by Dave Eggers
JUROR #9. This juror is me. It’s after lunch and I have a few minutes to kill and the eye contact with the cafeteria money-taker has me all fired up. Or, I get stuck trying to make a left at that really long light on Sixth Avenue and the rhythmic thumping of the turn signal gets me hot. Or, it’s been so long since I’ve done laundry that I have to choose between the leather thong underwear given to me as a joke from my secret Santa last year and wearing nothing at all under my conservative juror attire. (Come to think of it, it would be faster to list the circumstances under which I would not have sex with Juror Number 9: none.)
JUROR #11. We’re on a hunting trip together. Even though I have no earthly interest at all in the following things: guns, woods, animals, you, I agreed to go because I’m proving to a former lover that I don’t always reject things without trying them. On the third day, after doing what I can to ignore and deflect your ever-bolder sexual advances, I awaken to find you standing naked over me, deer rifle in hand, telling me there’s an easy way and there’s a hard way that this can go. And you voted to acquit! As is my custom in just about every situation that arises, I opt for the easy way. You’re nervous and clumsy and I’d laugh if it weren’t for the presence of firearms. When it’s finally over, we have trouble making conversation. I welcome the bear attack.
THE BET
Arthur Bradford
I HAD MADE a bet with a guy named Fred about how many times I could punch him in the stomach before he threw up. He said that in point of fact, he would never throw up under such circumstances, but for the purposes of the bet, he gave me seven punches. That’s a lot of punches, but Fred also knew that I don’t possess a particularly powerful punch. Also included in the rules of the bet was the stipulation that Fred had to eat something substantial, like a sandwich, a few minutes before the punching began.
A lot of people were interested in the outcome of this bet. They wanted to watch. Either way it turned out, someone was going to be embarrassed. The winner, by the way, would receive a turkey, a nice one from a good supermarket. This seemed like the proper prize because this bet took place near Thanksgiving and many of us were planning on buying a turkey anyway.
I practiced punching a few times before the day of the bet. I punched a plastic jug of milk and it spilled all over the floor. Then I punched a cat that was walking across the counter. It said, “Yeow!” and jumped away. I hadn’t really landed a good blow. I chased the cat through the house trying to get a good punch in, but whenever I got close enough, it ran away.
“Does anybody know whose cat this is?” I called out.
Nobody answered.
“I’m going to punch it!” I said.
I had the cat cornered in the back of one of the closets. I cocked my fist back and punched. The cat slipped away, as felines are wont to do, and my closed fist crashed against the wall. My knuckles immediately began to hurt and swell up.
“Oh fuck,” I thought.
So I showed up to meet Fred the day of the bet with my good punching hand all swelled up and bruised.
“I was trying to punch a cat,” I explained.
“Tough luck,” said Fred.
We ordered up an oyster sandwich for him to eat. Then I was going to punch him in the stomach. Fred ate the sandwich slowly, slower than he usually ate, I thought. It seemed calculated to give him more time to digest. Everyone knows that the less time food has spent in the stomach, the easier it is to get it to come back up. It is this way with a lot of things. Like if you move in somewhere, the longer you are there, the harder it is to leave. Anyway, Fred took a half an hour to eat that oyster sandwich. Then he stood up and wiped his chin.
“Okay,” he said, “punch me.”
A pretty good crowd had gathered around for the bet. There were maybe twenty-five people watching to see what would happen. I didn’t even know half of them. People started yelling things to me.
“Sock him good!”
“Give it to him!”
Now, as you should know if you’ve been reading this story carefully, my good hand wasn’t usable at this point, so I had to wind up with my other hand and sock him with that. This wasn’t a very effective course of action. That first punch probably felt more like a gentle pat on the stomach to old Fred. The onlookers moaned and said things like, “Aw, geez....”
I stepped back and tried another punch, this one a little harder, more respectable. Still Fred didn’t even seem close to barfing. He seemed pretty relaxed actually, like he found the whole thing to be a very simple challenge.
The crowd around us wasn’t so calm. They couldn’t believe what a wimpy puncher I was. I tried to explain to them:
“My good hand isn’t working.”
Still, they jeered.
“You wuss.”
“Faggot.”
