In my forty years of life I had never met a holy man. Seeing him from afar and watching him smile to the audience caused my curiosity to stir. When he finally reached close enough to see me I...
finally understood... he wasn't a 'holy' man.. he was a 'holey' man! his clothes were tattered and full of holes and he looked and smelled like he hadn't bathed in ages. He staggered toward me with his hand outstretched and slurred 'Hey buddy, lemme hold a dollar.'
I pulled a crisp dollar bill out of my wallet as a crowd of lesser holey devotees pressed in on us. He took the dollar, slurred his thanks and bowed. "Nomasturname" he said. I asked him to repeat what he said and as I leaned in closer I caught a whiff of something strong. "Now masturname," he repeated again softly. "Oh," I replied "Namaste to you." He leaned back staring at me blankly. "Noww whates yerr naame," he said sounding out each word as clearly as his mouth and tongue could muster. My mind speed debated the answer. The holey man spoke first, "Names Robert, Robert Smythe but you can call me Bob." He bowed again and offered me a leathery, oil stained hand.
Suddenly his attention was drawn away, and he seemed to forget I was there. With flared nostrils, he was staring at something, breathing heavily, leering, completely transfixed. As this continued, he began sweating profusely and a strange yearning and longing appeared on his face. I was feeling really uncomfortable at this point, with this sweaty, holy man with flared nostrils, breathing heavily.
It occurred to me that the 'holey-devotees' weren't actually there to see this guy. I noticed a marquee overhead that read 'meet the cast of 'Twilight' today!'.. yeah, I'm guessing the crowd was not here for this sweaty 'holey man' with the flaring nostrils, who, I just noticed, smelled a lot like beer, greasy, sweaty hobo and burp.. and maybe just a smidgeon of dog poo.
He continued sweating and flaring his nostrils. He was really making me uncomfortable. I was pretty sure I knew what that look meant. I took a quick look around, ascertaining that no one was watching, then with my elbow, gave him a sharp crack to the temple, knocking him to the ground. Then I sprinted down the road before anyone could figure out what I'd just done. While sprinting down the street, I smiled to myself at the strange irony.. 'holy man' to 'holey man' and one might expect to find a 'holy man' in a temple, and I'd just cracked that guy in the temple. Then I frowned... that guy still had my dollar. I hoped as I turned right on Washington blvd that the 'holey man' was unconscious and that he didnt have a gun.. and if he wasn't unconscious and did have a gun, that he wasn't a fast runner.
later the next day after getting home from work and settling down to watch tv, I noticed a typical news story about a homeless man that was shot and killed. The report included a picture of the man and I my heart sunk as I recognized Robert 'Bob' Smythe, a man that is now hole-ier than ever. Despite his flaring-nostril advances towards me I couldn't help but feel guilty to hear the news anchor report the man was allegedly killed over a dollar.
Guilt swept over me, and his sweaty face, with flared nostrils appeared before me, lips quivering, eyes with a far away look, and I buried my face in my hands.
That night, in my dreams, the holey man came to me on the street again. He grabbed me by the shirt, pulling me toward him. He began snorting and huffing and puffing, and again began sweating profusely. His face moved closer and closer to mine, his breath smelling like a rotting human head.
But the point is, I woke up in a cold sweat, breathing heavily out my flared nostrils, staring longingly into an unseen distance, as I sat up in my bed in the dark, the smell of human head still lingering in the air.
I bolted upright in bed and tried to convince myself that it was just a dream; but it had been so terrifyingly vivid. The heavy beads of sweat on my forehead rolled down my face, lingered on the cusps of my flaring nostrils and dripped onto my spiderman bedsheets. I rose unsteadilly and headed to the bathroom. maybe splashing a little water on my face would help. Groggily I turned on the faucet, cupped my hands under the water and splashed my face. After patting my face with a fluffy towel, I looked in the mirror and was shocked to see not my own, dashingly handsome face, but that of the holey man!! I shrieked like a girl and tripped over the bathroom rug, landing heavily on my firm buttocks. I pulled myself up, holding onto the edge of the sink. reluctantly, I rose, fearing i would again see the face of the holey man gazing back at me from the mirror, but I was greatly relieved to find my own dashing face back where it should be.
I awoke in the morning relieved to discover it was all a bad, bad dream. When I looked in the mirror it was my dashing face still held up by my dashing neck. I flexed my firm buttocks as I stood on my tippy toes reaching for a box of Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch. Standing on the train that morning on my way to work at the non-profit, Acorn, I reached into the pocket of my Tough Skin jeans and pulled out a folded dollar bill. Unfolding the bill I noticed a large red streak of what seemed like dried blood over Washington's face.
