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Eyewash Required Before Mounting Table Paper: No Exceptions

At the Lent diner counter the studious waitress read with interest some kind of testimony from some apparent somebody, though anonymous, namely a Christian writer back when writing was much harder to take up there being no keyboard based electrical devices as a matter of fact no pens no pencils and even not no paper of no kind. Buh being here poring over this book every idle minute—there are some things no amount of book learning can convey. She nudged the corner of a stack of laminated ten or twenty-year-old diner menus, adapted apparently from something of a Greek-style diner place hereabouts mayhaps or if not so then somewhere nearby. Soup stained with dropple-splatters of gravy and just plain worn away to the point past limpness. And also being all seeing the future as we have seen when one thing is there as Otto’d been thinking and we do not know if a second will appear aligned so as to their now being a row, there was no way. Thus she talked to the menage-ementeh oneceway back years saying Hey Pop we ought to get fresh menus. You know?

Why? Can’t they read them no more?

—no way for us to know. Regardless of native intelligence or native intelligence honed to a sharp point by this-a-way that-away-some degree. Ahem. Hippo.

Sure they can but they’re filthy, you know.

So what?

They aren’t—appetizing.

They don’t have to be. They’re not to eat.

They might be turning the customer’s stomachs. Won’t want to eat here.

Where else will they go?

I don’t know. There’s places around.

Not true. There’s no people round here for twenty miles every way. Maybe more.

Wrong. There’s a town up Towson there. North. The men will eat there.

The menage-ementeh turned to her and pushed a finger on the counter edge.

There’s more on this menu than there’s on any other menu this side of the continental divide. You know.

Oh? You seen every menu in every place from here to the continental divide?

No. But that’s my guess. My guesses panned out. I guessed on buying this place years back. I guessed on opening up the truck stop all ‘round. And I guessed on hiring you on. Still think I can ‘t guess not no nothing eh?