I charged forward and socked Fred right in the crotch. This wasn’t what I had meant to do, but due to the lack of coordination in my other hand, it simply happened. My aim was low. I hit him pretty hard there too. Fred doubled over and the crowd began to cheer. Then something funny happened. Or I shouldn’t say funny. I should say strange. Someone, a complete stranger from the crowd, jumped out at Fred and punched him in the face.
“Hey!” said Fred.
Then a woman leapt at him and started slapping his head and grabbing at his hair. A large hairy man with a ponytail stepped in and landed a good punch right in Fred’s gut.
Fred fell to his knees and puked up the oyster sandwich. It splashed all over the floor and the crowd cheered.
Fred and I had to clean up the mess. Actually it was mostly me who cleaned it up because Fred was still hurting from the whupping he’d received. He was pretty upset.
“That was bullshit,” he said.
“You owe me a turkey,” I said.
“Fuck your damn turkey,” said Fred.
He walked out of the bar. We were in a bar, by the way. I think I forgot to mention this earlier. It was the kind of bar that serves food. Most of the other patrons at the bar were drunk. This may explain why they turned on Fred the way they did. Perhaps it was the smug look on his face as I was punching him. I’m not sure, but I do know that I never got a turkey from him. And that doesn’t surprise me at all. In fact, I bought him a turkey to show that I knew it wasn’t fair what had happened. I brought it to his house a few days after Thanksgiving because I’m always late about bringing things over. Fred and his friends had already eaten plenty of turkey by then. Probably the last thing they wanted was another one, a little scrawny cheap one at that. I’d bought it at a discount. Fred opened the door and I realized what a dumb gift it was so I just threw it at him and walked away. You should have seen the look on his face when I did that. That was a funny look on his face just as the bony raw turkey body hit him in the chest. That was the last time either one of us made a bet like that, and by the way, my knuckles are all better now from that time when I hit the wall of the closet.
THE DANCE LESSON
Tim Carvell
1. Listen to the beat of the music.
2. Oh, for God’s sake. Then turn some music on, will you? You were going to try to dance without any music playing? What’s wrong with you?
3. I don’t know. Something lively. Something with a beat to it. No, not that. Not that either. Fine, that’ll do.
4. Okay, now listen to the beat of the music. Clap along to it. No, that’s not it—you’re going too fast. No, now you’re going too slowly. That’s it, you’ve got—no, you’ve lost it again.
5. How about this: Instead of clapping, just try to move your feet a bit to the music. Just shuffle them at a pace that seems right to you. Good, good, you’ve got it. That looks nice.
6. Let’s take this up a notch now. Start moving your arms around to the music.
7. OH MY GOD. STOP MOVING YOUR ARMS THIS INSTANT. What was that? What were you doing? What the fuck was that supposed to be? I told you to move your arms, not flap them. You looked like a total dork.
8. First things fi
rst: When you move your arms, bend your elbows a bit. You don’t have to hold them perfectly straight when you move them. Just bend your elbows a little. Bend them. You can bend your elbows, can’t you? There.
9. No, you’re not supposed to lock your elbows at a perfect right angle, either. You look like an organ grinder’s monkey. Just relax a bit. Relax. RELAX!
10. So it’s my fault that you can’t relax? I don’t think I’ve been “screaming at” you. I think I may have gotten a little agitated. I may have raised my voice a bit. But that doesn’t constitute screaming.
11. Look, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. You’re right. I was wrong, you were right. I know that teaching you to dance was my idea, and you’ve been a really good sport. I’m a jerk. I admit it. But I only yell at you because I want so badly to see you succeed—you know that. C’mon. Let’s start over. Let’s go back to where you were just shuffling your feet to the music.
12. Good, good, good. You’re doing great. Just great. You look terrific. Now, let’s try moving your arms a little to the music—just sway them back and forth a bit.
13. Um, OK, OK, that’s ... nice. That’s really nice. But, you know, like I said before, you’re allowed to bend your elbows just a bit.
14. That’s super. Just super. You keep this up, and you’ll be dancing great in no time. Now, try and vary your movements just a bit. Just go with the flow of the music. Improvise a little. You know, do what feels natural.
15. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh. It’s just that, when I told you to do what felt natural, I had no idea that what felt natural to you would be looking like ... this.
