I am sweating quite profusely, and my heart is beating at an abnormally high rate. Given the nature of the situation, though, this is more than understandable. For I am in the midst of what is undeniably the most intense experience of my life. I’ve just ran, at full speed, what I estimate to be .625 miles, while holding a baby in my arms. I quickly entered the apartment of my Indian friend, Shree. He was sleeping there naked, but I did not have the luxury of concerning myself with the peculiarity of that situation. Instead, I stayed true to my mission, and took what I believe to be the most appropriate course of action: I inserted the baby, which was already struggling to hold onto its life, into Shree’s microwave. Soon after doing this, a female burst into Shree’s apartment. Although my prior encounter with her was short-lived, I feel quite comfortable stating that she is a rather wicked person, one whose selfishness surpasses what our collective unconscious undoubtedly tells us is morally correct behavior.
The situation is intimidating, needless to say. But even in the midst of this chaos, this seemingly random yet entirely too coincidental scenario, I feel it is absolutely necessary to stop and reflect, and examine how fate has unfolded in such an unfortunate and hideous manner.
I suppose it all began when I was visiting my friend John.
PROFILE OF JOHN CHEN
Age: 23 Height: 5’7” Weight: 132 lbs. (approximation) Hair: Black Eyes: Brown Education: B.S. Degree in Electrical Engineering from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Graduated Magna Cum Laude. Notes: John is the descendent of Chinese immigrants. He arrived in the United States at the age of 17. He is a good-natured, simple individual. Although I suspect he may be a hermaphrodite.
Needless to say, John is an extremely intelligent individual. I was interested in picking his brain on the recent violent attacks on hospitals throughout the Bay Area. Being the president and founder of the Kill Baby Club – an organization blamed for the attacks -- I was, needless to say, a supporter of such violent retribution.
“So what’d you think of all the attacks on hospitals?” I inquired.
John was in the midst of assembling his own mp3 player, one he believed was technologically superior and physically smaller than the current industry standard. He looked up and addressed me: “I know you like that. But I think you crazy. Killing hospital and innocent people not good. Only cause trouble.”
I smiled at John’s ignorance. Like most people, his rationality had been tainted by emotions and an adherence to conventional ideology.
I was preparing to pose a question to John, when the unthinkable happened: my cell phone rang. While I was extremely irritated, I collected myself and remained calm. I proceeded to pull out my cell phone. It indicated that the call was from Shree. I answered.
“This better be important.”
“I just need to talk to someone. I’ve got some problems with Raina.”
I began running my free hand through my hair, trying not to pull it out in spite of my anger. Out of the corner of my eye I could see John, and could sense his growing discomfort with the situation. “Alright. Speak.”
“Well, I mean, I don’t know. Sometimes I feel as though she doesn’t make any effort to understand where I’m coming from.”
“I’m sorry Shree, but this doesn’t sound like an emergency.”
“I know, but –
“You know? Really? You know that this is not an emergency?”
Shree paused for a second before speaking. “Yeah, I know it’s not an emergency, but it’s –
“Hold on a second, please. Let me get the facts straight. This situation, this problem you have, is not an emergency in any sense of the word. Am I correct in stating that?”
“Yeah.” He spoke in a defeated tone.
“Am I further correct in assuming that you know the rules regarding my cell phone usage?”
“Yeah.”
“Just to reiterate, in the event that you are lying to me and you actually are not aware of the policy pertaining to my cell phone usage, it is meant for emergencies only. Meaning I will only use it for emergencies, and it should only be used to contact me during emergencies.”
“Sorry.”
“Apology accepted. But please don’t let this happen again. Now, if you’d like, I can come over and we can discuss what appears to be a personal crisis you’re having. Fortunately, you’ve caught me at a time when I was not doing anything important.”
“Sure.”
“Alright then. I’ll be over soon.”
I ended the conversation and returned the cell phone to its holding place on my body. I informed John that my friend Shree was experiencing a personal crisis of sorts, and that it was my obligation to console him in his hour of need. John, being the good-natured individual he is, understood, and cordially escorted me to the exit of his home.
I subsequently arrived at Shree’s home to find him near tears. “Speak to me, my good Indian friend. What troubles you.”
He looked at me carefully before responding. “You been with a lot of girls, right?”