As she so mused that all over outside the front wall came “Horse” again padding to the diner door. Reaching for the handle thinking oh, yeah, Otto. Harmless Otto. Should really never have befriended him. “Horse” thought back on the turn into Lent about the scar-faced boy he’d befriended in high school. Something about the boy was off enough to attract “Horse”’s friendship. Some samenesses as; common interests. The boy had been hospitalized from soaring a go-kart up an old car hood out the far sand flats—called pits by some—where now there lay the spread of a Home Depot. The go-kart landed cockeyed and scar-faced threw up back and front somehow through the crazy and, the tip of the plug of the engine either came down on him prone or waited poked up for him to land down either way it poked in his back just a millimeter or three from his spinular backbone-tube. Which cracking or severing would have been major disaster and as a matter of fact yes a matter of fact double-yes, he quite nicely would naught of been reaching for the Lent diner door now if scar-faced had been paralyzed or killed outright then “Horse”. Would not of got time off from school for behaving according to scar-faced’s peculiar influence and. Would not of spent a ton of that summer tinkertoying down the backshed with ole’ John Jegou and got into. Tinkertoying the garbagetruck blocked up down the pass that westerners may have termed an arroyo but which not never no flooded-down not even a single once; the stanching stinking von olde-oyle and scumrust combined with stovebolt valvecover stunk-down undersludge sold him on engines. Wrenching and driving and racing. At the track mechanicalling in older in-laws’ truckfleet repair garage and then to drive in his young. Youngtwenties some miles down same back up and then—to tiring are the details now, but—trucking. Long-haul front to back back to front and so sez I ‘cause of that scar-faced punk-boy here “Horse” is, and, and was; and so into the Lent diner-room so here’s he’s again and. Seeing him ‘cross the room the waitress tensed up to retain her bored look. No point to flatter. No point in making his entrance the high point of the day though it was and the line in the book she’d been centered on reading— the line concerning an anonymous Christian, who wrote in the fourth century of their era, that Christians and pagans alike were struck by the remarkable coincidence that but; it fell gone down under the next few steps of “Horse” within which he looked first onto the there where all sitty-sat the big ole fuck of an Otto. Out of a sense of being and decency, “Horse” nodded to this Otto who did God not he he did looked not not praise up. This Otto, yes this here one, was too busy running down the line being that he doesn’t want to know that “Horse” will have failed to obey two times in a row if he does not produce him a Kevin. Otto does not want to know really that “Horse” failed to obey once already. Once in a row. Waiting-muse thumb-thumping idly at the table sounds come up winding somehow—and it is for things like this spawning some offer as proof of a God--what if anything is a row of one? Can there be a row of just one? Seeing one standing there; be it what it may; seeing the it standing there—in this case the it being the fact that “Horse” failed one time already—there there’s no way to know if it will stand alone forever—or whatever span of existence its particular allotment of which may be—or if another will appear, properly aligned with it, for the claim to be viable that it had been the first in a row. Given this; back when it was standing there alone, destined as we now know to be first in a row of some number of members, was it in and of itself—a row? Was it oh was it—ant into your future, just as I—no no, ahem—just as Otto, who is not me—note the finely wrought mental insulation applied here—cannot know if “Horse” will, 1. Come in with a butchering Kevin-boy in tow by the ear, or, 2. Will again glide in past Otto over the dance floor stretched toward that waitress—after all it could serve as one couldn’t it—if something could be n number of things, regardless of what thing it may currently be is it not valid as shit to call it any one of those n possible things—let’s think that over while he possibly does, 1. Yank the boy’s ear setting him near Otto—which is a palindrome known in some cultures as a name given by God—and pointing his face at Otto’s preparatory to his severe multi-day grilling, or, 2. Again and again glide gliding down the stubbed-up runway—which no earthly plane could take off from—but which may still be one of the n possible purposes for the space from here to the waitress—after all incorrectly named names are still names—just of a type. Dance floor, runway—what’s the difference? But. There is no telling the time. The me recounting this tale has no available timepiece because in this parallel era the me is in there is no time but cannot something possibly be measured else by any over elsewise mechanically man-made device, but only the Otto being described. And only that Otto of all possible Ottos. A. Does know time. B. Posesses a timepiece. C. That timepiece being modern enough to be reasonably accurate for everyday life but which would cause wildly unpredictable results if adopted by space travelers, and, D. Knows how to read and project the results of the read to be used to guide the common activities of not only his own Otto-self but that of all the sub-Ottos spread out beneath him. For, in this great space, which only fifty or so years ago was used to assemble the huge building blocks of world-class crude oil tankerships, are all gainfully mentally employed each one bent to a task at his very own instance of the virtually cloned thousands or less other work tables manned each by its very own valid and unique minor copy of Otto each of which the big numero uno-honcho Otto prepped to start going down over table by table for the length of twenty-six tables as the “Horse” slash waitress happy-dance kept on with “Horse” moving past Otto straight into the waitress’ upcoming face-grin he went taking the stool right before her replacing her view of old-Otto with the “Horse”ie-man as she fondly thought through him all and said right to his bright hello-face—“Horse”, eh—good to see you. Eh—coffee?

Eh, very good! Yes, coffee. How’d you guess? I mean I not been here before eh have I who the hell are you eh? I do not think I have seen you before oh ah, oh now I remember. You are the one with your face always pushed down the middle of some big fat book!

Damn you! she grinned out, then turned to get him his cup as always and as always he touched the rough cut stack of coverpressed bookpages. What damned book is this now? he thought. She is a case, yes she is she is.

Hey here.

The coffee smell came up around black making this moment the same moment as the previous God knows how many moments and—and—and—something made him say it.

So anyway. Hey. How goes it with our pal over there?

Otto?

Yeh, Otto.

He—well. Just wait ‘til you go to the men’s room. You’ll see how goes it with your pal.

Yeah? What? What’s he got to do with the men’s room?

He put a sign on the door.

Really? What’s it say?

You’ll see it.

Ah, come on. Tell me. Save me from having to walk back to look.

It says extreme danger. Enter at your own risk.

What? Why?

I don’t know. After all I don’t go inside there.

Hey. Why not? You’re in charge of the place while the master is away. aren’t you?

Master? What master?

Oh, the boss. The word you got for your boss. What is it? Starts with an m or n I think maybe—

Menage-ementeh.

Yah. Managenemente or whatever. That name.

No. Not menagenmenntte—its menage-ementeh.

Okay. Anyway. You’re in charge of the place while the—menengiomas is away. If there’s danger about you got to check it out.

Uh. The menage-ementeh been here since Otto did the sign. Pop comes in once a week or so and he came back from the men’s room with the sign in his hand and waved it in my face.

