Christopher WunderLee - Moore's Mythopoeia

It began immediately. “We must choose a theme.” She was standing in the middle of the room, staring at the walls, absently. Joseph slid up behind her and raised his eyebrows. She smiled coyly and escaped his grasp. “What do you think Joseph?” No one ever called him Joe. “Neo-Modernist or Neo-Classical?”

How I’d like to really to… push up her petticoats, pull down her pants, reveal her… that fine texture of her skin colliding against his abdomen… Christen the home with semen… her hair has fallen loose… her mouth is open, drawing in great gulps of air… she is groaning… home sweet, home… her eyes sparkle with ecstasy tears… her lips curl and convulse… she is drooling uncontrollably… the shag carpet’s friction burns his knees… this is how you say hello… she guides him with her quivering… he fills her… she says something vile… he plunges into her… she cannot handle anymore… he must stop… she can’t take anymore… he must keep going… she can’t hold herself up and collapses into her own arms, leaving only her ass in the air… stop, no more…

“Joseph, are you listening to me? What were you thinking about? We need to focus on the house, we’re having the party in two weeks.”

The ritual: up at six, two cups of decaffeinated coffee, shower, teeth, armpits, pills, and outfit, out the door by six-forty five, bus number 47 on the corner of 5 thand Juniper Drive, read his magazine if he can find a seat or stand and stare at nothing, arrive at work at fifteen after seven, idle outside for a few moments, up the elevator to the fifth floor, turn computer on, get first cup of coffee, take pills, bring up reports, sip coffee, check schedule, work, lunch for an hour at café on first floor, take pills, back to office, inspect progress, meeting, buy a sugary cola at four thirty, take pills, leave work, await bus, find seat, stop at grocery store with list, pick up items, take bus 47 to 7 thand Heather Way, two blocks to house, change clothes, favorite cardigan and slippers, turn on Virtuascape, answer wife’s questions, ask her the same, eat dinner, take pills, watch rerun of favorite show, drink seltzer water, take pills, brush teeth, into pajamas, take pills, in bed by ten. “It’s late Joseph, I have a headache.”

He can do nothing. It adds to the overt challengelessness of it. The period before the decay. You maggots are going to have a feast. The circle of life, a foolish explanation to allow them to believe in a purpose. There is no paradise; we are want of no angels.

When kicked by a jackass at eighty-three,

“Go fetch me a surgeon at once!” cried he.

That is the art of reason in strict accordance with the capacity of human misunderstanding, my friend. Lust after the mirage, the theatre of phantom characters like they are not shadows.

“I think pink curtains would really liven up the room, don’t you think Joseph? Should we put on some music darling?”

An ancient instrument of torture, an artless art for mediocre talent. “Let’s not.”

“Put on music or put up pink curtains?”

Both you tittle-tattle moth. I’m burning in your flame, your second in the duel. That is so inappropriate my dear, only an apron, cooking, how unsanitary. My, my, that’s not safe; you can’t expect me to eat that. Oh, is that for me? Turn around again. Every now and then I feel it again. It’s broken. I’m broken; you’ve taken me like a child’s toy and carelessly broken me. I can’t think, you condemn me for my failures; I am faithless in your thoughts.

“What do you think of these?”

I think we should make a naughty outfit out of them and fuck like badgers in a fight. “Fine, fine.”

“Cotton or polyester? Do you need more underwear?”

I am wearing nothing below these trousers, my dear, I can open my fly and insert as needed.

“How many lamps should we get? It’s so dark in the family room, don’t you think?”

Yes. Better to avoid you with. These are the shadows of my sanctuary. Where is Joseph? Has anyone seen Joseph? Peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo. Has anyone seen Joseph?

“I don’t need any underwear.”

“I asked you that a half an hour ago.”

“I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t listening to you.”

* * *

Ergo, the day Joseph thought would never come. It was, rather quixotically, rather Marcusianally, of more import than he knew. When it did arrive, categorically, he thought the time in which he could give Norma her present would never occur. He waited all day, he tried to read but he couldn’t (Shermanly) pay attention, all he thought about was giving her his present. He tried to watch Macriblite, but he always left and went to the garage to make sure it hadn’t been disturbed, that no one had found it, and by the time he got back, he had no idea what he had been watching. He tried to work on some of his projects throughout the house, he fixed a whining screw in the back door, but it hadn’t taken him long and he didn’t have the energy to try anything else. All he wanted to do was bestow his present and receive her gratitude.

She knew she would be receiving something. She’d given him a list and she knew he had went out two Saturdays before and come home with an enormous bag and hid it in the garage and spent hours upon hours out there with it. But she was calm throughout the day, fixing up the place for the company that would be coming, a whole slew of their friends and family (her family), and making the great turkey they would all share.

Joseph went out to the garage, slid the canvas out of the bag, and stared at it. He had tried to pen a dedication for her that he wanted to put on the back but he couldn’t. He didn’t want to touch it ever again, one more brush stroke, one more addition, anything more could ruin it. He was proud of himself, it was the best thing he’d ever done and he looked forward to her opening it in front of everybody, just to see her face, that would be enough, but he also relished the chance to hear what everyone else would say, how they would praise it, how she would take it out, gaze at it in awe, unable to put words to the extreme emotions she felt, the ultimate gratitude for his efforts, and she’d walk away from the table (where presents were always opened), holding it out, unable to turn her gaze from it and she’d immediately have to decide where they would hang it and all the women would help her and they’d talk about it for hours, placing it here and then taking it down and trying it over there, and then settling on a very private place, a place that meant a lot to Norma and would thus, mean a lot to Joseph.

Should he give it to her in front of them? Perhaps it would be best, more intimate to give it to her when they were alone? He could pretend as though he had forgotten or give her something small, something he could go out and get that day and she would be thankful, a little disappointed but thankful, and then, a day or two later, he could quietly go up to her and say, “there’s something out in the garage I want you to see” and then he’d walk away and let her go out and see it. No, he wanted them all to see, he wanted them all to see what he had done for his wife and besides, the attention would be focused on her, not him, that was what he dreaded, what made his palms sweat and his mouth dry, that they’d all look at him and he’d be forced to say something and he might not say the right thing or do the right thing, but all they would do is glance at him, approvingly, and return their gaze to Norma, who’d still not be able to express in words her gratitude and then, she’d take over, she’d tell them all how grateful she was and turn it around so they could all see it and admire it.

At around four-thirty guests began to arrive and Joseph, hiding in the bedroom, listened as the low whisper of voices echoed down the hall, the salutations, the conversations begun, the congratulations his wife received, until she came and got him and he reluctantly went out into the living room. He smiled wisely, waiting for the time when he could give his wife his present.