16. Why are you crying? Oh, for Christ’s sake, it’s always like this with you, isn’t it? I try and do something nice for you, and all of a sudden, you’re all in tears because it hasn’t turned out the way you planned. This is the thanks I get? Look: I’m trying to help you. I knew you’d have more fun if you knew how to dance, and so I agreed to take the time to teach you—time that I could have spent somewhere else, somewhere fun, hanging out with people who don’t burst into tears for no reason. People who know how to take a fucking joke. I had other plans for today, but instead, here I am, being guilt-tripped by you for, like, the millionth time. You know I don’t need this. You know I’ve got trust issues I’ve been working through. But don’t let that stop you. No—you go right on ahead. Keep on crying, making me feel like a heel for trying to help you.
17. You’re damn right, you’re sorry.
18. Because I don’t want to teach you, that’s why.
19. Now you’re going to dance? Without any input from me? Go ahead. Dance. I don’t care.
20. I’m not watching you.
21. Okay, one quick pointer: You’re still not bending your arms. Just a little. Just bend them a little. No, that’s a jig. You’re doing a jig. Oh, for God’s sake....
ATTACK OF THE FABULONS!
Mark O’Donnell
(OPEN ON: THE VASTY DEEPS OF OUTER SPACE. MUSIC: WEIRD THEREMIN SCI-FI.)
GENERAL
(VO, MAGNIFICENT)
A fragile thing, mankind. It survived the savagery of the dinosaurs—by shrewdly waiting until millions of years after their extinction to evolve. It survived the Plague, the Barbarians, and assorted great wars ... using methods you could probably go and look up in a library. But nothing in mankind’s explosion-rich history prepared it for ... the Attack of the Fabulons!!
SUPER: TITLE “ATTACK OF THE FABULONS”
MUSIC: SCI-FI STING CHORD.
A FLYING SAUCER COMES INTO VIEW IN THIS STARSCAPE.
GENERAL (VO)
From the icy, glittering depths of space they came—icy and glittering themselves, and chic beyond imagining....
FADE TO: INTERIOR OF SAUCER. IT’S SPARE YET LUXURIOUS, HIGH-TECH SOHO. ISIDOR, ENSIGN, AND JANA WEAR BODY-FITTING SILVER SUITS AND SPORT BLOND CHILDREN OF THE DAMNED SALON CUTS. THEY ARE AS ICY AS THE PROFESSIONALLY FASHIONABLE CAN GET, EXCEPT ENSIGN, WHO HAS A TOUCH OF FEELING. JANA SCANS A PANEL.
JANA
We near the Earth, your fabulousness.
ISIDOR
Thank you, Jana. The earth. So light blue. Almost periwinkle. Light blue has such possibilities. As it is, though, Earth is just too cluttered. I see a makeover with lots of clean open spaces on it! Prepare the Destruct-o-Lasers.
JANA
Yes, Captain.
ENSIGN
Sir, some of their monuments are quite nice—
ISIDOR
Silence, Ensign! You are weak. Recite with me the Pledge of the Fabulons!
ALL
“To seek out and destroy all that is not in impeccable taste!”
ISIDOR DOES THE OBLIGATORY MAD LAUGH, THEN CHECKS HIMSELF.
ISIDOR
Ha ha ha ha! Excuse me. I bordered on kitsch there.
fade to: DARK LIMBO, OR MODEST PENTAGON WAR ROOM. GENERAL IS IN BEMEDALED GENERAL’S UNIFORM, AIDE HIS NEXT-IN-COMMAND. THEY TRACK THE SAUCER.
AIDE
What do you make of it, General?
GENERAL
It’s like something from another world, Lieutenant!
AIDE
(DOESN’T TRY TO CORRECT HIM)
Er—yes sir. Continue surveillance?
GENERAL
Yes. But don’t anybody get trigger-happy here. These beings—or should I say entities—may be bringing us the cure for polio!
AIDE
We ... have the cure for polio, sir.
GENERAL
Dammit, you know what I mean! Let’s keep a close monitor on them and see what their intentions are.
FADE TO: THE FLYING SAUCER IN EARTH’S ATMOSPHERE, OVER SOME TREETOPS.
CUT TO: STOCK FOOTAGE OR STILL PHOTO OF A STONE LAWN JOCKEY.
GENERAL (VO)
They started small ...
