles for showing you the “tothsa” again. Finally, he stops and looks at you expectantly.

Anxious to get this over with, you give the nickel a healthy underhand throw towards the wall. It hits low, bounces off and rolls a few feet, then tumbles to a stop.

“Good!” Dale praises you. “Sgotterit the wall, see?” He pitches his nickel in turn. It arcs high and hits a little lower than yours and rolls back softly, stopping a good foot closer than yours.

“See at?” He says earnestly, pointing to his successful pitch. “Ats howiz done!”

He stumbles over to the nickels, picks them up and brings them back for another round.

This time, you toss a little more lightly, trying to imitate the high arc of Dale. It turns out well enough. Your nickel rolls pretty far but its course doubles back and rolls a foot toward the wall before the nickel is ready to settle down. It could have been better, but you think you’re getting the hang of this. It’s a matter of throwing only slightly too far, as though aiming to place your coin firmly just on the other side of the wall.

Dale’s nickel is not so happily thrown. It bounces hard and rolls well past yours.

“Eh,” he sighs, “Ya won thissum.”

You’ve been waiting a long time for an occasion to say to someone, “So the circle is complete,” and now that it has arrived, you can’t help yourself, and deliver the line with spirited irony.

“Huh?” Dale answers.

“Star Wars,” you explain. “I’m Darth Vader, the student, you’re Obi-Wan, the master, the nickels are light sabers…” He doesn’t seem to be grasping the beauty of the analogy. “Never mind,” you say, “You want to play again?”

He does, and indicates his enthusiasm by collecting the nickels and pressing one back into your waiting palm. “Furr back this time,” he insists, and you step with him a few floor tiles further from the wall. This move puts Vern back into your line of sight. He is grinning like a circus clown, his yellow teeth wide apart.

Better focus on the game. Taking careful aim, you pitch and place the nickel within a foot of the wall. Dale stares at it with admiring concentration, takes a deep breath, he pitches sloppily; his penny hits the ground, rolls past yours, and stops without even touching the wall. Vern slaps his leg and guffaws until his throat can’t bear it and he breaks down coughing.

“All show you!” Dale cries as Vern recovers himself and starts in on his last beer, his eyes gleaming. Turning back to you, Dale says, “Awrighten, ducky lucky, less pussom money onnissum.”

So he’s been sand-bagging you! You weigh the pros and cons of gambling with a hostile drunken hustler without a benny to his name and decide to decline. “Maybe later,” you answer. “Let’s just play for fun.”

You play another round. This time, Dale’s penny hits the wall flat and lands without rolling, an inch or two from the wall, beating your pitch by at least a foot. He stands, beaming stupidly, puts his hands in his pockets, and closes his eyes.

He doesn’t seem to want to play again, but he’s not sitting down, so you don’t feel like you can, either. You try to make some conversation: “So are both of you guys in here waiting for the train, too?”

Dale’s eyes pop open and for a second his face twists like an angry wind, then relaxes into a cynical frown, and he laughs derisively. “Waifatinr train?” He says. “Thass good, Waifortina train. Iss good uh Vern?” Vern laughs, too, a little, taking it easy after his recent collapse. “Waitin’…for…the…train,” Dale says again, more carefully. His face softens. Suddenly, he looks human; the creases in his brow, the dirty stubble on his neck, the torn flannel jacket, all go to make a testament to the dignity of suffering. His eyes well up and a tear spills out of the corner of his left eye.

You want to comfort him, but you’ve never comforted anyone before. You’ve seen it done a few times. You’ve seen people give comfort by hugging, by holding hands, by wiping away tears, but these approaches are obviously prevented by the protocols governing contact with strangers. You could just say something, but you sense that your comfortable bourgeois existence leaves you ill equipped to speak to real trouble. You look to Vern, but his gaze is down on the floor, and he shakes his head slowly.

So it’s up to you. After a few moments’ deliberation, you decide that the middle way is to pat Dale on the back a couple of times and tell him, “Hey, now,” or some equally meaningless primal syllables. But before you can reach out to do so, the door opens behind you. You turn and see a boy, not older than fourteen, his face and fingers red with the cold. He is wearing a blue bicycle helmet, which he now unclasps and deposits in the yellow nylon messenger bag hanging at his side. He looks from you to Vern to Dale, nervously, then takes a couple of steps further in. Suddenly, Vern gets up and stands behind the boy, as though blocking his exit. Dale looks up at the boy, his face callous again and his gaze muddy.