“Does the Pope wear a stupid hat for no apparent reason?”
Shree chuckled. Of course I’ve been with many ladies. But clearly the question was a prelude to something more pressing.
“And with all the girls you been with, have you ever, uh, had trouble?”
Clarity was never Shree’s forte. “While it goes without saying that my intelligence is virtually unparalleled, I am sad to report that I have no psychic capabilities. Please restate your question in a more direct manner in order to facilitate communication.”
“You know…had trouble?” He was shrugging his shoulders and making a strange gesture with his left hand while saying this. In my eyes, this only magnified the complexity of the issue.
Intuitively, I reasoned that this would not be a facile conversation. Shree was never the most eloquent of individuals, and the fact that this matter was emotionally problematic was clearly further hindering his already inadequate ability to verbalize. So I suggested an idea: “Shree, my good Indian friend, would you be interested in going to the poetry slam down at the Rivington? Why we don’t we go there. We can discuss your issues on the way and while watching poetry in action. I believe tonight is freestyle night. I may be interested in partaking.” I was quite the freestyle artist in my spare time.
Shree smiled. It was a peculiar smile, and I’m not sure if he was laughing at me or pleased that I was concerned about his well-being. Nevertheless, he agreed to my proposition, and we began our journey to the poetry slam.
He lit a cigarette as soon as we started walking outside. “You really should stop that, Shree. There are over 90 carcinogens in each one.” I hated it when people smoked.
“I will.”
“So speak your mind. The only conclusion I’ve come to is that your crisis is of a sexual nature. Have you come to a realization that you are a homosexual? Is that it?” I’ve always felt as though Shree was a bit queer, but repressed his homosexuality. He seems like a very repressed individual.
He chuckled at my hypothesis. “No, I’m not gay, Max. But my problem is with Raina. And it’s with sex.”
I was about to ask him another question, when it happened. We were crossing a street – we had the right of way, mind you – when a car sped by us, nearly knocking us over in the process. Needless to say, I was irate.
We had the right of way, mind you.
To Shree, the matter was of little importance. But that is because Shree is a man of no principle, a spineless coward who mindlessly mutates in the manner in which society directs him to do so. Sadly enough, he is a man with no voice, a man with no message.
But I would not stand for such a gross violation of pedestrian rights. So I took what I believe to be the appropriate course of action.
I spat on the car. It was a rather sizable dosage of saliva too.
“What the fuck?” Shree looked at me in disbelief.
“We had the right of way, Shree. It’s about principle. Pedestrian rights are violated on a daily basis. Frankly, I’m sick of it.”
“Is that what they tell you at VEOSUVO?” Shree chuckled as he said this.
This time I knew he was laughing at me.
His comment was a reference to a pedestrian rights organization, VEOSUVO, to which I am a proud member. VEOSUVO is an anagram for Violent Enemies Of Sport Utility Vehicle Owners. I have it tattooed on my right calf.
I was about to respond with a passionate defense VEOSUVO, but we reached the door of the Rivington Center, the site of the poetry slam.
“Three bucks, fellas.” A large, gorilla-esque person stood at the door, palm extended, breathing heavily. We paid our dues and entered. The doorperson mumbled something as passed him, but I failed to hear what he said. No matter.
The Rivington was fairly packed this evening; I estimated the population to be in excess of fifty, which is what is stated to be its maximum capacity by order of the fire marshall. This did not come as a surprise; the Rivington was not a refuge for law-abiding citizens, as it was known for creating an ambience of hostility. I personally was all too familiar with its pugnacious spirit, as I generally received many hostile glances and crude remarks when I chose to socialize there. Why I was isolated as a specific target always boggled my mind; I felt as though I was nothing but friendly to the other individuals gathered here in the name of poetry.
Upon entering, we quickly sat ourselves at a table near the front of the stage so as to be close to the action. Never being an individual to waste time, I immediately began addressing the issue at hand as soon as we situated ourselves. “So. What is the dilemma you and Raina are having. I assume it must be rather problematic, since, in your mistaken eyes, it apparently warranted a call to my cell phone.”
Shree lit yet another cigarette before beginning to speak. “Alright. I’m just gonna come out and say it.” He paused. “I can’t get it up, man. I’m fuckin’ comin’ out of the gates limp every time.”
