8. Headset for watching TV and answering phone
9. Transition from exercise to nap should be easy
10. Comfort will promote longer periods of exercise.
He looked all over the Internet to find an exercise machine that would suit his needs, but they all seemed to have some element missing. The exerbikes looked uncomfortable, the Bowflex things definitely would work up a sweat, and the treadmill looked dangerous, particularly if you were holding a beer can and trying to stay on the mat. No, he would have to build his own machine.
He went to the Salvation Army store and found an old recliner that he tested and found pretty comfortable. The duct tape on the arms added character, and he loved the purple plaid cover.
While wandering around the store he found two arms scavenged from some old exercisers and added those to his plunder. Other necessary parts he had to buy from the hardware store and Pier 1 Imports.
Helen was not exactly thrilled when the stuff was delivered and “suggested” he move it all to the garage, as the chair didn’t quite match the decor of their house. Harry knew when to give in and, anyway, the garage was a better place to work. He made another trip to the store and bought a small refrigerator that he modified to hold a keg of beer, with a tap built into the door. He felt proud of this since he would save energy by not opening the door, and he wouldn’t have to throw away any cans.
After completing this essential part of his design, he began working on the exerciser, which he had decided to call “The Harry Crunchner.” He affixed the two arms to the sides of the chair, then rigged them to a chain that turned a generator that was hooked to the flat-screen TV he had hung from a frame on the front of the chair. He cut two large holes in the arms of the recliner to hold the beer glasses (having only one glass would mean he would have to interrupt his exercise more often).
The next part of the project involved putting several new e-books on the computer so they could be displayed on the screen. This way he would not have to turn the pages of a book (interrupting his exercise) as the page would turn automatically on his voice command. His phone was hooked through the computer and would be answered automatically, so he would not have to interrupt his exercise and pick up the phone.
“This is going to be great,” he thought. “I will lose weight, my heart will be healthier, and Helen won’t keep nagging me about exercise. I will start tomorrow, as I’m too tired after doing all this work.”
The next day, he told Helen he was going to begin his program. “The computer will keep track of my minutes and email them to me once a month so I won’t have to worry about that while I’m working out.”
“Most people think it’s a good idea to know how much you’ve done every day,” she replied. “I guess if you want a report once a month, it’s one way of doing it. I don’t suppose you set it up so that it emailed me a copy?”
“I’ll probably do that,” he said as he headed toward the garage.
Eager to begin, Harry grabbed a bag of potato chips he had stashed in the trunk of the car, filled two chilled glasses with beer from the keg in the refrigerator, turned on the computer, and settled into the recliner.
“First a sip of beer, then a few chips, and then I’ll begin.”
The beer tasted fine, so he finished a glass. Then, grasping the arms of the exerciser, he began to pull back and forth. “Just like rowing a boat, only more comfortable.” He was a little stiff, but he thought that would soon go away. “Turn the page,” he told the computer as he finished reading the first page of his book. The pages kept turning however, indicating a glitch in the program. Harry got up—he had to refill his glass anyway—and fiddled with the computer keyboard for about 20 minutes and then resumed his spot in the chair.
“Maybe I should redesign this. Run the tap over to the chair so I don’t have to get up to get a beer and interrupt my exercise,” he thought.
As he was sitting there, he remembered he was supposed to be pulling the arms on each side of the chair. He resumed pulling and then realized he was sweating. He hated to sweat.
“I know,” he thought. “I will just reverse the wires, plug in the generator, and the handles will move themselves. No sweating. Life will be good. Now, if only I could convince Helen to bring me my dinner out here…”
Precision Forged
Adrian Dorris
I don’t know how far I need to think back to figure out why I’m at Professor Kievit’s house condo thingy with a 9¼-inch, pearl-handled chef’s knife in my hand. You might say something like: You saw the ad posted in the union and responded and now here you are, cutting through a Coke can to demonstrate the razor sharpness of the new Infinity line. And I would say right back to you: That’s, like, so obvious. Nancy tells us we have to look deeper at the events that make up our lives so we can maximize potential, which I think means sell more knives. So, let’s see…I’m at Professor Kievit’s house condo thingy because I came to State, did okay in the first semester, flunked calc in the second, lost my financial aid in the third, maxed out my credit card, and now I can’t afford my sorority’s social fees. But that’s probably not even deep enough. The ad said “Make $500 a week,” so I attended the orientation session where Nancy told us some students on this very campus were making upwards of $1,500 a week because they created and controlled their destinies. To buy the demo set (the Gourmet Ultimate with a solid oak block and an antibacterial cutting board) and start controlling mine, I sold plasma and hawked my CD collection at Re-Run Records and borrowed fifty bucks from Rebecca, whose dad is upper management at a Fortune 500 company in the Midwest. I practiced my pitch around the house, even selling paring knives to a couple of girls whose boyfriends drink too much. I drove home to do my spiel for family and friends, anyone who would listen, and they were so impressed with the product and my demonstration (Nancy calls that part of the job creating need), I ended up selling two Infinity sets, three sets of steak knives, and one Meatinator, our biggest and spendiest cleaver.