You’re having trouble keeping up with the mood swings in this room. A minute ago, it was almost jolly, then suddenly it was awkwardly tender, and—now what? These two bums you’ve gotten so cozy with are going to mug this poor kid? The only thread holding this whole encounter together is that you’ve been unprepared for every step of the way.

Dale says to the boy, slowly, concentrating hard to hold himself steady, “Help me out tonight, jussa coupla bucks, uh?”

The kid looks at you, then back at Dale. His eyes are wide and skittery. He seems frightened. But he answers firmly, “No, I can’t give you money.”

Dale steps in closer, right up in the boy’s space, and looks down at him menacingly. “C’mon,” he insists. “Fie dollas.”

Oh, man, this is not good. If he lays a hand on that boy, you’ve got to do something.

“No,” the boy says, shaking a little now but just as definite.

Dale shoves him by his right shoulder. Vern pushes him forward again. Oh man. You’ve got to do something. Oh man.

“Ya do your homork, Charlie?” Dale demands.

What?

Yeah,” says the boy, “I’ve done it.” Vern grins coolly and leans back against the door. Dale pats the boy affectionately on the shoulder.

“Thatta boy,” he says, “Thatta boy. Sreally now, you gossommin for yer ol man, right?”

This is too much.

“No, Dad,” Charlie says plainly. “I’ve got nothing. But the hotel down the street has a room for you. I already paid. A bed for you too, Vern,” he adds, turning, “If you help with Dad.” Vern nods and moves to Dale’s side. Charlie looks to you apologetically, then leads Dale and Vern outside. Before he lets Vern pull him out, however, Dale turns to you, takes your hand in his, and says, shakily, his eyes unfocused and glassy, “Thanks.”

You watch them depart in procession, Charlie holding his little Huffy bicycle, his incontinent father leaning on Vern, until they turn a corner a few blocks away. You sit down again in the same corner as before, and try to sort out what just happened, but the events of the evening are like the scattered contents of a tightly-packed toolbox, that won’t all fit back in again. Most of all, you can’t make out what it is that Dale wanted to thank you for.

You check your watch. Still forty minutes till the train leaves. After that excitement, the thought of waiting half an hour alone just to get back on the damned train disgusts you. But you have no choice. You’ll have to bear it. You look up to the ceiling, steeling yourself with a deep breath, then look down again, heaving a sigh of resignation.

Before your breath is spent, however, your gaze falls on a silver gleam near the wall. The nickels! A warm sense of possibility rushes into your heart, and you spring up to gather the fallen currency.

Everett’s voice, when he picks up and hears you, is candid but not annoyed: “Where the hell are you?”

You explain the circumstances of your truancy, to Everett’s amusement, and promise to recount the details of your experience whenever you next meet (thinking as you say it that this might not be for days, or weeks).

“How about in an hour?” Everett suggests. “I could meet you when you get back to your station and give you a ride home.”

You surprise yourself by saying, “Sure, and you could just crash on my couch for the night if you want.”

Everett agrees, says “See you then,” and the expired evening changes shape. It’s late, it’s colder than ever, and the abandoned Taurus lingers on imposing its eyeless, faceless stamp on the world, pronouncing in rust and dereliction the vanity of all things. But overhead you can see a few stars dimly, and between them no pitiless blank but a field of dark hope, beneath which numberless tokens of light must lie buried, awaiting your searching, patient hands.

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A Hunting Story

This interview originally ran in the October 2005 edition of Grub Street Grackle. It appears here online for the first time.

This story originally ran in the October 2005 edition of Grub Street Grackle. It appears here online for the first time.

During the summer, following his annual release from the trial of attempting to interest scores of oblivious undergraduates in the finer pleasures of Edwardian literature, Peter’s lifestyle was entirely guided by a series of misanthropic considerations. He conducted his researches online as much as possible, and if he had to visit the library he would do so only at precisely 10:30 AM, when he knew that the affable librarian would be too absorbed in conversation with his stupidly beautiful wife to greet him in that infuriating way of his. Peter would read all afternoon and stay in evenings watching wildlife documentaries and drinking wine. His mail he would collect furtively under cover of darkness, and his daily constitutional through the park he would take only in the very early morning, when its paths were yet unpopulated.

Aside from the occasional sleeping vagrant, the only person Peter ever encountered at that hour was an old man whose habit it was to sit all morning on a bench on the west side of the park, a man whose quiet presence was not irksome. His mouth churned constantly on his chewing tobacco, while his eyes looked always straight ahead, motionless, as though waiting, with the patience of a fishing crocodile, for something particular to happen, precisely there, in front of him.