A waiter came by, and Shree ordered an alcoholic beverage while I requested water. From the tap.
“I don’t think the issue is as problematic as you’re making it out to be. There are numerous treatments for erectile dysfunction. A visit to the doctor may indeed provide you with all the remedies you desire.”
The waiter returned with our beverages. Shree lit another cigarette and quickly gulped some of his beer. I sipped my water before scolding him. “Perhaps those cancerous sticks which you are so fond of inhaling are the source of your limpness, my good Indian friend.”
“Yeah.” He paused and looked around at the audience before addressing me. “So you think I should go to a doctor?”
“Let me ask you another question: is this really concerning you? Do you miss having sex? Is it an integral part of your relationship with Raina?”
He sipped his beer yet again. He certainly was drinking rather quickly. “Yeah, I definitely miss sex. My drive is still there, I just can’t let it out. The thing is…Raina, I don’t know about her agenda.”
This was a fairly peculiar conversation I was engaging in with Shree. We had been good friends for several years now, yet our discussions rarely ever ventured into the realm of sexuality. I was always willing to boast of my sexual accomplishments, but Shree was not one to reciprocate. So I suppose this marked a breakthrough in our friendship.
I was intrigued by his words, so accordingly I pursued the train of thought. “And what do you mean by that?”
Baby fever. Interesting choice of words. Shree knew how I felt about babies, and thus on some level he may have been able to anticipate my response: “Hmm. Do you actually want a baby?”
He hesitated before answering. Trying to get an answer out of Shree is like trying to hop to Texas on one foot: it’s frustrating, painful, and unnecessarily difficult. But finally he surrendered and responded. “No. Well I at least don’t want them now.”
“Correct answer, Shree. Good for you. Then I suggest you simply end your courtship with Raina and find a woman whose sanity has not left her, whose selfishness has not wandered into the dangerous and obscene realm that holds a desire for pregnancy. It is in your best interest, and it is definitely in the best interests of society.” Shree knew I viewed babies as little more than products of selfishness, and that I considered parents to be the most audacious and irresponsible members of our society. Their decision to bring an unborn life into this world without its consent or without the approval of society – with whom this baby will then ask to take precious and limited natural resources from – is a disgusting act, one committed solely by parents and their unapologetic need for love. Disgusting.
But I was in no mood to dampen my spirits by engaging in a conversation regarding such morally abhorrent behavior. So I turned my attention to the stage, where the host was making an announcement: “Aiight, boys and girls, the first poet of the evenin’, an ill MC who originally hails from the Bronx…give it up for Cinnamon Fingers.”
Perhaps the most appealing part of Cinnamon Fingers was her physique. She was undeniably an extremely attractive woman. She swayed and bopped spontaneously and rhythmically as she rhymed away her last verse:
Oh look at me! I fly through the sky with my mind so high
‘Cause I just smoked a J so all I can say is “give me shrooms and weed and coke and speed gimme smokes and pills and hopes and dreams” So come with me as I’m on this ride And we’ll get high tonight Yes we’ll get high tonight Yes we’ll get high that’s right
Lame. Lame lame lame. I was thoroughly unimpressed with Cinnamon Fingers’ performance. But apparently I was in the minority, as the audience cheered vigorously in support. In my opinion, her performance was rhythmically generic, her rhymes were silly and predictable, and her stage presence was less than appealing. I felt as though her poetry garnered appreciation not because of any genuine artistic merit, but rather because Cinnamon Fingers herself possessed sexual appeal.
I turned to Shree, who was apparently enjoying the performance. “I think I will try my hand at reciting some poetry this evening.”
He looked at me with a gaze of subtle disapproval. “Do you really think that’s a wise idea? I don’t know if this crowd would be too into you.”
I smiled at his fear. Shree bases far too many of his actions on the opinions of others. “Popularity is not my ambition, my good Indian friend. I simply wish to express myself artistically tonight. I feel as though my verbal skills are in fine shape and should be exercised in such a setting.” He responded by lighting his cigarette.
The host soon returned to the stage. He peered out into the crowd before speaking: “Aiight, you all know what time it is…that’s right its freestyle time! I’m a get a rhyme started and I need five of you out there to come up and freestyle away. So c’mon now, don’t be shy. It’s rhymin’ time.”