And now I’m at Professor Kievit’s house condo thingy, standing over a card table, smiling at shredded aluminum and saying the great thing is Cutcare knives never need to be sharpened. He’s a cool guy, for an anthropology professor. He wears Aéropostale shirts, Gap jeans, and a pair of Blundstone boots that are in desperate need of replacing (IMHO). His place is small, so I guess young professors don’t get paid very much. There are books everywhere, and his breakfast nook is piled with papers and tests that need to be graded. Professor Kievit is one of those teachers who wants to understand you so he can help you learn. He plays music at the beginning of class and high-fives us like we’re all friends. We talk about the cultural implications of nose rings and how bungee jumping started as a tribal rite of passage. He lets me come over and sell him knives because he’s not traditional.
He tells me the knives are very impressive and that we’ve come a long way since primitives first sharpened animal bones into makeshift blades.
I say that Cutcare knives are precision forged from stainless steel as one solid piece, no stamping.
He looks at me and smiles, but not happily. His eyes are bloodshot and baggy. For the first time, I notice gray in his hair. I think that he can’t be more than thirty and already old—poor thing.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says, then stops and thinks and says, “No, actually, I’m not.” He tells me that the university isn’t renewing his contract, that they disapprove of his methods, that only tenured staff can make the kind of major modifications to the curriculum that he’s made, that he’ll finish out the semester but won’t be back in the spring. Professor Kievit looks like he’s about to cry.
I lay the chef’s knife next to my butchered Coke can and sit down next to him on the couch. I’m about to touch him on the shoulder and tell him that it will work out, that another position will come open, that tons of universities would kill to have an anthropology professor like him, that he’s the best teacher I’ve ever had. Then I remembe
r Nancy’s point about customer diversionary tactics. They will say and do anything to get out of a commitment; they’ll lie right to your face and not even feel bad about it later. I stand up and go back to my card table, my cutting board, my knives.
I tell Professor Kievit that he just needs to do something that will make him happy right now. I tell him that sets begin at $295 and individual knives can be purchased separately. I take cash, check, Visa, or MasterCard.
He looks at me like a struck dog, and that makes me feel good, like I’ve done the right thing. By the time I pack up my demo kit and fold my table, I have Professor Kievit’s credit card number and he has fifteen new knives.
Death by Anything
Siobhan Gallagher
Anything goes at night. It first happened to me when I was walking back from the bar—they always say you should watch out for Anything because it can strike anywhere and at any time. I guess I should’ve listened.
I was knocked out and dragged several yards before regaining consciousness. Anything almost had me in the van but I managed to twist out of Anything’s grip and run away. I made it to the apartment building, leapt up the stairs, and slammed the door behind me. I slumped to the floor, breathing hard. Then I listened for footsteps—they say Anything will often trail you, find out where you live, and stalk you. Anything is a creepy bastard.
Well, I didn’t hear Anything, so I stripped down and went to bed. I’d call the police in the morning.
Except in the morning, Anything struck again.
I found my moped had been vandalized: handlebars and seat missing, gas tank empty, tires flattened, key scratches across its body. And I cursed, because who else but Anything could have done this?
I wound up taking the light-rail to work, thanks to a friend who lent me his card pass. It would be an agonizingly long trip, and this woman-man person sitting next to me needed a bath. There wasn’t even a signal, so I couldn’t call the police and make a report, or bitch to my friends what a shitty day this was turning out to be.
But of course, if Anything can go wrong, it will.
The light-rail screamed to a stop, nearly throwing us all out of our seats. The conductor came on the intercom and squawked something, then went silent.
One woman cried out, “Did anyone hear what’s going on?”
Being the brilliant person that I am, I stood up and said, “It could be Anything!”
Everyone gasped, and one lady fainted.
I shut up and sat down, because they all gave me that look like I was some doomsayer. Well, someone had to say it! We all know Anything can happen, no use in denying it. But then Panic started, and if there’s one thing worse than Anything, it’s Panic.
Panic hollered, banged on the windows and doors, shoved people into one another, which in turn caused people to shove people into people. And, of course, I was pressed against the wall by the smelly she-male and almost gagged. Fortunately, someone managed to get the doors open and we all poured out—though I was mostly dragged out by the wave of human hysteria.
I ran the next ten blocks to work and arrived at the office in a disheveled, sweaty state. The bossman’s secretary asked for a reason for my tardiness in a tone that matched my school teachers.
“I can’t discuss Anything,” I said.
Her little mouth popped open and eyes grew large. “Did Anything happen to you?”
“Heh, yeah, last night.”
“Oh my. Have you told the police?”
“Well, I was going to…” I patted my pockets—dammit! Where’s my phone? I looked to her. “Mind if I—”
“I’m sorry, but it’s company minutes.” She cradled the phone receiver close to her chest.
I sighed and did a half-turn. “All right. I just hope Anything doesn’t happen to your grandmother.”
The phone receiver clattered onto her desk. “Don’t say that!” She quickly composed herself. “The police station isn’t too far from here. Go report it. I’ll tell Mr. Ren that you called in sick.”
“Thank ya, thank ya.” I nodded and rushed out.