Today, however, Peter’s routine was disrupted. Some nameless anxiety had kept him awake for hours last night, and he had slept in. Thinking of the horde of toddlers, picnickers, and layabouts who had surely taken the park already, he considered omitting the walk altogether; yet he knew he would not have the momentum to begin work on the syllabus for his new seminar on “The Infernal Saki” unless he got away from the apartment for awhile.

In the course of the first ten minutes of his walk, he was several times unpleasantly disturbed by the passing of joggers, who frightened the birds out of the trees around him. They were ruining his walk, and he suffered himself to be cheerily greeted by them only by imagining to himself how energetically they would tumble if he knocked them over, denying himself the more substantial consolation of actually doing so.

One particularly slow pair of women, progressing only slightly faster than he (though their attire and demeanor attested they were rather straining themselves) was too thoroughly engaged in conversation to offer any such greeting. As they passed him, the woman on the left, dressed in a lime green sweat-suit with matching head and armbands, was saying, “You won’t believe it. I swear to God, you won’t in a million years.”

“Try me,” said the other, whose costume differed only in its color, hot pink.

“Okay, but I’m telling you you won’t believe it.”

Peter slowed his pace a little in an endeavor to get them out of earshot.

“You know the old man who’s always sitting on the bench on the west side of the park?” began the woman in green.

“Wait, which way is west?” The woman in green thought a moment, then pointed. “No,” answered her companion, “I haven’t noticed that.”

Peter, however, had noticed, and he had often wondered and speculated about the old man’s history and habits, and imagined him to have walked a considerable path in his time. It wasn’t Peter’s way to indulge his curiosity by interrogating strangers, so he had always left him alone, but here was a chance to hear something of him that promised to be outrageous enough not to disappoint Peter’s fantasy. He sped his pace again and began to listen eagerly.

“Well, he’s always sitting there,” the green woman explained.

“Okay,” said the pink woman, absorbing the information.

“Well, last week, you remember, I came here alone . . .”

“I couldn’t help that,” interrupted the other, “I told you I had a lot to do last week. I didn’t have time. I thought I was going to have a breakdown.”

“I know, I know, don’t sweat it. Really, I mean it, it’s okay. I mean, I didn’t have anyone to talk to and it’s so boring to be out in the park by yourself, you know? But really it’s okay.”

“Okay,” said the other. “So what happened?”

“Well, I’ll tell you, if you’ll let me.”

Peter began to fear that the conflict would forestall the story too long for him to safely overhear it, but the hot pink woman soon proved accommodating enough to let her companion speak freely.

“So last week I went just the way we usually go. I wasn’t thinking about where I was going at all, so I ran close by the old man’s bench, right along it, without thinking about the guy. And do you know what happened?”

“No, tell me!”

“He tripped me! I fell right over into the dirt! At first I thought it might have been an accident, but then when I looked at him he was grinning horribly. If he weren’t so old I’d have socked him right there.”

Peter was outraged. The old man he knew was a much more magnanimous character, and he could not stand to hear him so belittled.

“You call that an unbelievable story?” He shouted ahead to them. It proved, not at all to his surprise, to be the first they had noticed of him. They did not alter their pace, but quieted the furious swinging of their arms to indicate that they were now walking. The woman in green was clearly affronted, and was about to venture a rejoinder in her defense, when Peter found himself shouting on, “I’ll tell you a story about that man to make your heads spin!”

She relented doubtfully, and maintained a posture of defiance, but let him speak.

“I do not doubt the impossibility of its having not escaped your attention,” said Peter with a graciously conciliatory air, “that across the path from our old man there stands a considerable horse chestnut.”

The woman in green nodded uncertainly. Her companion shrugged.

“Three weeks ago, I was observing the gentleman, as I had often done, when I noticed that his eyes were not at their usual rest. Instead, they were shifting slightly back and forth, and his brow was folded in an unmistakable expression of concern. Struck by this aberration, I turned my gaze to see what he was watching and saw, to my disgust, a squirrel chasing a wounded swallow back and forth under the chestnut tree. The bird seemed to have a broken wing and it lacked the energy to fly more than a few feet at once; the squirrel was always fast enough to catch it on the other side and renew its attack.”

“The poor thing!” declared the woman in pink. The woman in green showed no sign of sympathy, but Peter could see she was struggling to remain composed.

