This could have all been Avoided if he had Slapped a Flag on the Top - an absurdist story

This could have all been Avoided if he had Slapped a Flag on the Top

 

“No no Sport – you’ve made them lopsided” Cohen said.

Cissy paused where she was. Cissy slumped the flaccid bLock against another. Cohen chewed on his lip, a sure sign that he was either disapproving or about to excuse himself for creative buildup {sharting till he clogged the unisex park restroom}

            Either way, Cissy took her hands off of her hips and panted {efforts of block hauling} with perfect posture. Cohen brought his fingers up to square off his creation {being neither painter, photographer, nor filmer, this did little but make him seem more artistic}

            “I’m telling you, Sport, you’ve upset the whole thing.” He said, megaphone raised.

            “Its perfectly even—we’ve counted the number: 874,600,042 gassed, 874,600,042 exploded.” She said.

            “Then how come the right side is so much shorter?” he said.

            Cissy’s focus snapped to her feet, where her new Vidorci pumps sank into the bLock. She adjusted to the balls of her feet to keep the bLock from being punctured and spurting up her ankles. She could not afford new designer leggings if she already had to by new Vidorcis.

            “You did account for limbs, right?” she said.

            “You did account for limbs, right?” he said.

            “I mean it, sir.” She said.

            “With the state of things, the limbs would make a net loss of about six inches.” He said. He had forgotten to bark at her through the megaphone and stood, his arms crossed and squinting past the lumpy forms of the bLocks raised in two towers.

            “We don’t have to make it taller, sir” she said.

            “Flibber flapjacks.” He said.

Cissy exhaled through her nose. The scent of stale barbeque and mustard made her swoon a little from where she stood, 554.5 feet in the air.

            “We could extend it out, make it like a wall” {like with the Vietnam} she said.

            “No one cares about a monument’s length! They only want to know about its height! How tall can man erect a memorial, so they can remember! It pokes the sky – poking is a stimulus, it triggers memory. Walls don’t remember – walls make people wonder, and wonder leads to thinking. Walls are barriers and barriers are failures” {like with the Vietnam} he said.

            Cissy only half listened to the rest, as he described the beauty in erecting monuments, their completion, the parties, and the tourism it developed and had always developed and eventually how, in Cohen’s early childhood, he had gone through his biggest life developments in front of proud pinnacles of accomplishment in marble. His stint in the army began there, he’d smoked his first bowl there, he’d first fingered a girl {behind Lincoln’s very back} for gosh’s sake.

            “So go and get some!” Cohen finished.

            “Some what?” Cissy started.

            “Some limbs, you ninny!” he said.

            “Oh. We don’t have them.” She said.

            “Why not?!” he said.

            “Vaporized.” She said.

            He frowned {this made her smile} She pretended to itch her nose with the mid-finger on her left hand and then chewed on the nail of her thumb {she got some red on her nose}

            “We told them it would be taller than the Washington monument.” His voiced crackled through the megaphone.

            Cissy looked between the right cylinder and the left {six inches castrated} —how they spiraled up in a staircase of preserved bLocks.

            “Who is going to check, sir?” she said.

            “The people! When they wish to remember the war and our triumph! And read on her steps, and play and climb {and finger girls} and gaze across the street wishing they were {fingering each other} at the inferior but taller Washington!”

            Cissy scuffed her shoe on {the lapel of} the block beneath her. He had a point.

            “Where should I get the limbs?” she said.

Cohen waved his hands around, fluidly, as if performing a spell upon all the earth like a {hair thinned, jewel toned} wizard.

            Cissy hated getting donors. Her pump was still sinking dangerously into the fleshy bLock. She sat down to swing her snakeskin-clad legs off the side of the column. Her feet were tired.

            “You know, sir, if we dug a trench an’ simply lowered the pillar of gassed bLocks into the ground, people could walk down into it – we could line the walls with the bodies—“ Cissy was fast to correct herself {but not fast enough for the narrowed eyes and puckered lips of Cohen} “—bLocks.”

            “And what might that accomplish?” he said.

            “Well, sir, it would humanize the struggle” she said.

