Mplsstudy (2005)

November 2005 The Mpls Study of Boredom I was inside. The television blared and a series of half empty bottles of Heineken were strewn across the upturned bar that resides in the corner of my living room. I lay motionless and drooling on the couch wearing an odd assortment of holiday costumes you find at a midmall kiosk. The lower portion of a rented Easter Bunny suit. Santa’s middle torso. And the beard, wire rimmed glasses, and yamika of the famed Torah legend, and long standing pseudo Jewish Santa Clause, the Rabbi Hiram L. Hirchenbaum. My dog spun from the fan. An infomercial for Nads hair removal wax was on. I was enthralled. Just then my telephone rang. My heart raced, but I remained motionless, drooling. My dog fell from the fan. He landed on his feet, trotted into the kitchen, and answered the phone. Telemarketer. My lips were chapped. I thought that was odd. Perhaps it was the drool. It was a problem. An hour passed and I got up and walked to the bathroom. On my way I fell over in the kitchen. I cursed the combination of freshly waxed floor and cotton sox. I proceeded. After finishing-up peeing in the bathtub I leaned on the edge of the sink and stared blankly at myself in the mirror. The toilet was broken due to my friend Lou who banged out his aggression on the Moen with the sledge hammer we use to uproot small sections of track at a nearby railroad yard. His girlfriend had broken up with him quite suddenly after finding out that his left foot was three and a half sizes smaller than his right, and despite my protests in between bites of a pickle and cheese sandwich, he went ahead and sledged away. Don’t ask me how I dealt with ‘number 2.’ So there I was. Staring. Blankly. Into a mirror that I had lipsticked a fictional woman’s name, number, and address on. My Hiram beard began to itch. I took it off. That was better. I rubbed the tattoo of a birthmark in the shape of Gandhi, on my left temple. It just celebrated its first birthday. It still hurt. Strange. I left the bathroom and threw on my old paisley robe. Comforting. I went back into the kitchen and stared at the floor for a minute. Then I looked around and scratched my head. I saw another mirror and stared at myself for a couple of seconds. Minutes. I smiled because I liked my Gandhi. Then I laughed because I knew my Gandhi liked me. Then I went back into the middle of the room and stood some more. I looked back at the floor for a moment. Then I apologized for cursing at it earlier. It wasn’t the floor’s fault...it was my socks’ fault. I shifted my stare to my socks and cursed at them. Then I spent a moment watching my pinky toe wiggling around underneath a little hole. Amusing. After scratching my head for a bit longer I spun in a tight circle and slapped my sides. Now what? I walked back into the living room. The Nads infomercial was over. Now it was an infomercial for some spray that covers up your bald spot. Whether you’re a guy or girl. It was crap. I clicked off the television with gusto. Except it didn’t turn off. Oh yeah. I had thrown the remote’s batteries at the ice cream man the other afternoon. I wondered why I had done that. Then I remembered that it seemed like a good idea at the time. I rubbed my hand over my hair. Did I have a bald spot? Hair in a can eh? I leaned back and pondered. I shook my head in approval and went over to the tipped bar. Lou was right, it did look better on its side. I thought back to the Nads infomercial. Did I have a crush on Nad? Did I need hair in a can? What was I going to do without my remote batteries? What was I wearing under the Easter Bunny pants? I fingered my lower lip. Damn it was chapped. I walked back into the kitchen. The kitchen. Yes, the kitchen. I had the sense that I had been there before. I had. But when? Days ago? Years ago? No. Just moments ago. Yes. Moments. My dog was there now. Doing the dishes. Good for him. It was his turn. The funny thing is, I thought he

