Non-Sequiter
I. Not a Ping-Pong
Ball
Like many women I
know, there is always a little bottle of Aleve stationed at the bottom of my
bag prepared like a World War II medic for those emergencies when the cramps
grab a hold of your ovaries and decide to ring them out like a wet towel. The
bottle is shaped in a pseudo triangle. It reminds me of the Great Pyramid of
Giza—the pyramid if a giant hand came and squished the top flat and slapped a
bland blue advertisement label on the side. The bottle stays hidden in the
bowels of my little denim backpack only to emerge on a certain week of the
month, or, apparently when I can’t find a Ping-Pong ball.
I
go to Taylor Hall almost every night, and every night the dorm becomes Oz for
me: An Oz complete with a Scarecrow, Tinman, and Cowardly Lion.
The
Aleve bottle had been unopened for a time, but one night, when I snuck into Oz,
it was prepped and ready for battle. I had gone deliver a special note to the
room shared by the Scarecrow and the Tinman. To my disappointment, neither one
answered the door and I slipped the valentine’s under the door. I ended up
stuck with just the Cowardly Lion. Not wanting to stay alone in the Lion’s room
(Not because he is at all frightening, but only because he is a tad socially
awkward) I suggested we hit the basement Ping-Pong table. Looking only slightly
disheartened, he grabbed his own personal paddles (and his championship
Ping-Pong Kimono) and we skipped on down the stairs. When we reached the room,
there was no ball. Anywhere.
Always
one to choose inventive ingenuity over hopelessness, I dug through my denim for
something useful. My hand clenched around the Aleve bottle. It was the right
height, right weight, right texture and even right color. So I twist-clicked off
the cap and dumped all the little blue
pills on the table (chuckling at the idea of little blue pills for which the
Lion threw me a withering look). I began batting the thing around. With such
edges, the bottle bounced at odd angles, creating challenging hits and
intriguing curves across the table. The Lion, being the master of the
Ping-Pong, did not appreciate the graceful arcs and gave up before we even
started. Instead, we walked back up the stairs to where a light escaped from
under the doorcrack of room x44. I knocked once… twice. The Scarecrow, hair
glistening wet from a shower barely finished, opened the door and smiled.
RIIIIIIIIIP!!
II. A Dropping Bag
Pink Highlighter, Blue Highlighter,
Green Highlighter,
Blue highlighter Green Highlighter
Purple Highlighter
Green Pencil.
Green Pencil, Silver pencil, Red
Pencil
Red Pencil, Red Pen, Black Pen
A Four color Red Black Green Blue
Pen
found inside the couch cushion next
to my keys.
Black Pen, EpiPen.
EpiPen, Benadryll, Bottle of Aleve:
seasickness band, tylonal, TUMS.
Claratin, Half a pill of Sudafed
PE,
Broken and unchargable Chill Pill.
Chill Pill Speaker System,
Working Mini Tweakers,
M2 manual wrapped in black Blue ear
buds,
iPod touch, case shiny orange, cell
with a charm,
a car key chain.
Chevy Impala, year 67 key chain
attatched to the
Vera Bradly Key card holder looped
around the
Brass dorm keys connected to the
Key card next to the
Lionking Valentine from the
Cowardly Lion.
Unlucky Love Letter of the Cowardly
Lion
Who is roaring up the wrong sister,
a Crumpled
Cowboy index card from a Cinematic
Project
Succeeding only with the unrequited
help from a ScareCrow.
A Copy, handwritten, of the Black
Box readings,
a crumpled slice of piano paper to
help with the
unfinished, unstarted, understood music
homework.
A ripped wrapper of a York.
The Ripped wrapper of candy, gift
from the TinMan,
Battle batting gloves that never
touched a bat but
Started to fray from the slicing
and slashing and surgical precision
In stage combat class, with all its
swinging of swords.
The snatched air force dog tag of
battle
Which flew in the force with guns
loaded, lies
Next to the bursting wallet that
holds hardly any money.
