Blackhole (2005)

July 2005

Black Hole

Pong. Oooh fuck, so good. RING. No notice. RING RING. Pong all about Pong right then. RING RING RIIINNNNGGGG! Cell phone PONG....cell phone fucking PONG! RING RING FOR THE LAST TIME FUCKING RING! Fine. CLICK-BLEEP, no more Pong...no pause on cell phone Pong. Answers phone, CLICK. “Tech, Flaubert here.” “This is Dr. Plotstein. Big class. No power on the unit.” “No!” “Yes!” “Student trip the plug? The only explanation.” “Checked the plug. Plugged.” “Plugged!? No!” “Yes!” “How many you say, Dr. Plotstein?” “Eh?” “In your class? My god, a number man.” “At least 83 or 97...ehr, Flaubert?” “No!” “Yes! Blargenshit Hall, 808.” Around and around the room. At his Pong phone. At the cart. “83 or 97? No power to the unit? Blargenshit Hall, 808? On it, sir.” Two hands on the cart. Off. Down a hall. A turn. A near miss. Elevator. Damn, the elevator is like Pong. No it’s not. Yes it is. No it’s not. Yes it is. No it’s not. Yes it is. No it’s not. Yes...it...DING. Basement. Rushes out. Down the hall. The cart! Back to elevator -- fucker’s closing. Shoots a mad arm.

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“OUCH!” Oooh! It opens. Yanks out the cart. Cart has it all: cords, lights, tools, clickers, clonkers. Back down the hall. And down and down and down the hall. How goddam long’s the fucking hall? Too long. Finally, the Blargenshit elevators. Cart first. Don’t...hit...the elevator dooooor...annnd...IN. SLLLIDE shut. Hits ‘8’ and Pong...it...is. DING! “The cart!” Hasn’t left the elevator yet. Good thing to remember anyhow. Yanks the old boy out. SCRRRAPE! Careful, son. Careful now. Closes. Empty hall. 808 is visible. This is it. Nothing bigger. Pause, check the hair, SLLLURG-PAT-SLLLURG, moist. Pause, check self: Converses: black, Socks: black, 501’s: black, T-shirt: orange. “Turds! Orange?” Yes, orange. CRACK! Hand against cart. Thumbs the orange shirt: Do it right, do it

DEVO. “Suitable.” Another pause. “He say 217 people?” Nothing particular besides more standing. “That’s lots. Big save. That’s the dream.” Cart to door. Hand to door. DULL THUD. Pull door, a pull door, pulls it. HYDRAULIC GLLLLIDE open. Head shoots in. Sweating now. “Excuse me...Dr., ehr, Ginglesnoodles?” “Plotstein.” “Call A-Vis?” “Yes...Flaubert?” Cart through door. Lots of people. Lots and...SILENCE. “Yessir! No power on the unit?” The time to shine. So fucking the time to shine. So. So. So.

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“Yes. Need the projector today. Seem to be getting no power to the whole blasted thing.” “Hmmm.” Glance around room. “Lights seem to be working.” “Well, they are on, Flaubert.” Oooh, that was stupid. Hands to the cart. Both hands, firm. Sweat builds. Drips, PLOP PLOP, bringing hair greases with. Down. “Did his hair just drip?” “Think it was his whole head.” “Hope there’s lots of notes today!” “Huh?” No notice, focuses. If ever a time, it is certainly time to focus. “Well, Mr...Dr...Plotstein...SIR...I’m sure its nothing.” Bent at the waist. No good. Try one knee? Umm, nope. Both knees, all fours. Satisfactory. JANGLES. Flips some switches. Tightens some cords. Nothing. Balls! It was something. Needs a light. “That guy’s jeans are torn.” “Couldn’t tell...he’s wearing black boxers.” “You rip?” “I assure you, I did not fart.” Flashlight CLICK. Illumination. Huh, things are as they should be. All things perfect. Perfection here sucks. “How’s it coming, Flaubert?” “Just don’t get it. Everything seems to be fine in here sir.” Good Christ! Was this defeat when triumph seemed certain...necessary? A dream. The dream! Must persist. Public forums can embarrass. Must stand. One large THRUST...balance...balance...annnnd, UP! Hands flail flashlight to the back pocket, near the hole. Beyond sweat now. “Guy can’t get it.”