ISIDOR (OS)
Focus laser! Fire!
SFX: SOUND OF KEEN LASER BEAM.
CUT TO: STOCK FOOTAGE OF MASSIVE EXPLOSION.
CUT TO: STILL PHOTO OR FOOTAGE OF THAT PINK HOT-DOG-SHAPED SNACK HUT IN LOS ANGELES.
ISIDOR (OS)
Fire!
SFX: LASER BEAM.
CUT TO: STOCK FOOTAGE OF MASSIVE EXPLOSION.
CUT TO: PHOTO OR FOOTAGE OF EXTERIOR OF GRACELAND.
Fire! And hurry!!
SFX: LASER BEAM.
CUT TO: EXPLOSION AGAIN.
FADE TO: WAR ROOM AGAIN.
AIDE
We’ve just received word, General. The aliens have destroyed Earth’s last remaining Gabor sister.
GENERAL
By God, they may yet go too far!
AIDE
Yet, sir?
GENERAL
Why these targets? It hardly seems strategic if conquest is their mission here.
AIDE
Shall we fire on them, sir?
GENERAL
No, somehow I think that’s what they want us to do. And I don’t want to fall into their trap. Let’s see their next move!
AIDE
(BEWILDERED)
Yes sir ...
FADE TO: THE FLYING SAUCER FLYING OVER COUNTRYSIDE.
GENERAL (VO)
Insidiously, the Fabulons—though I didn’t know their names at the time—began to make their presence felt....
FADE TO: EXTERIOR SHOT OR FOOTAGE OF DISNEYLAND’S SLEEPING BEAUTY CASTLE.
ISIDOR (OS)
Fire!
SFX: LASER BEAM.
CUT TO: STOCK FOOTAGE OF EXPLOSION.
CUT TO: EXTERIOR OF LAS VEGAS CASINOS.
ISIDOR (OS)
Jana, if you please!
SFX: LASER BEAM.
CUT TO: EXPLOSION AGAIN.
CUT TO: EXTERIOR SHOT OF TAJ MAHAL.
ISIDOR (OS)
No, leave that one.
FADE TO: INTERIOR OF FLYING SAUCER.
ENSIGN
Sir, you promised you’d leave the Eiffel Tower.
ISIDOR
I’m sorry, it was too labored, too clunky, like a facto
ry works.
ENSIGN
Is that bad? Industrial design can offer—
ISIDOR
I will not take aesthetic instructions from a mere—
SFX: ODD RADIO SOUNDS.
JANA
Sir, we’re being hailed on their armed forces frequency.
ISIDOR
What do they want? Ohhh, give me that.
TAKES RADIO SPEAKER.
Fabulon Invasion Fleet. Design Director Isidor speaking.
GENERAL (OS)
This is General Robert Rhubart of the Pentagon.
ISIDOR
Oh yes, that wretched five-sided thing!
GENERAL (VO)
We must have a summit meeting to negotiate an end to this destruction!
ISIDOR
You want a consultation, General? Don’t you like the work we’re doing on your planet?
JANA
I hate it when clients want input.
ISIDOR
Ohh, very well, General. One o’clock. The Calvin Klein showroom on Madison Avenue. Oh, and General. One more condition.
GENERAL (OS)
Yes?
ISIDOR
Fresh-cut flowers in a simple vase.
FADE TO: EXTERIOR SHOT OF KLEIN SHOWROOM. A SIGN IN THE WINDOW READS “SPECIAL SALE FOR ALIENS WITH VALID I.D.”
FADE TO: INT. SHOWROOM. ACTUALLY, IT’S THE SAUCER INTERIOR WITH THE EQUIPMENT REMOVED AND A MANNEQUIN ADDED. THE ALIENS CONFRONT GENERAL AND AIDE.
ISIDOR
I like your uniform, General, though it’s a little busy.
JANA
On our world, men of your girth would be destroyed.
GENERAL
Why this devastation?
ISIDOR
It’s not devastation. It’s redecoration. Soon your planet will be as austere and streamlined as this boutique.
PAUSE.
GENERAL
But ... don’t you understand, though, that the universe needs a cluttered, low-down planet like Earth? There’s plenty of cold planets. And besides, high culture needs low culture to be higher than!
MUSIC: FAINT INSPIRATION CHORDS.