156 lines
9.3 KiB
Plaintext
156 lines
9.3 KiB
Plaintext
,...
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$$$$
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""""""""""" $$$$ $$$$$$ $$$$$ $$$$$ $$$$$bxxP&$$&P """""""""""
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$$$$ $$$$$$ T$$$$ $$$$P T$$$$
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$$$"""""" " """" $$$$$$ "T&$bxxd$&P" "T&$bxx$$$$$' " """"""$$$
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""" """""" """
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ggg "Parallax" ggg
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$$$ by -> Mr A Jim $$$
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$$$ $$$
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$$$ [ HOE E-Zine #983 -- 12/23/99 -- http://www.hoe.nu ] .,$$$
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`"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'
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Milo's mother left us about a year ago, and we had decided to rent
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out one of the bedrooms in our house. Cash was a bit tight, and we were
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aching for some company. We put an ad in the local classifieds and began
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waiting.
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Milo and I always liked Saturday mornings the best. We would eat
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a leisurely breakfast at the kitchen table (him in his Spider-Man
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pajamas, me in my bathrobe) and I'd read one section of the paper as he
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cut out faces from the other section. Ever since his mother left, he
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spent all of his free time cutting faces out of anything he could find;
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newspapers, magazines, promotional material I had taken home from the
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office, anything. Sure, it definitely started to creep me out (he had
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amassed six shoe boxes full of cutouts in that year) but I certainly
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wasn't one to stifle any sort of creativity. I grabbed a box of sausages
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out of the freezer and Milo moved on to the current issue of Time.
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"Dad, do you think anyone’s gonna come for the room today?" Milo
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asked, faithfully, looking down at the Most Influential Leaders Of The
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Century he was about to cut out.
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"I hope so, son. Maybe." He had asked me this same question
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every day since we placed the ad a few weeks before. I wasn't sure
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whether our little routine of question-and-reassure was just to be cute,
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or whether Milo really had some deep wonder regarding our potential
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guest. Probably not, I decided, as he rarely ever looked up or showed
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any signs of acknowledgement after I made the usual response. The
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doorbell rang. "I'll get that," I said. Milo didn't look up. Still in
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my robe, I opened the door. On the doorstep stood an elderly man with a
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narrow face topped by combed-back white hair. From what I could see, his
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entire body was covered with fine, dignified wrinkles; the parts that I
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couldn't see were covered by a single-breasted black suit with a white
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handkerchief in the breast pocket. Stepping up to the door with what I
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noticed to be a pair of impeccably polished black wingtips, he extended
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his hand. I tentatively extended my own.
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"Colonel Lindsay Rodemoyer," the man said in an accent that
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reminded me of Jimmy Stewart in It's a Wonderful Life. He shook my had
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forcefully, almost painfully.
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"Brett Botts," I replied.
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"Pleased to meet you, I'm sure," the Colonel said. "I'm here
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about the room."
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"Excellent! Come on in." The Colonel promptly followed me into
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the foyer.
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He inhaled deeply several times. "This will be fine," he said.
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"Don't you want to see the room first?" I asked, befuddled. He
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had already withdrawn a silver bill fold from his pocket.
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"No, no, that won't be necessary. Six hundred, correct? Here you
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are." He handed me six crisp hundred-dollar bills and returned the
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bill fold to his pocket.
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"Thank you, Mister, uh, Rodemoyer," I said. "I'll show you to
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your room now, if that's OK."
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"You may address me as Colonel. And please do show me to my
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room." We went through the family room (Milo and I were always fond of
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calling it that, perhaps trying to hold together the illusion of a
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perfect household as best we could) and up the stairs to the empty
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bedroom. The Colonel looked around briefly, then carefully placed the
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tiny black valise he carried with him on the bed.
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"Would you like me to help you with your other bags?" I asked.
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"I have no other bags," he said, matter-of-factly, and walked
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across the hall to the bathroom. "Expect me downstairs in ten minutes."
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I went back to the kitchen and sat down at the table with Milo.
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"Milo, we have a guest now, and he's going to be staying in the room
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upstairs."
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"Oh, ok," Milo said, still looking down at the magazine. I was
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disappointed in how little he seemed to care, after all the waiting. I
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couldn't shake the feeling that he had been deceiving me every time he
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asked.