What’s this? Who put this sign up? You know who did this.

Must have been him, I said, pointing at Otto. So. Pop went over and showed it to Otto.

He find out why Otto did it?

I don’t know. Pop never said nothing. Just sat down with Otto for a while. After they talked a while, he went back by the men’s room and he was there a while, then came back without the sign I figured he threw it out and maybe wanted to peel the bits of tape Otto used to put it up off the door. But later Big Swami came in for dinner and went back there.

Big Swami? Eh, I haven’t met up with Big Swami for a day! How’s he look? He still got that old Peterbilt?

Same—shaved his beard. 'bout his truck I can't tell you. But the point is after he came out and set back down and finished his food, he told me when I went to give him the check, What’s the problem with the men’s room ?

Problem?

Yeah. There’s a sign says it’s dangerous. Enter at your own risk. Why?

I was kind of shook that he said that I thought Pop took it down and that was that but when Big S. brought it up, I got floored.

Yeah. I’m floored too, said “Horse”. Otto put it up?

Pretty sure.

You know why? The boss tell him to do it?

No. Like I said, the boss got surprised too. But he didn’t take it down.

I got to go look. One second hey?

Sure.

“Horse” turned away toward the men’s room and as he shrank away down proportionately to the distance, the waitress idly palmed her book her way and opened it and read along reading, it’s all a church. Live in the world of real things and real things only. When in doubt obtain a pet dog. Many are waiting. Between the death and resurrection of their respective deities, and that the coincidence formed a theme of bitter controversy between the adherents of the rival religions. Because many are waiting. The pagans contend that the resurrection of Christ was a spurious imitation of the resurrection of Attis. That is because far too many are waiting. And the Christians assert with equal warmth that the resurrection of Attis was a diabolical counterfeit of the resurrection of Christ. This again this yes—too many wait vainly for homes. Yas yes yeh—hey Christ, that’s hard to believe--

The boss let Otto keep that up there?

Oh! Hey. You’re back. Oh yah. Seems so. Yah seems he did, Anyway.

She flipped the book back shut and said, So, what’s to eat “Horse”? or is it too early?

Seems I got in a little earlier today. Tell you what—

He drained back his coffee and rose to full height.

—I got to get my stuff in off the truck. Got to turn in early tonight. Got to leave at first light in the morning. Catch a shower before I come for dinner. You work ‘till midnight still?

Yah sure. I’ll be here. Later.

Okay.

So! So! So!

Heck, she thought, recoiling back toward her read. Makes not one thing of sense—whatever they are. Don’t matter. Where there’s no sense lies no hope. Dishes to wash now. Better.

Neither is dying.

So.

As he walked from her, “Horse” meant to pass by Otto his path not bending from Otto’s force of gravity so unlike unlikely-like the gravitational bending of light which—a beam of—may be passed through with just the wave of one soft feather but—“Horse” himself whether on the move or at rest cannot. Will not. Will never be severed through by just the wave of one soft feather—but. But. Otto must-of seen saw him coming because he spread an arm winging “Horse” over and stated solidly up the “Horse”’s face-way, Hey, “Horse”—how was this last trip. See any Kevins? Meet any butcherboys? ‘member last time we talked? Kevins. ‘member the Kevins? Let me hear your phone ’gain dis time. Hey “Horse”—nah nevermind all that. Want to see my latest reverses? Got good ones. If you wait ten or twenty I can finish ‘em up. Take a seat. Or three. Or fifteen—shit. All this numbers subjection’s a toll taken off my cerebrum! Take a seat, pal.

“Horse” noted no mention of hell relating to his lack of bringing Otto a butcher-boy. I told you bring me back a butcher-boy—needing to ensure he kept that out the equation he asked Otto, Say, Otto—what’s with the sign on the rest room door? What’s dangerous? The boss here let you put that up? Why’s that—but Otto leaned back pointing overback out from his shoulder ‘cross the dance floor leading to the countered down waitress in her book. He said, What, hup. Hey who told you that? She tell you that?

Yes she did. She told me about the sign. Why’s it up?

No! The boss part. She tell you something on me and her boss?

‘fraid yes. Why?

I never said to her boss because I never met the boss and don’t know him. But. What about a sign? What sign?

