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“Life is art. It is not the other way around. This can be unfortunate; it cannot. The distinction is this — life ends, art does not. Which would you rather be?”
- Excerpt from “Exhibiting Exhibits”, by Doctor Benedict Grey. Pg. 178
“One way or another, I’m gonna get cha. I’m gonna get cha, get cha, get cha, get cha.”
- Blondie
PART ONE — TELL DON’T SHOW
“My televisions are unplugged,” Melvin told the 911 operator. “That’s all I can find.”
“Of course, sir. I’ve already dispatched a unit to your address. Remain calm.”
“Yes.”
Melvin had returned home from work to find his apartment door open. The interior wall led his eye down the hall towards the terrain of shaded furniture in the living room. For several apprehensive minutes he stared, key in hand. Taking a sounding, “H-HELLO?”
In the ripening final year of his fifth decade Melvin H. Terocera had, without intent, detoured from the apathetic yet consistently painless path of dull daily cycles of All Work and No Play. Now he existed on a path that mimicked the psychological equivalent of some bucolic outhouse bloated with dark humors, darker paranoia, and blackened, charred, pitch apprehension for his and humanity’s remaining future. His favorite client suggested he discontinue all interactions with the Internet, but Melvin had yet to concede to this wisdom for the simple reason that the Internet told him not to do so.
However, despite his internal attitude, through some magical, outward cocktail of cheerful apathy and being a pleasant extrovert, no one perceived him as hopeless, just hapless. He accepted his bone-deep sense of doom with chin up and silent grace. Capital L life, madman sibling of Death, paced alongside Melvin day and night without doing much at all, never hinting that Melvin should take its hand and lead.
Once upon a time, Melvin was reckless in action and enjoyed ignoring responsibilities. Once — in Melvinic history — equates to forty years of competing in private scavenger hunts for the collection of fast-food mascot statues while the rent went unpaid; eating Dramamine by the handful with a Mad Dog Kiwi-Strawberry chaser; gambling on the zoo’s hippopotamus tank with friends while hollering at the beasts as they romped about their watery dungeon which got them all banned from the institution. There were some controlled substances, some controlling partners, a few arrests for not dealing well with either.
Throughout his twenties and thirties, Melvin had been a drummer for a band that became quite successful for their gimmick more than their talent. The group was called Bad Sex and the singer was an ex-pornography queen who smeared multiple flavors of barbecue sauce on her body — her favorites being hickory and apple smoked wood oven — and, for the show’s finale, fake roasted herself over a large grill-master while the band played their radio hit wonder Love Oven. They were a decade long sensation with the unemployed bachelor demographic between the ages of twenty-two through forty-five. They were a rave with the college fraternity scene, as well. After a near fatal, embarrassing, and much publicized encounter with some flea-and-tic carpet powder rather than cocaine, Melvin decided to end his decades-long Bacchanal.
At the age of forty-four, Melvin’s arrested development ended and he assumed the less beguiling addictions of caffeine and lottery scratch cards. He wrote postcards to his senile mother and comical emails to his whimsical brother Todd. He opted out of a career as a musician and into one as an audio-engineer. His spirit had yet to be broken, though, and he remained a vibrant personality with a spontaneous and charming sense of humor until four years later when he met Joseph Vidova while purchasing carpet. They engaged two months later and announced a backyard wedding with less than one month’s notice. Melvin would sink up to the eyes in the dolorous haze of pessimism he now constantly resides within after Joseph neglected to arrive at the altar for their matrimony. Or return calls. Or be seen or heard from again for several months. Even at the time he would resurface, he offered only a duo of texts to Melvin stating “Please don’t be mad at me” and “TTYL?”
And with that insecurity reintroduced to his mind, this home intrusion only intensified the sensation of having lost control many years earlier. He now saw only rejection and defeat everywhere. And not only his own, but for all people. Dreams were events that we woke from into toil and stress; nervousness and a decent bowel movement were the best life could offer. “At least,” he told himself often, “I enjoy my job. Sometimes.”
With this attitude, Melvin crept warily into his own home and turned on the nearest light. The furniture was not moved and the kitchen still possessed one roll of floral print paper towels, a tower of paper plates, and a decorative box with plastic utensils. In the bedroom nothing was missing; twelve identical suits of varying color haunted the closet, drawers of under garments remained unmolested, and the sheets were disheveled to the right as they were many hours earlier. His valuables were as they were when he stepped out into the world that morning — an assortment of currency, watches, vinyl albums, and stereo system — none of it had been removed.
Those television wires resting limp on the carpet were the only deviations from his ritual existence. Melvin leaned over, the pleats of his suit reconfiguring to invent new ashen tones, lifted the plug of the living room television and inspected the two metal prongs staring back like viper fangs. Injecting them into the socket proved the plug had only been removed, with no further insult, and the bliss of digital light sputtered onto the screen.
Nothing stolen? Melvin couldn’t concentrate on the dilemma of having his home invaded. The contradictory presence of all his belongings confounded him. His security was abused, certainly, but the absence of theft could not compensate his sense of insecurity with anger, fear, or insurance reimbursements.
He removed his suit and slipped on a pair of shorts and a faded Dread Zeppelin tee-shirt. He washed his face, hands, and neck. He retrieved a fudge-cicle form the freezer and sat down to watch The Great British Baking Show. These were the rote behaviors that had become the obvious requiem for his once abundant spontaneity.
“Perhaps,” Melvin suggested to the rambling television, “the police will find something.”
*Thanks for reading. Chapter 2 will be published December 4th, 2022. See you soon.*
