I attempted a few years ago to come clean, to be honest about the nature of my sapient lingering among you. And here it comes, my 54th year—may I fail to see the 64th—on this island of ignorance. If I were some kind of genius it might be entertaining. But it has taken all of my meager powers wrung from my battered brain by my demonic muses—large small, capering and slithering, ugly and beautiful—to determine that yes, the recorded doing of my physical kind, or the wretched line of descent that I somehow share with every savage sloth upon this planet, is either majority lie, or wrapped in a maddening array of fuligin screens to thwart inquiry.
Over this past 14 months, what has become an attempt to research bare knuckle boxing origins and set the stage for a time travel novel yet to be written, has become six books, three thick and already in print, on the fact that nowhere does the Mighty Lie wax stronger than the place where I crash landed on this unsavory planet to find myself between the legs of some crying ape and to be hoisted by wiggly ankles and struck like some damned piñata of simian hope.
No, as you scratch your beetled brow and try to figure out once again how to get to those tasty fruits contained in that cylindrical object, imagine yourself in the chiton of an underfunded zoologist who discovers that he has been forcibly adopted by the very jabbering baboons he was tasked with studying!
Well, today, the matriarch of my troop has invited me to a dinner in honor of my first day of imprisonment on this damned planet—which happens to be spring—in most years, as your “astronomers” never have figured out orbital justification. Alas, she has finally divined that I was a hoax upon her and did not even bother asking what I wished to eat, knowing full well that I would suggest something easy on her to prepare like beef stew, my perennial request five years running, which has never been granted, as my family dines gourmet or not at all. My request for beer was national Bohemian—the cheapest case in the stack, and, no doubt, Corona Extra, overpriced Mexican piss will grace the table.
Now, this is a meal I did not have to buy, cook or kill, so I will enjoy it whatever it is and be thankful. Besides, I have a very broad diet. I just don’t eat bananas or liver. What is irksome is that the entire get together is a lie. It is not about me, but about them. When I am asked what I have been working on, the table will clear within five seconds of my response.
Yes, I shall crush them in Scrabble and be declared The Dark Lord of Diction once again. However, the only reason I go today, to celebrate the inauguration of this fitful existence, is to see my grandson. My granddaughter will do doubt continue to hide from me, peeking at the old fiend—even though I shall assure her that I have left my child hunting sunglasses and bush hat at home—from behind her mother’s skirt. On the other hand, perhaps she is wise, and has been told that I gave her mother $1,000 for birthing her brother and only $500 for her.
But to see my grandson—with whom I have formed a pact regarding the evil lot of adult apes he has been consigned to serve in the flesh and mind—will be a pleasure. I have brought a present for him, six squads of army men, so that he may learn how his masters think via brutal playtime management of their heroic plastic lives. At some point today I shall remind him, “Trevor, don’t forget the grownups are crazy, and they got that way in school.”
So, as those assigned to the thankless task of instilling the lies they believe into my mind schedule another monitoring session, I will see what I can do to warn him, who might inherit my cell, that the only escape is within and not to let the grownups get between his ears, to keep their shrill voices outside of his mind like moths dashing themselves against a lamp lit window, for they are blinded whenever they look into the Light.
A Partial Exhumation of the American Dream