was angry at me. Come to think of it I thought all animals were angry at me. Why? Granola. The granola fiasco of the Tuesday prior. I won’t go into it though. Moment of weakness. I needed to go into my bedroom. There were answers there. I walked. So what was the granola fiasco you ask? I already told you I wasn’t going to bother you with it. I will though. For my amusement. Not Alan’s. It wasn’t a fiasco though. Wrong word. Debacle. Hmmm, that’s more like it. So we’ll just call it “The Great Granola Debacle of Last Tuesday.” I guess you could say that’s where it all started. That is, if that’s where you think it al started. ## So I woke up. In my bathtub. In the hall. Last Tuesday. Why was I in my bathtub you ask? Because it was in the hall. Why was it there? Because that’s where I keep it when I sleep in it. It’s a tub with feet. But there I was in the tub. My tuxedo was wrinkled and my socks smelled of beef tenderloin. Damn. For some reason it seemed as though every time my tuxedo lay wrinkled my socks reeked of beef. I had found this very odd for many months now, but never had the will power to think of why this may be for more than a few seconds while lying in the tub. I gently unplugged the drain and pulled myself out. It was 10 a.m. Fortunately I had no job so I had all afternoon to iron my tuxedo and wash my socks. I elected not to. Instead I decided to call Lou and see if he had any granola. I had a craving. “Lou?” “Yep.” “Got any granola?” “Maybe. Why?” “I just need some ‘nola.” “Why? “I’m just kind a craving it.” “No good. Why?” “Because my stomach is tellin’ me to eat granola.” “Nope. Stomachs don’t do that sort a thing.” “Sure they do.’ “Nope. Imaginary friends do that sort a thing, but not stomachs.” “Got any or not?” “I’m comin’ over.” Dial tone. Lou was coming over. Maybe with granola, but maybe not. I paced back and forth for a moment with my finger on Gandhi. Just then my dog entered the room. He was laughing. Wondering what was so funny I laid down on the ground and closed my eyes. That did very little. By the time I opened them my dog was crying. Resigning myself to the fact that he was a far more complicated creature than me, I arose. Promptly, I drank three cans of condensed milk. Thick. I chased them with prune juice and a shot of lime. Refreshed. I moved to the front window. I sat cross-legged. Waiting for Lou. Perhaps I was too close to the door. I was knocked over...By the door. I stared at Lou from the floor.

“I told you to stop sittin’ so close to the door.” “Yep.” “So why ya so close to the door?” “Comfortable carpet there.” “Moron.” “Bring any ‘nola “ “Uh-uh. You gotta get off that stuff.” “Huh?” “You been callin’ me three times a day lately askin’ for granola.” “So. I like ‘nola.” “Well, all I’m sayin is that I’m not supplyin’ it for ya anymore.” “How am I gonna...” There was a thud. Lou tipped the bar. “...get ‘nola? Huh?” “You’ve gotta get a new supplier.” “Not the store...” “Maybe.” “But that’s commercial ‘nola....I need the good stuff.” “Sorry man. Lou’s out.” It was at that point that I smelled grape soda. It was at the point just after that point that I felt grape soda. On my ass. Cool. Sticky. “Why’d ya tip the bar?” “Looks better like that.” Hmmm. I stared at it. Lou was right alot. I let it soak in...The grape soda. It felt nice. Like a kiddy pool. Lou pulled me to my feet. Whack! I fell right back down. It seems he had slapped me. Chalking it up to his bad temper I got back up and moved back into the kitchen. I made eggs. Brown shelled ones. My dog liked those better. I had to admit, so did I. Lou ate. I ate. The dog ate. Granola still weighed heavy on my mind. “Ya know, Lou?” “No. I don’t know.” “If you won’t give me ‘nola I’ll get it myself.” Lou rocked back in his chair. He passed gas. Or, should I say, he blasted gas. The chair almost fell back from the force. He was triumphant. I was nauseous. “No you won’t.” His hands were behind his head. Cocky. The seams on his pink blazer looked like they were going to burst at his underarms. “Sure I will.”

“From where? Old Larry down on Lipsyte?” I was lying. My mouth went dry. I had no other granola source. “No...not Old Larry...” My palms were sweating. So I set down the scalding coffee mug. “...I have my sources ok.” “Impossible. We’re the only two in town that have non-commercial granola.” Lou sat forward. His seams thanked him. The dog did not. He was on its tail. “Ouch!” I chuckled at the dog’s shrill voice. It sauntered into the living room. Unaffected. Lou flipped the eye patch over his left eye up. He was gravely serious. I watched in horror at the newly revealed orange eye. He grabbed me by the right nostril. I stopped laughing. “Urrrrghhhh. Ummmmmm, Louuuhhhh” “Where else can ya get granola? Huh?” How to answer with a finger in your nostril. I thought my silence would get me hit. I turned my head so that he could see my Gandhi. Passivism was the answer... “I’ll hit you. Where else?” ...to another question apparently. I wriggled free of his finger long enough to spout off an answer. “I’ll tell your mom that you deal non-street legal granola if you hit me again.” Lou lived with his mom. In a trailer outside the salvage yard. She scared him. Bad. He was more afraid of his mom than of Andy Rooney. His face went blank. He eased in his chair. He flatuated again. The Captain Kangaroo eye patch snapped back down on his eye. Who tattoos their eyeball orange anyways? The door smacked shut. He peeled away. My nostril began to bleed. Damn his fingernails. I sat there for a moment. Bleeding onto the floor. It stopped eventually and I found a straw in my briefcase. I went into the living room and joined my dog. We drank the grape soda. I sat back and picked lint out of my teeth. Who was I kidding? I put my orange snowsuit on and set out. To find granola. I lie.

END