“So thought I,” Peter admitted, “And so thought our old man. I watched as his pity grew until I thought that he would surely cry. Then, suddenly, his compassion turned to anger, and just as suddenly, his anger turned to action. He sprung up from the bench with a terrible swiftness and lunged at the squirrel! The sadistic little rodent valued its life more than its sport, and darted out of reach up the tree. But that didn’t stop the man. He clattered up the trunk in seconds and swung up onto a low branch. He was lost to my sight for a short while. Then I heard a dreadful little shriek, and then silence.

“When he dropped back down to the ground, he almost crumbled with pain. I ran over to offer him my assistance, but he found his composure again soon enough and waved me away. He had splashes of blood on his shirt, and if my perception was not altogether deceived, a runnel of blood stained his face from the corner of his mouth to his chin

“He scooped up the wounded bird and walked away with it; he would not tolerate my accompanying him. So I remained behind, staring in wonder alternately at him and at that tree. Since then, I have not had the courage to go near him.”

The women were astonished at this story. They could not work out between them whether the old man’s tenderness for the swallow was enough to outweigh his vile prank and his positively beastly treatment of the squirrel (though it surely deserved what it got). They were quite definitely resolved, however, to run a new route thenceforth. Peter wished them a good day as they turned onto a side path.

He made his own way to the west side of the park, where he found the old man at his usual spot. In the confidence of having just done the man a favor, he decided to attempt a conversation with him.

He approached the bench, stood before the old man and inquired, “Would it be all right if I sat here? I’m rather fond of that chestnut.”

The old man looked at him, and opened his mouth in wonder. Slowly, between his parted lips, he let a long strand of sickly brown saliva slide. When it had reached the bottom of his chin, he bent over and dropped it onto Peter’s left shoe. Then he looked up again and laughed softly and hoarsely through the grimace of a crocodile.

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3 Games

The only options are boredom or exhaustion. Not that you are going to end up permanently bored or permanently exhausted; only that, unless you are committed to constant exhaustion, you will be bored at one point or another. The only way to make sure that boredom never arrives is to occupy yourself from the moment you gasp yourself awake to the moment you slump facefirst into your pillow. That sounds awful!

One solution is having a smartphone with games on it. I don’t recommend it. Dwelling on things unworthy of your attention makes you smaller, even if you do it while you’re pooping. Candy Crush is unworthy of your attention. It would be more worthwhile to focus on the poop exiting your body, to contemplate it the way a man sitting zazen contemplates the breath exiting his nose.

What is worthy of your attention? Nearly everything else. That is why I recommend the following games. Instead of making use of your fingertip on a capacitive touch screen to manipulate pixels, these games make use of your ikonopoeietic and imaginatosensory apparatuses on the universe to manipulate, or possibly to have, experiences.

Guess the Feeling

This is a game that is good to play on walks.

  1. Look at a thing.
  2. Use your tactile imagination, located near the tip of the primary somatosensory area of your parietal lobe, to make present to your fingertips the texture of the thing you are looking at.
  3. Touch the thing and see if you were right.

You get points if you are right. You get more points if you are wrong.

I Touch Everything

This is an extrapolation of “Guess the Feeling.” It involves less confirmation, but is more purely creative.

  1. Look at a thing that is too far away too touch and/or too big to grasp with one hand.
  2. Using your tactile imagination again, but thrusting your focus this time towards its junction with your cerebellum, imagine that your hand is large enough to grasp the thing.
  3. Grab the thing, in your mind, as if it were a miniature version of itself, or as if your hand were a large version of itself, or as if size were meaningless.

Rejoice in the accuracy with which you can produce a sensation which no human being has ever had: for example, of plucking a full-grown oak, or gently stroking a mountainside.

I Am You

This game involves a partner, but your partner is passive and need not be notified that he is playing.

  1. Identify your partner. Your partner can be a human or an animal.
  2. Size up your partner. This can be skipped, but it is an aid to verisimilitude. Note his height, weight, clumsiness, effervescence, etc.
  3. Working upwards from the brain stem, place yourself behind your partner’s eyes. Experience everything he experiences.

If you forget yourself so completely that you lose control of your bladder, you win the game.

Image credits:

Exhaustion” by flickr user SpaceShoe [Learning to live with the crisis], used under CC BY 2.0

 

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The Grackle is a production of the 501(c)(3) nonprofit Imagine Dallas Literary Arts, Inc.