            “Humanize the Enemy?” he said. She could hear him capitalize on the word enemy.

            Cissy’s legs wandered in figure eights in the air below her {her butt was falling asleep} On a back swing, one of her heels stuck on a bLock and when she plucked the stiletto out, she had a morsel skewered to it. The morsel started at her with a dilated cloud of pupil. She scraped it off on some blonde hair below her and brought her feet to her knees {her stomach grumbled}

            “I thought it could be interactive, like Vietnam” {Cohen psh’d}

            “You want the people to interact? Then find me some donors.” He said.

            Cissy sat next to the man, who was neither old {nor young}, handsome {nor ugly}, dark haired {nor fair}. He smelled a bit and had days old stubble, but his smile was bright and his lips only slightly chapped when she sat down {just a little too} close to him. He did not seem surprised at her solicitation, and offered both his left arm and his right leg, citing that he would like his dominant sides for racket-ball practice this afternoon. The sawing process Cissy found clean and simple and when she left he smiled and waved {with his right hand} They were bulky, in her arms, the arm and the leg, but most park goers she passed held only mild curiosity; everyone knew about the new monument. A few volunteered to give what they could, even if she did not ask first. Some felt obligated, and some wanted to be able to point out to their friends where they were a part of the new installation. In the end, Cissy, with a few of the park patrons {too stingy to give anything but their time} carried the bundle to where Cohen stood, tapping his foot, holding his megaphone and rubbing the war medal on his lapel {erotically}

            As Cissy lay out the haul:

            “Patrons, this is artiste and drone division colonel Cohen.” She said.

            Some of the veterans in the group shook his hand. The bolder ones compared hit counts on their own badge’s LCD screen. Cohen {between pleasant teeth bearing and trading slaps on the rear} barked at Cissy through the megaphone.

            “Count the new load,” he said.

            Cissy counted the new load. Four arms, mostly left. Three legs. A teenager had given a portion of her mid-finger, and her curly haired friend {rolling her eyes} had given her entire big toe. {It could be enough} Cissy thought. She told Cohen the number, reaching for a glass of champagne {Cohen swatted her hand with sharp force} When she went to place the new bLocks atop the crown of the explosion pillar, Cohen {popping the champagne for the unveiling a week early} megaphoned that she should intersperse them artistically {and not like a prude}  

            “What about the height issue?” she said.

            “I planned something perfect while you were out, sport.” he said.

Cohen raised a glass to her and when she turned around tossed it, crystal glass and all, into the rhododendrons. The crystal cried in an infinite loop as it tinkled glitter.

Cissy was not dressed at all for the weather but at least she’d had her pumps prepared. Honestly, she thought they looked a little silly paired with the Colossus Jersey she slept in, but when she approached Cohen pacing around the dewy grass, he smiled appreciatively at their little pointed toes.

“You called me, sir?”

“Yes, yes, of course. Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Which one of us is talking? I cannot tell.”

Cissy tried again.

“You called me, sir?” She said, making sure to say she said.

“It’s not tall enough.” He said. His hand was pointed heavenwards at the top of the cylinder. Cissy was a bit surprised he had donated it. His other hand lay on the ground, next to the bundles of clothes, which had been worn, earlier, by the patrons and veterans drinking champagne. She was less surprised to see the patrons gracing the top of the explosion column, underneath Cohen’s hand.

“Don’t you think people will notice that those bLocks are not POWs?” she said.

“No one looks that closely at those represented in memorials.” He said.

“They do at the Vietnam.” She said. {Cohen’s lip quivered} Cissy sighed and picked up his left arm.

“Where did you want this?” she said, rubbing her thumb soothingly over his palm. He blushed {he had an itch on the back of his head he could not reach}

“The top of the gassed tower. It’s short by six inches.” He said through his megaphone. Cissy stooped to pick up Cohen’s arm. At the base of the tower she turned to catch Cohen’s eyes. They shined like lucid crystal and the line of his mouth softened at he gazed up at his creation. Balancing her feet in her shoes, Cissy settled on the first step.

The sooner Cissy finished erecting the monument, the sooner she could go home, take out her brain, and go back to sleep.

©2014 Lex Vex