I, of course, immediately seized the opportunity. I quickly stood up and rushed to the stage, brushing others to the side. Laughter and heckling surrounded me, but I’ve grown accustomed to such rudeness here at the Rivington.
The host proceeded to describe the nature of the freestyle session. He would begin by starting a rhyme, and each subsequent performer – although many of them ordained themselves as rappers, even though their performance was strictly verbal and thus far more poetic rather than musical in nature -- would then choose to either develop the content or the rhyme scheme of what had already been established.
The freestyle poetry session soon began, and I grew disappointed shortly thereafter. The topics discussed by the performers seemed rather trite: violence, drug use, objectification of women, race relations, and other such issues that had become more than commonplace in the culture of poetry. These individuals have the audacity to call themselves artists? What became of the connection between art and revolution? I felt as though their poetry was meant to garner commercial success, not to express themselves artistically. In light of such a standard production, one seemingly tainted by the existing banal and counterproductive capitalist culture, I allowed my mind to wander. I felt no need to subject myself to such thoughtless performances.
I was, however, determined to convey a message. So I honed in on what the fourth performer, the one directly preceding me, was reciting. I would then find a way to twist his warped message of universal love into something more honest and valuable.
He recited:
And speakin’ of problems we’re facin’, What’s up with the state of race relations! People killin’ people with the bombs they’re makin’ Evil breedin’ evil, we need a vacation! We all need lovers with different skin colors So when we make faces we erase races So don’t stand there contemplatin’ hatin’ Find a foreign lover and fuck her under covers
‘Cause universal lovers is what we need for one another
Completely and utterly ridiculous. This individual made Cinnamon Fingers look like a poetic genius. So I decided to make things right and step up to the mic to recite:
Enough of this preachin’ for universal love! Enough of this teachin’ one another to hug! We need to drop bombs to keep things calm This world is overpopulated, from here to Iran This is all fact, it ain’t fiction I’m singin’ So fuck your suspicion and believe what I’m pitchin’: All you boys get a vasectomy and let’s end pregnancy And girls put your tubes in ties and buy hanger wires Grab knives and take the lives of guys and wives -- You know I’m right when I call to end to life! So I don’t care, go ahead and hate me –
I’m still gonna eat your fuckin’ baby
Damn. I just freestyled that rhyme in real-time off the top of my mind.
As I anticipated, my rhymes were greeted with hostility. As I returned to my seat, ruthless insults and sharp objects were hurled my way. I’ve become quite skilled at ignoring such immature, senseless, and unjustified assaults, but even this was pushing my limits.
I looked to Shree, who sat there shaking his head in disbelief. He had apparently ordered another beer, and was halfway to the bottom of it. A lit cigarette hung from his mouth. I sensed he was angry with me, the reason for which I am not entirely sure. Although I suspect he may feel as though he too is being attacked. Guilty by association, I suppose.
Other performers took the stage, but much hostility was still being directed towards me. Shree and I sat there silently, trying to ignore the onslaught and appreciate the lackluster performances of the poets before us. But the mood was certainly tense, to say the least.
In an attempt to ease the mood, I pulled out my portable chess set. I am quite fond of chess, and thus carry a small traveling chess set with me at all times, so as to ensure that an opportunity to play is never lost. “Would you like to play chess, Shree?”
He laughed uncomfortably. “You mean now?”
I decided to answer the question, in spite of its foolishness. “Yes. Now.”
“I don’t think we should do that, Max.”
“Reason.”
He took a long drag of his cigarette before ashing. “I think we should pay respect to the performers on stage. Chess will come off as rude. And I think it’ll draw even more attention to us.”
Once again, Shree was being completely spineless, basing his actions on the reactions of others. “Personally, the performers and audience members alike have failed to show me any respect. And thus I don’t feel the need to show them any respect.”
I began setting up the chessboard, while Shree looked away and continued drinking and smoking. Upon completing the set up, I allowed him to make the first call. “What color do you want to be?” I asked him.
“Black.”
So I made the first move: king’s pawn two steps forward. Shree was not a particularly astute chess player, and his already inadequate ability would undeniably be even further hindered in light of the insecurity he was feeling and the fact that his mind was more focused on the performers than on the chess match with me. In light of this information, I felt as though a conservative strategy would work best.