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“Think we’re out early then.” To the cart. Answers in the cart. DIG DIG DIG. “Sucks for him.” “Yeah, gotta figure this, if ever, would be his time to shine.” “Yep, one would have to figure that if nothing else.” “Do either of you fellas have a pen?” “Shut-up.” DIG DIG DIG DIIIIIIGGGGGG! DUG! Bla-ha! A cord. Damn tangled, but a cord indeed. Straight-up, cord in hand. Sweat gone, totally fucking gone! “Sir. It must be the outlet.” “The outlet you say?” “Yes sir! A short in the outlet!” “Behind the unit?” “Yes sir, directly behind.” “Hmm.” “Yes, must have a short. Just run this cord to another outlet.” Where is another outlet? Let there be another outlet, and... “THERE!” Behind the kid with the sideburns next to the kid with the sideburns in front of the kid with the sideburns near the kid with the beard. On the pillar. “I’ll just run it along the wall and plug it in.” “Got enough cord, Flaubert?” Shit-goddam the mother fucking cord is a snarl, but a long snarl. “You know it, sir!” Cord better come undone quick. Pull the loop, the fucking tangle loop. And...NO! That was certainly the wrong way. THUD. Drops the goddam thing. Loop, pull it, swiftly, pulls tangle loop, easy and, voile, tangle free. So easy! Surely is the day, the moment. The dream...Just one good outlet away. “Guy got it.”

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“Fucker!” “Damn it all, the continuation of class is inevitable!” “You pay to be here. You should cherish it more.” “Dick!” First plugs cord into unit. Pays no mind to the bent prong, and squeezes snugly together...TIGHT. Runs the cord along the floor and turns the corner. Not out too far. No trip wire here. Navigates the desks. Starts at the girl with the matching sweat suit along the wall. “Excuse me. Can you just pass this back?” “Like, pass what back?” “The cord. The CORD! C’MON!” Hands it over her shoulder. Stupid. “Probably under the desks is better.” “Oh. [BUBBLE GUM POP!] Duh.” Cord goes under desk and under desk and under desk. Checks the slack. Plenty of slack. Checks again, has to do something. Waits. There! It’s at the outlet. Stop the cord, please, stoppppingggg...guy with the sideburns stop the cord...yes! Stopped. “Could you plug that in?” “Where?” “The outlet by your cargo pocket.” “Where?” Moves back. Moving back. To the guy. Down the middle aisle. Back. All eyes on. Just feet from the outlet. Literally, shoed feet. “There.” “Oh. My cargo pants were in the way.” “Yes.”

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The boy reaches. CRACK! Oooh, fuck! Sideburn against desk hard. Kid’s face goes flush, good thing he’s under the desk. Sees it. Extends towards it. DULL NOTHING. Extends! DULL DULL NOTHING. Extends, GRRR, extends! DULL DULL SUPER DULL NOTHING. “Uh. Won’t reach.” “No!” “Yes.” “I know there’s enough cord.” Must be a snag. Where’s the snag? C’mon shit-damn snag. Moves back up the class. Cord seems clear, pretty clear. Wait! “[BUBBLE GUM POP!]” “Hi. You’re stepping on the cord.” “Huh. [BUBBLE GUM POP!] What cord?” “THE cord.” “Oh. [BUBBLE GUM ALL OVER FACE POP!] Duh.” She steps off cord. Picks gum off face. Cord SLIDES easy. “Got it!” “You plugged it?” “Oh, it’s plugged.” Gotta check. Looks and checks. “Yep. I’d say that’s plugged.” Back to the front. Calmly moving. Calm child, move calm. Push the button, be the hero. “Guy, damn that guy!” “Fucker!” “You should be preparing to dutifully take notes.” “Dick!” Back to the unit. All eyes fixed. ZZZZZTTTT PIERCING STARES ZZZZZTTTT! Checks the cord one last time. All is good. Watches the screen and pushes the button. Sweet shit, this is

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it! CLICK ALL TOO HOLLOW CLICK CLICK FUCKING CLICK! nothing clicks nothing clicks to hero clicks yet nothing clicks “WHAT!? NO!” “Yes.” “How could this be? Sir, I mean...I don’t...I...” “Well, thanks for trying, Flaubert.” “But it shoulda...” “Well, with no projector we’ll just call it a day guys.” SLAPS of notebooks. ZIPS of bags. ZOUNDS of cellphone ons. “Yeah, guy, yeah!” “Sucks for that fucker. We’re out.” “Darn! I headed my notes and everything.” “You’re a real Balls Johnson you know that?” Students whiz by, past the cart, out the door. FAILURE RINGS. “But Dr. Gonzelshnard!” “Plotstein. Don’t worry about it, Flaubert...You’ll get em’ next time.” “I just don’t understand it, sir.” SNAPPING briefcase, and, PHEEEWWW past, Plotstein is gone. All are gone. Alone. Coils the cord. SLIDE HEAVY, CORD SLIDES HEAVY, SLIDE. “Fuck! Fuck fucking fucker fuck!” HYDRAULIC GLLLLIDE open. “Duh. [BUBBLE GUM POP!] Forgot my I-pod.” Coils. SLIDE HEAVY, SLIDE SLIDE HEAVY CORD. “You know. [NO BUBBLE GUM POP!] You have a like really big rip in your 501’s.” SLLLIIIDE HEAVY, SLIDE. “At least I’m wearing black boxers.” HYDRAULIC GLLLLIDE...DULL SETTLING REST...closed.

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