My mouth dropped open. I pressed the dollar bill between my thumb and palm, while swiftly rubbing my thumb across the red mark, tiny flecks of dried blood scattered to the floor of the train, blending into the multicolored carpet. An eerie feeling of dread pierce my heart, as my knees buckled beneath me I dropped to the floor.
I had felt eerie dread before. Yeah, that's right: ultra-eerie super-dread. On the Crumbonian Scale of Dread, that's by far the eeriest kind of dread you're likely to encounter, even under dreadfully eerie circumstances.
"By Crumbo, not the Berber! Not the Berrrrrberrrrrr! Why?" Trembling in the throes of a dreadful panic attack, I screamed like a 15 year-old Chess Club president being pistol-whipped.
I frantically scrubbed at the blood specks. I reached for the dustbuster, realizing that I could probably vacuum them up since they were still dry. However, as I looked closer at the light dusting of crusty red flakes, I realized that this wasn't fresh blood...it was the last remnants of my scab collection.
"Aaargh! I was saving those for Valentine's Day. Not cool, man. Not cool."
By this time, My nostrils were flaringly most dreadfully, and don't get me started on my eerily firm buttocks.
My eerily firm buttocks clenched with dread in my superb new pants. Then I realized that kneeling on this multicolored berber was not good for my superb new pants. In anguish, I resigned to leave my precious scab collection on that multicolored berber. There was no way to salvage it. I pulled myself to my feet as the train screeched to a stop a short time later. My heart sank as I exited the train; then I turned to watch the door close forever on my precious scab collection.
I tried to tell myself that there would be other scabs. I had to be strong. I had to get to work. I had to focus. I pulled myself together and began the three-block walk to the office building where I worked. My superb new pants made a soft swishy sound with every stride, my eerily firm buttocks clenching and relaxing with every step. I was focused and resolute; at least that's what I kept telling myself, until...
I heard Rotunda yelling at me, "Jarome! Jarome! What is WRONG with you?"
"Huh?" I said. The last thing I remembered, I was sitting at my desk working, trying to distract myself from the horror of being responsible for a holey man's death, as my dollar bill had given him one too many holes. Now, I was peeking over the wall of my cubicle at Rotunda, the woman who worked in the cubicle adjacent to mine.
"Why in the world were you peeking over the divider at me, flaring your nostrils and breathing so heavily? What is wrong with you, Jarome?" I was covered in sweat, too.
I wiped my sweat-soaked face with my tie... no big deal, I hate that tie. My old roomate left it behind when he moved out. It reminded me of the old couch at my uncle Ned's house. Orange plaid burlap. Why the hell would I wear an orange burlap tie, you ask? cuz it's ugly tie day at work... which led me to my excuse. 'I... I was just... admiring your hideous tie, Rotunda.' and with that I quickly sat back down in front of my computer monitor which was now displaying my fishtank screensaver. "I'm not wearing a tie, Jarome!" I heard Rotunda call from behind the cubical divider. "Sorry, my bad!" I called, wincing with embarrassment and sinking a little lower in my uncomfortable, standard-issue office chair. When I returned to the report I had been working on, I was confused to find that the entire final page and a half of the report was completely filled with 'inhale... exhale... inhale... exhale... inhale... exhale...' I had no recollection of having typed it out and I was pretty sure no one else could have typed it while I was standing... staring over the divider at Rotunda. This was just too weird. I skipped off to the men's room to splash some water on my face. I leaned low over the sink, cupped my hands under the running water and splashed the cool water on my face. I repeated this action several times before straightening up. I felt around for a paper towel, found what seemed a particularly stiff one and wiped my face only to find that I had just wiped my face on the back of a co-worker's jacket. He just stared blankly at me for a moment before walking out the door without washing his hands... eeww.. he'd just come out of a stall.. we all know what that means. So anyway, when I turned to face my reflection in the mirror, I found myself face to face with the Holey Man!! I shreiked like a 6 year old girl and backed into a bathroom stall, where I tripped backward over the toilet and landed, scrunched up and wedged behind the porcelain throne. After struggling for some time to extricate myself, I finally pulled myself up to my feet and turned around to find three more co-workers staring at me. They all burst out laughing, one applauding loudly and the other two following suit. I bowed politely and ran from the bathroom without washing my hands. All the way back to my cubicle, I tried to convince myself that I had to have been imagining things. There was no way I could have seen the Holey Man in the bathroom mirror.
finally understood... he wasn't a 'holy' man.. he was a 'holey' man! his clothes were tattered and full of holes and he looked and smelled like he hadn't bathed in ages. He staggered toward me with his hand outstretched and slurred 'Hey buddy, lemme hold a dollar.'
