Me Tarzan, You Jane! Huh? No? Not? Why Not?

Never mind that, hey, let’s change the subject. Frank, how about this; do you think you would be happy if you were able to buy the ability to live forever?

What? Live forever? You can’t buy that, Janie. Where the hell did that drop into you from?

It’s a question. My brain detected it drifting by and grabbed it. A stream of all possible questions in the world is always playing in an invisible silent loop round and round us, don’t you know? It got grabbed in and, there it went—

Janie, no. You’ve said what you’re about to say about a million times!

No no no, don’t interrupt—this question shot out my mouth; and it wants you to answer. I mean it has nothing to do with me. It’s not something I need to know. It’s just one random grab from the big black bucket way down in us that generates the loop I told you about that I am not going to explain again. So, answer!

Okay Janie. No, knowing I could buy living forever would not be a good thing.

Why not? I bet you are saying that because you know I certainly would, and, plus; if you could ayahuasca yourself to read my mind even in burps of shiny little slime-silver ball clusters tight enough and symmetrical enough to activate anybody at all’s hidden trypophobia, and were able to fight your way through that phobia then maybe—

Hold it hold it, slow down to lightspeed please. Ayahuasca myself? What the hell does ayahuasca myself mean?

Never mind. Look it up. I won’t answer. The question I asked you first has not been answered. Tell me, why wouldn’t you buy the ability to live forever?

Costs too much. The way the world is, it would only be for rich people.

No, it would not only be available to rich people. Anybody could buy it.

I never said they wouldn’t make it available to everybody. That’s how companies discriminate without getting in trouble. It is not politically correct to say things are only for those people or only these people. They accomplish the same thing with how they price it. They’d make it only for rich people by raising the price sky-high.

What’s sky-high to you?

Oh, I bet it would cost at least as much or even more than leasing a fully loaded Cadillac SUV. Who can afford those? Rich people, is who. Or families with both the man and the woman high-flying CEO’s of great big companies selling thing all the twelve to twenty-year olds are hot in the crotch to get destroy or lose and replace and destroy or lose again, like that—and the things have no wires, are superslim with clean modern lines, have no stink or stench, all miniaturized, all super-state of the art of whatever the damned things are—breeds of machines, yeah how about that Janie—there are hundreds on hundreds of breeds of machines it’s not just flesh beings that are organized like the AKC organizes doggies bark bark! There, see Janie! I can open the gates and spout out silly shit for hours on end too. You’re not the only one. I can spew silly shit too.

Frank. See? You petered out your spew before I needed to yell Uncle! When the tables are turned I spew you and spew and you roll over paws up and say please stop, I give!

Hah. It’s fun chatting like this ain’t it, Janie. You know what?

No, what?

When we’re both out of school we ought to hook up.

Hook up?

Yeah—like me husband, Janie! And you be Tarzan’s wife! Perfect name you got too, hey! Janie and Jane same name. You Jane and me Tarzan! You get it? We could even buy a monkey!

Hey, hey—Tarzan and Jane maybe we’d live through, but; there’ve been more than one documented case of those monkeys ripping their humans’ faces off. Frank, you know as well as I do, that monkeys are dangerous pets. Is that not true?