I walked across the street and up a few blocks to the station, which was overflowing with aliens. Not an ideal place by any means. And it was hours before I managed to get a hold of the police chief—literally, by grabbing him around the waist.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he growled.
“It’s Anything!”
His face drained of color and he walked over to a window, and stared aimlessly out it. “I lost five good men to Anything.”
“Did—did they die?”
“What? No, they quit the force. Anything will do that to a man.”
“Can Anything be undone?”
He shook his head. “Not that I know of.”
That was that. I went him home and decided to start that memoir that I always wanted to write but never got around to. But as I started typing it, I had a feeling that sunk and kept sinking.
I was being watched.
“Dammit, I can’t work if Anything is looking over my shoulder,” I said out loud.
Anything was on my balcony, staring through the glass door. My heart and I jumped. But I had beaten Anything before and I could beat Anything again—at least that’s what I told myself. Self-therapy helps, you know.
I shook my fist at the glass door. “Anything, whatever you want, you can’t have it.”
But Anything is a stubborn thing and stayed put. I threatened to use the gun-I-don’t-have, but Anything still wouldn’t budge.
The lights went out. That’s what I get for not paying the electricity bill on time. Glass shattered. Pain sprinted up my leg. Putting two and two together, I realized I had just stepped on my disco ball.
I tripped and fell.
And that’s the last thing I remembered before waking up the next day. The entire apartment had been ransacked, but I’m not sure if Anything had anything to do with it. Probably did, that bastard. Since my place looked like hell, and being the only person to survive Anything, I took the day off to clean up. Though I ended up working on that memoir that I usually never get around to. At least now I have something worthwhile to say.
Seems you can die from a lot of things, but not from too much of Anything.
Jiggs and Bob
Charles N. Beecham
I guess the first tragedy in my life came the day that Cricket got run over. I cried for a week. Dad put her in a wood box and buried her in the backyard. I didn’t think any dog could take the place of Cricket. Then one day a Boston bulldog came to our house and just kind of stayed. One day a man walked by and told my dad that the name of our dog was Jiggs. “Everyone knows Jiggs,” he said. “He kills cats, you know.”
It wasn’t long after that when some woman knocked on our door and announced that our dog had killed her cat.
Jiggs was a dedicated cat killer. His execution style was quick and clean, in that his victims never suffered. He grabbed each one by the neck and with a short whipping action snapped their neck! Then he would calmly walk away.
We moved to another house while I was in kindergarten. The people who formerly lived there had a kid named B.M., and he was about the meanest kid who ever lived. He left a poor wretch of a cat behind—his tail had been cut off, and he had burn spots all over his body. We named him Bob, although my dad said that we shouldn’t get too attached as he wouldn’t have long after Jiggs discovered him.
One night we awakened to the worst racket. Every dog and cat sound known to zoological science and some new sounds were emitted: Grrr! Fssst! Wowellll! And then it was quiet. My dad said that he had better get the shovel in the morning and lay Bob to rest.
The next morning Bob was at the back door waiting for food. That’s the last we saw of Jiggs.
Wrestling with Alienation
Desmond Warzel
So I go up to Dutch in the hotel bar after the show and tell him I want to lose the title, ASAP.
Naturally he thinks I’m joking and turns back to the double
vodka he just ordered. Sure, a wrestling title’s just a prop in a TV storyline, but it’s still an honor. The equivalent of star billing.
“I’m not kidding, Dutch,” I insist. “I saw Ricky yesterday.”
He isn’t amused. “Ricky” is Rick King, the highest-drawing world champ in company history until he disappeared six months ago. After an appropriate mourning period, Dutch slapped together a tournament, the Rick King Memorial Tournament, and put the belt on me. Killer ratings, too. I could never draw the crowds Ricky did, but Dutch figured I’d do until he could build up a credible challenger to beat me.
Dutch doesn’t like me making jokes about Ricky.
“He showed up in my hotel room,” I explain, feeling like the dumbest guy ever bred. Dutch thinks I’m on something, and he is pissed, because one of the reasons he trusted me with the belt was my pristine, scandal-proof bloodstream.
“I’m not looking forward to elaborating on this, Dutch, so promise me you’ll hear me out.” I take a deep breath and blurt it out.
“Ricky told me he was kidnapped by aliens.” Dutch doesn’t even twitch an eyelid, just keeps shooting me that toxic glare of his. “He figured it out right away. It was partly the instantaneous teleportation, partly the stark-white prison cell he found himself in, but mostly it was the detainees filling the opposite bank of cells, specifically, their unusual quantities of limbs and their violations of radial and bilateral symmetry.
“Well, that’s how he put it. You know, he’s a Yale man.
“Anyway, Ricky noticed two things. First, every so often, guards, no better-looking than the inmates, came and took away two prisoners, and, shortly thereafter, brought one of them back. Second, one, and only one, of his possessions had accompanied him: the championship belt. That’s why it wasn’t with the rest of his stuff, Dutch. Ricky added these circumstances up and realized that what he’d thought was the humming of engines was really crowd noise, filtered through countless layers of, well, whatever UFO bulkheads are made of.
Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader Presents Flush Fiction Page 5