ReplyDeleteI pulled a crisp dollar bill out of my wallet as a crowd of lesser holey devotees pressed in on us. He took the dollar, slurred his thanks and bowed. "Nomasturname" he said. I asked him to repeat what he said and as I leaned in closer I caught a whiff of something strong. "Now masturname," he repeated again softly. "Oh," I replied "Namaste to you." He leaned back staring at me blankly. "Noww whates yerr naame," he said sounding out each word as clearly as his mouth and tongue could muster. My mind speed debated the answer. The holey man spoke first, "Names Robert, Robert Smythe but you can call me Bob." He bowed again and offered me a leathery, oil stained hand.
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteSuddenly his attention was drawn away, and he seemed to forget I was there. With flared nostrils, he was staring at something, breathing heavily, leering, completely transfixed. As this continued, he began sweating profusely and a strange yearning and longing appeared on his face. I was feeling really uncomfortable at this point, with this sweaty, holy man with flared nostrils, breathing heavily.
ReplyDeleteIt occurred to me that the 'holey-devotees' weren't actually there to see this guy. I noticed a marquee overhead that read 'meet the cast of 'Twilight' today!'.. yeah, I'm guessing the crowd was not here for this sweaty 'holey man' with the flaring nostrils, who, I just noticed, smelled a lot like beer, greasy, sweaty hobo and burp.. and maybe just a smidgeon of dog poo.
ReplyDeleteHe continued sweating and flaring his nostrils. He was really making me uncomfortable. I was pretty sure I knew what that look meant. I took a quick look around, ascertaining that no one was watching, then with my elbow, gave him a sharp crack to the temple, knocking him to the ground. Then I sprinted down the road before anyone could figure out what I'd just done. While sprinting down the street, I smiled to myself at the strange irony.. 'holy man' to 'holey man' and one might expect to find a 'holy man' in a temple, and I'd just cracked that guy in the temple. Then I frowned... that guy still had my dollar. I hoped as I turned right on Washington blvd that the 'holey man' was unconscious and that he didnt have a gun.. and if he wasn't unconscious and did have a gun, that he wasn't a fast runner.
ReplyDelete.... or a very good shot.
ReplyDeletelater the next day after getting home from work and settling down to watch tv, I noticed a typical news story about a homeless man that was shot and killed. The report included a picture of the man and I my heart sunk as I recognized Robert 'Bob' Smythe, a man that is now hole-ier than ever. Despite his flaring-nostril advances towards me I couldn't help but feel guilty to hear the news anchor report the man was allegedly killed over a dollar.
ReplyDeleteGuilt swept over me, and his sweaty face, with flared nostrils appeared before me, lips quivering, eyes with a far away look, and I buried my face in my hands.
ReplyDeleteThat night, in my dreams, the holey man came to me on the street again. He grabbed me by the shirt, pulling me toward him. He began snorting and huffing and puffing, and again began sweating profusely. His face moved closer and closer to mine, his breath smelling like a rotting human head.
Don't ask me where I've smelled rotting human head before... tee hee.
ReplyDeleteBut the point is, I woke up in a cold sweat, breathing heavily out my flared nostrils, staring longingly into an unseen distance, as I sat up in my bed in the dark, the smell of human head still lingering in the air.
ReplyDeleteI bolted upright in bed and tried to convince myself that it was just a dream; but it had been so terrifyingly vivid.
ReplyDeleteThe heavy beads of sweat on my forehead rolled down my face, lingered on the cusps of my flaring nostrils and dripped onto my spiderman bedsheets. I rose unsteadilly and headed to the bathroom. maybe splashing a little water on my face would help. Groggily I turned on the faucet, cupped my hands under the water and splashed my face. After patting my face with a fluffy towel, I looked in the mirror and was shocked to see not my own, dashingly handsome face, but that of the holey man!! I shrieked like a girl and tripped over the bathroom rug, landing heavily on my firm buttocks. I pulled myself up, holding onto the edge of the sink. reluctantly, I rose, fearing i would again see the face of the holey man gazing back at me from the mirror, but I was greatly relieved to find my own dashing face back where it should be.
.. on top of my dashing neck.
ReplyDeleteI awoke in the morning relieved to discover it was all a bad, bad dream. When I looked in the mirror it was my dashing face still held up by my dashing neck. I flexed my firm buttocks as I stood on my tippy toes reaching for a box of Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch. Standing on the train that morning on my way to work at the non-profit, Acorn, I reached into the pocket of my Tough Skin jeans and pulled out a folded dollar bill. Unfolding the bill I noticed a large red streak of what seemed like dried blood over Washington's face.