Well, I—yes I do, but I was just trying to be funny. About Tarzan and Jane and—
I know you were! I kind of do! But it isn’t really funny at all. The owners that lost their faces were probably just poor fools all deluded into thinking they were their pets; but no monkey either then or now ever had a clue about the road to the left labeled To be a Pet, come this way, that they should have taken; dogs, cats, and what have you, well, they know all about that road. But monkeys, no. As a matter of fact, they don’t even recognize the word pet. Pet is just a tiny little word, easy to stroll by without even noticing, like a speck of a word or a dot, or maybe even like when you see something tiny moving out of the corner of your eye, and you wake up out of the larger world and look into the weave of the carpet the thing set on, and, seeing nothing, then you get down on all fours and run your fingers through the weave and seeing nothing, then you get a big strong flashlight and shine it slanted so that even the tiniest dot of a thing will cast an inch long or longer even shadow, like you would do if you dropped your six daily opioid multipill addict-dose onto the tile of the kitchen floor, and you panic needing to find it needing to find it before your American Staffordshire Bull Terrier mix which even tried to eat your favorite blue glossy bowling ball way back when he was still a tiny fluff of a puppy comes snooping all sloppy scouting for prey and lap up the dose pill like dogs all do, in this way; first they say to themselves what the fuck is this, huh, I never saw this before it smells like food and not like food at the same time somehow maybe I shouldn’t but I want to no yes no, but—it is tiny so tiny, my inner ruler and my most gracious unknown to humans pet dog God way up on superdistant canine mountain, will not punish me with deadly blockage or worse, so, snap decision comes and goes in a slurp and a taste to forget so move on—and then five minutes later the mutt stretches out dead-eyed long as a small deer across the floor to be discovered stiff and cold hours days weeks or months later depending on the season and the hour of ingestion; you may not think this makes sense at all but read the Coroner’s Autopsy Procedures for Dummies paper cheap-back thick book with the fresh stinky ink like the stiff fresh from the printer’s just given out on the first day of school textbook pages you sniffed up seeking a buzz in grade eleven, or the old fashioned mimeograph handouts that tangled your soft young hands all up in blue in grade school and know; the smell is nature’s village attention bell to gather the people in the town square in the smell-analysis labs within their dark heads that everyone has but not being able to see inside the horribly slimy lined dark hot humid sealed-shut skull-dome that ironically bears the very eyes all turned away so they’ll never be able to see their true savior at all, and you will know the truth of the rusty old saw read the manual before starting the engine, or you may sustain severe injury or death and after all to add to that, there is—

My God, Janie, please speak. You go on and on. What are you thinking of what I asked, Janie? Do you even remember the question? Do you Janie? Why do you daydream out loud like you do? My question is really very serious. I want to know if I stand any chance of standing at the altar with you one day. Answer it simple please. Go!

Okay, what do you want to hear? Yes? No? What’s the best answer, Frank? I will tell you the answer you want since I always get the vibe from you that I am being kept alive only for your pleasure. So, tell me what you want me to say and I will be more than happy to say it. I really will. And, as for daydreaming the way I do. I can’t help it because it’s a condition. The doctor has diagnosed it.

Yeah? What’s the diagnosis? I can’t wait to hear this one.

Maladaptive daydreaming is what it is called. But never mind that—something’s more important. Do you want to know it, Frank?


It’s just a simple question. This odd phrase you use; standing at the altar. What does that mean? I don’t know that term. I mean, we can go down to the church right now and go in and go up and stand at the altar. But then what? So what? As a matter of fact it’s easy enough to stand at anything at all that’s before us and we’re on the same floor as. Altar, table, desk, lamp; bison, buffalo, tractor, uh; hay baler, Parents’ graves, model A, uh! Hey, hey hey, Frank; how about that? It’s got a beat. You can dance to it. And I made it up myself! What do you think of that Frankie Frank Frankie? I made it up myself—hey where the hell are you where you gonna go, huh? I mean any literate person who’s gone to school would get this simple question I just asked. Yes. Okay then; what does standing at the altar symbolize anyway, big pal?

Janie. It means nothing. I just dreamed it up. Like you’re so good at doing.

Oh! Thanks for the compliment, Frank! You’re such a guy.

No problem.

What else then? Nothing else?

No. No, and also, don’t worry, I don’t need an answer to my first question.

What question?

It doesn’t matter.

Huh Frankie? What you sayin’?

Nothing at all. Hey here’s the bottom. Time to drop through this loop. The counter is maxed out so we need to fall on past here to the rest of this life.

What the hell does that mean?

You’ll see. Come on.

Let’s move forward.

By posting a comment, you agree to's privacy policy.