The sign you put on the men’s room door about how it’s dangerous in there.

I never did such a thing.

But—there’s a sign there. Why’s the sign there?

I’ve seen no sign.

The boss was here and brought it to you because you put it there. Come on Otto. Come on. What—

That waitress told you all this. That waitress, hey, eh—remember I told you. To me she’s not even a bug. Less than a bug. And you believe her?

Hold it Otto, I just said what she said. Not that I believe.

Yes you do! Your face said you believed I put some sign up. You said it like there was a sign—which I doubt there is but—and you said it like if there was—which I doubt—I put it up.

Hold it, hold it. I saw the sign. It’s there. Go look you don’t believe me—that I know is true but I’m just saying what she said that you put it up and that when her boss saw it she told him you did it and he came and sat right here—right here.

Hold it wait! No, that—

You wait! Let me finish! And you and the boss talked and then the boss went and put it back up and that was that. Now. Don’t you think if that’s true it’s just a little but strange?

It would be if true but it’s not. What’s true is she hates me!

Now how do you know that?

Why lie like this if she doesn’t?

I—I don’t know, said “Horse”—turning for an instant to the top of her head bent down close to her book not hearing them engrossed.

See “Horse”, she’s someplace else in that book night and exactly no day you know doubt what happens in the head of no a woman with a shit job trying to get up in life by way of book learning?

No. What? What?

“Horse” listened to Otto explaining what happens, but not paying attention so much really, because he knew the sign Otto'd put up was real. A woman bangs her face in a book, said Otto, and not much jars up into her. He also thought Otto really doesn’t remember the sign is real. When her face bangs the book the meanings of the words need to jar loose. As a matter of fact if he’s this far off leftwise he no doubt quit honestly doesn’t know either that her menage-ementeh finely named fine name spoke to him and no doubt thought. Yes, jar loose and throw up by strange osmosis through her facebone into her head. Here is a harmless crackpot named Otto hic who should be humored because if not hic he may turn surly surly and threatening which may turn dangerous hic so we’ll keep an eye on him hic and no harm’s the sign. Once in her head it knocks up to her grey matter—in some which is dark grey but in some which is light grey. After all the men’s room is dangerous. Some of it flows up over the grey matter drips down around and mostly goes noplace if she hit the book too hard. The floor’s slick you slip. Some of it flows up into the grey matter but not far enough to stick if she hit the book too soft. The bowls crack you fall. Only if she hits the book perfect with the flat of her face will the data bounce up home. Your head strikes the plumbing you land wrong you’re dicked you stand at the urinal enough times sooner or later the wrong guy will sidle up the wrong man could be wrong for many many reasons so; the men’s room is dangerous. Grey. Because men are dangerous. Men read the books and the data goes a different way. Come close to enough men sooner or later something bad will happen. Less is it trial and error in men. Up. More is it trial and error in women. Up. With women learning is logico-mechanical. Up. With men learning is mathmaticulally-fliud. It’s not really a lie to put danger on a men’s room door. Or, on fourth thought or less, may be the other way around. Not just this door but that door too. Yes, must wise probably is. Not just some doors maybe but all doors probably. But in either flap of the flipper of this construct, that is to have a shit job and leap into book learning for relief, men. Up. Do better. Up. And thought what I said may be total crap given that I am not God. Which is very hard, by the way, to admit. The sign can stay no harm done. It’s true men do better. It’s even good for a laugh in a way. When digging out some shit-pit. Oh!

Eh, okay, Otto. I'll think all  that over. Need to get out to my truck. Wash up check in and all. Be careful!

Yas.

Meanwise; pop-pop “Horse”ie split making lone-again lone-lone big numero-uno Otto, so--he completed things up meaning to turn in after. Eck; ot; oh, oh, oh. So. So. So-o-o-o-o. Hup. Sickle-off, sickleup, scytheunder bottom and scytheover up—crouch lookie-down through his sub-Ottomen.

You indeed have been yes all big busy boys?

All back-sunder!

Back to werke then! Oz backsuckle!

The bottom line:
1. Eyewash required before mounting table paper.
2. Eyewash required before mounting table.
3. Eyewash required before mounting.
4. Eyewash required before.
5. Eyewash required.
6. Eyewash required before mounting.

No exceptions.

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