We made our moves back and forth rather quickly. Shree was truly disinterested, as he made several critical blunders early on. But our game was quickly interrupted.
“Dude. What the fuck is you doing.”
Those were the words that came from the mouth of the enormous man standing before me.
PROFILE OF ENORMOUS MAN
Age: 25-30 Name: ??? Nickname: Enormous Man Height: 6’5” Weight: 345 lbs. Hair: Black Eyes: Brown Education: Probably none. Notes: Was wearing an old, hole-ridden, sleeveless shirt at the time that had a faded logo on its front. He stood barefoot, and his feet radiated a putrid odor.
I looked towards Enormous Man, while Shree sat there quietly. “How can I help you, sir?”
“What the fuck you doin’ with a chess set up in here. I should break your neck, you fuckin’ faggot.”
Generally, I attempt to adhere to a moral code as passionately as I can, and this code discourages violence that does not ultimately benefit society in some way. Fighting Enormous Man would be foolish, as it would serve no purpose. But I am also not one to back down. Ever. I believe in standing up for myself, and did not feel as though I should end my chess game or modify my poetry because a shoeless ogre stood before me. “Please go away.”
And that’s when he crossed the line. He picked up my tiny chess set and broke it. He just ripped it in two. And then he threw all the magnetic pieces around the club.
“I demand compensation for your actions.”
He chuckled. “You is fucked up, man. Fucked up.” He pushed me hard, and fell back a few feet. “Now get the hell out.”
I stepped closer to him. “No.”
And that’s when he punched me.
The next few moments are unclear. I remember him sitting on top of me, making it virtually impossible for me to breathe, while I tried to reason with him by expressing my ideology. I recall informing him of statistics regarding overpopulation and diminishing natural resources. I probably would have ended up severely wounded, but the unthinkable happened.
Shree intervened.
As Enormous Man was sitting on me, pummeling relentlessly, Shree came over and gouged him in the eye and then elbowed him in the nose. I must admit that Shree’s actions were quite savvy: he attacked Enormous Man in vulnerable spots, and left him dazed. Enormous Man responded by standing up and swinging blindly, hoping to viciously wound Shree. One of his punches did hit my good Indian friend in the face, knocking him backwards. But Shree did not cower: he persevered, rather, and continued as the savior. Enormous Man was still fumbling around; the gouge to his eyes left him unable to see. Meanwhile, I was on the ground, still gasping for air, in a complete state of panic. Shree then heroically hoisted me off the ground and carried me out, thus rescuing me from any additional danger.
“You’re a dumb motherfucker, man.” I couldn’t believe Shree was saying this to me as we were running through the parking lot of the Rivington. He had never been so hostile in his entire life.
“Quick. Take me…to an army store.”
He stopped. “What?!”
I was still having trouble breathing, and I was not appreciating the fact that Shree’s hearing was failing him at this time. “Army store. Now.”
“You need a doctor.” He resumed running.
“Army store…first.”
He stopped again. This pattern of periodically stopping certainly was not suiting my fancy. He was quite angry, though, and perhaps I shouldn’t be pushing my luck. He responded with surprising hostility: “Fine. If you want to go to the army store, then go yourself. I’m going to a doctor. My fuckin’ jaw is killin’ me.” Blood was dripping from his mouth and onto me, which I obviously was not too fond of. His speech was slightly altered as well, which made his already ineloquent verbal skills that much more inferior.
“Fine. I’ll go…to …army….myself.” My breathing was still difficult. But I was determined to go to the army store.
“Whatever floats your boat, man.” He shook his head and dropped me to the ground. A bit carelessly, might I add.
He wiped the blood from his mouth onto his shirt. “I’m going to a hospital or a doctor or something. I gotta get there quickly, man. This shit hurts.”
I laid on the ground, at the entrance of the parking lot to the Rivington, for an additional five minutes. My body was not ready to move just yet. But finally I lifted myself up, and courageously ventured to the army store. I purchased a small knife there, one whose blade extended approximately four inches. Now I would not fear physical injury when standing up for my morals. I would have self-defense.
As for Shree, I guess he finally found a hospital somewhere.
Linear Mode