ReplyDeleteMy mouth dropped open. I pressed the dollar bill between my thumb and palm, while swiftly rubbing my thumb across the red mark, tiny flecks of dried blood scattered to the floor of the train, blending into the multicolored carpet. An eerie feeling of dread pierce my heart, as my knees buckled beneath me I dropped to the floor.
ReplyDeleteI had felt eerie dread before. Yeah, that's right: ultra-eerie super-dread. On the Crumbonian Scale of Dread, that's by far the eeriest kind of dread you're likely to encounter, even under dreadfully eerie circumstances.
ReplyDelete"By Crumbo, not the Berber! Not the Berrrrrberrrrrr! Why?" Trembling in the throes of a dreadful panic attack, I screamed like a 15 year-old Chess Club president being pistol-whipped.
I frantically scrubbed at the blood specks. I reached for the dustbuster, realizing that I could probably vacuum them up since they were still dry. However, as I looked closer at the light dusting of crusty red flakes, I realized that this wasn't fresh blood...it was the last remnants of my scab collection.
"Aaargh! I was saving those for Valentine's Day. Not cool, man. Not cool."
By this time, My nostrils were flaringly most dreadfully, and don't get me started on my eerily firm buttocks.
My eerily firm buttocks clenched with dread in my superb new pants. Then I realized that kneeling on this multicolored berber was not good for my superb new pants. In anguish, I resigned to leave my precious scab collection on that multicolored berber. There was no way to salvage it. I pulled myself to my feet as the train screeched to a stop a short time later. My heart sank as I exited the train; then I turned to watch the door close forever on my precious scab collection.
ReplyDeleteI tried to tell myself that there would be other scabs. I had to be strong. I had to get to work. I had to focus. I pulled myself together and began the three-block walk to the office building where I worked. My superb new pants made a soft swishy sound with every stride, my eerily firm buttocks clenching and relaxing with every step. I was focused and resolute; at least that's what I kept telling myself, until...
ReplyDeleteI heard Rotunda yelling at me, "Jarome! Jarome! What is WRONG with you?"
ReplyDelete"Huh?" I said. The last thing I remembered, I was sitting at my desk working, trying to distract myself from the horror of being responsible for a holey man's death, as my dollar bill had given him one too many holes. Now, I was peeking over the wall of my cubicle at Rotunda, the woman who worked in the cubicle adjacent to mine.
"Why in the world were you peeking over the divider at me, flaring your nostrils and breathing so heavily? What is wrong with you, Jarome?" I was covered in sweat, too.
I wiped my sweat-soaked face with my tie... no big deal, I hate that tie. My old roomate left it behind when he moved out. It reminded me of the old couch at my uncle Ned's house. Orange plaid burlap. Why the hell would I wear an orange burlap tie, you ask? cuz it's ugly tie day at work... which led me to my excuse.
ReplyDelete'I... I was just... admiring your hideous tie, Rotunda.' and with that I quickly sat back down in front of my computer monitor which was now displaying my fishtank screensaver.
"I'm not wearing a tie, Jarome!" I heard Rotunda call from behind the cubical divider.
"Sorry, my bad!" I called, wincing with embarrassment and sinking a little lower in my uncomfortable, standard-issue office chair.
When I returned to the report I had been working on, I was confused to find that the entire final page and a half of the report was completely filled with 'inhale... exhale... inhale... exhale... inhale... exhale...'
I had no recollection of having typed it out and I was pretty sure no one else could have typed it while I was standing... staring over the divider at Rotunda. This was just too weird. I skipped off to the men's room to splash some water on my face. I leaned low over the sink, cupped my hands under the running water and splashed the cool water on my face. I repeated this action several times before straightening up. I felt around for a paper towel, found what seemed a particularly stiff one and wiped my face only to find that I had just wiped my face on the back of a co-worker's jacket. He just stared blankly at me for a moment before walking out the door without washing his hands... eeww.. he'd just come out of a stall.. we all know what that means.
So anyway, when I turned to face my reflection in the mirror, I found myself face to face with the Holey Man!! I shreiked like a 6 year old girl and backed into a bathroom stall, where I tripped backward over the toilet and landed, scrunched up and wedged behind the porcelain throne. After struggling for some time to extricate myself, I finally pulled myself up to my feet and turned around to find three more co-workers staring at me. They all burst out laughing, one applauding loudly and the other two following suit. I bowed politely and ran from the bathroom without washing my hands.
All the way back to my cubicle, I tried to convince myself that I had to have been imagining things. There was no way I could have seen the Holey Man in the bathroom mirror.