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"I could use some water, Mr. Botts," the Colonel said, sidling up
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behind me.
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I glanced up at him and then looked back at Milo, who was still
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cutting. I don't know if he even noticed that a stranger was in the
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kitchen with us. "Milo, this is Colonel Rodemoyer. Could you get him a
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glass of water?" Milo picked up a cutout of a pudgy Russian man and held
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it up to the Colonel.
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"Stalin says no way!" Milo said in his best cute little boy voice,
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only looking up for a second. I was surprised.
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"Now, Milo, that's no way to greet--"
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The Colonel broke in. "Mr. Botts, I will concede that your boy is
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your business. However, I certainly won’t stand here and listen to your
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insidious red propaganda!" Before I knew it, the Colonel had sidled back
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out of the kitchen and was on his way out the door. "I'm going to the
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lunch counter!" he yelled back, walking out and shutting the door. I
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felt sick.
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"What was that for?" Milo asked, as if nothing had happened.
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"I don't know. We'll see." My standard response. Something
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about the whole exchange in the kitchen reminded me of how it used to be.
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I felt very lonely. Snip, snip, snip. He kept cutting.
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About two weeks later, the Colonel had settled in a bit, and he
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became part of our daily routine. Milo and I would be in the kitchen,
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preparing to leave for school and work, when he'd make his way in, take a
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seat, and begin eating hastily. He'd manage to mumble the pledge of
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allegiance through a mouthful of breakfast, constantly checking his
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distinguished-looking gold watch. It was like he was continuously late
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for something (not that I ever knew what, exactly). We would all leave
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for our respective day jobs at about the same time, and I wouldn't see
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him until dinnertime. I must've spent almost all of my daily one-hour
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commute trying to figure out where he went, until I just plain gave up.
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Whenever I would ask what he actually did all day, he'd always change the
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subject and start mumbling something about patriotism or the price of
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corn or something. And it wasn't as if I would figure it out on my own,
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really, I could never figure out anything the Colonel did. One evening,
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I was working in my office when I decided to go downstairs to the kitchen
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for a snack. When I passed the Colonel's room, the door was slightly
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a jar. I took a quick glance inside the room--he was sitting on the bed,
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pants unzipped, with one hand stuffed firmly in his underwear. He held
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his other hand up in the air, poised, as if at any moment, a fish was
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going to jump out of his fly and he would have to grab it or be forced to
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return home without dinner.
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"Oh, Jesus! Can't you close the door?" I fumed, repulsed,
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slamming the door. I walked towards the stairs to make sure that Milo
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hadn't witnessed any of this. I was relieved to hear the familiar noises
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of page turning and scissors snipping open and shut from downstairs.
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"Hey, where ya goin', this is just getting interesting!" The
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Colonel called to me from his room. I didn't dignify that with a reply.
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I quickly went down the stairs and sat on the couch next to Milo. The
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tiny noises were calming; I could see how he could enjoy this so much.
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Snip, snip. "I'm really starting to hate that guy," I said in the dead
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air of the family room.
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"Why? I think he's nice," Milo said, actually looking at me for a
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second. "Today, he took me to the aquarium and then we played catch in
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the yard."
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"When was this?" I was a bit confused.
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"Before you came home," Milo said.
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"Well, what did he do that for?"
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"I dunno, just to be nice, I suppose," Milo said. I felt a chill
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run down my spine and into my gut. "We have fun."
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Over the next few weeks, Milo continued to tell me of his
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afternoons with the Colonel. The Colonel himself was just as vague on
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this topic as he had been about his activities in the morning. I would
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come home from work every day, stepping lightly into the foyer, half
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expecting to find something going on, but never actually seeing anything
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that would ease my sense of paranoia. I've never been able to completely
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put my fears to rest. The only thing that's kept me from getting rid of
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the Colonel is Milo. He's been a lot more involved lately, and one of
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his teachers at school has even called me to talk about it. Actually,
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she wouldn't shut up about how striking the changes were, that's how
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excited she was. For his sake, I've kept my mouth shut and slept with
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one eye open. Apparently, it's paid off. The shoeboxes in Milo's room
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are gone now, but he won't tell me why or how. They've disappeared just
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like the Colonel does, every day after breakfast.
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[--------------------------------------------------------------------------]
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[ (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS! HOE #983, BY MR A JIM - 12/23/99 ]
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