All Fallen to the ground.
I need to patch that tear in my pouch
Before all this pukes into place on
the ground a fifth time.
What do you call a ‘backpack’ that
doesn’t keep anything packed back?
III.
Sort of Like Re-Gifting
The Scarecrow has a cup; he keeps
it in the same bag as his Nikon. I would find that confusing considering it
looks exactly like his other lenses, the ones that actually fit onto his
camera. It is the same size as the largest lens he owns. It was a smart idea
though, getting him that cup, especially conscidering how much he loves
photography. I had to laugh though, because, on the bottom of the lense, right
where the base would connect to the camera, is the word Canon. He hates Canons.
I have a Canon.
Even
if he doesn’t like Canons, he still likes the cup. He likes the idea that
someone would make a cup shaped like a camera lens, and he likes that a girl
would think to get it for him for Christmas. I wish I had gotten it for him for
Christmas. I actually had thought about getting him something camera related,
but I guess I didn’t google the word “camera” and “gift” hard enough, because I
couldn’t find anything that wouldn’t cost me several hundred dollars. Instead,
I got him nothing. Nothing isn’t a very good present.
I
see it all the time, sitting on his desk, when he takes it out of his bag and
sets it, filled with mango juice, next to his lamp. Each of the three dials are
made of the same material as a real camera, and you can swivel them around as
if you were adjusting the focus or apature or zoom. Every detail is perfectly
replicated to the point where you might actually mistake it for a real lens.
Whenever I see it sitting there, in the limelight of his desk, I want to snatch
it away from him, hide it my bag and kidnap it to my dorm. I could do it when
he’s in the bathroom, or laying on his bed, playing with his iPad. I could just
take it, excuse myself and run. When I get back to my dorm room, I would lock
the door and look at it for a little while—maybe fill it up with some Gatorade,
or if I’m broke, some water. Just to take a sip. I’d clean it out and find the
wrapping paper. Then I’d wrap it badly a couple times with rough and wrinkly
edges that way I could open it up, pretend it was mine before wrapping it fresh
and just for him. The last time, it would be perfect. Then I would wait outside
room x44, leave it, lonely, in front of the doorstep, knock once… twice… and
run away. He would come out, look around frowning in slight confusion before
noticing the package on the ground. He would bring it inside, and unwrap his
own cup. Then I could say that I had given him a lens cup too.
He’d
walk out, knowing, knowing, knowing: Peak around the corner. Creamy brown meet
smoky grey. Caught. A laugh: an unintentional smile.
“Do
you want to play Ping-Pong?”
I
say I do. He retreats inside and I follow. His cup sits on the desk, forgotten
in a corner. He pulls out a fresh ball, carefully unwraps it, and hands me a
paddle. As I walk from the room, I notice, sitting face up, a diagonal on his
perfectly perpendicular desk, a Valentine written in my hand under the warm
desk light, as if he’d sat at his desk at some point, reading it like a clever
novel.
IV. Stab It
My EpiPen reminds me of a dagger—or
maybe a samurai sword. My roommate just told me that she thinks it looks like a
penis. A hard shelled, yellow, orange and blue penis. The Tinman, who also
needs to stab himself with one in the event of nuts, doesn’t appreciate this.
It does kind of look like a penis, with the rounded outer casing, but the
Tinman calls it his katana. The clear plastic lining of the pen is the sheath,
a scabbard keeping the steal cutting instrument safe during transport. It is
only to be used during life or death situations (Unlike a penis, he notes).
The
ringing metal tip pierces through flesh, and the knife is most often times wielded
by a separate person. The sharp tipped spire digs under the skin looking for an
artery or a vein (it isn’t picky) so it can decide the future of its victim.
Unlike a dagger, however, the EpiPen comes with directions:
1.
Pull off the blue safety release
2.
Swing and firmly push tip against outer thigh so it
clicks
3.
Hold for approximately 10 seconds
Imagine if they had these
directions on the hilt of a knife; The Tinman think it would still apply—only
the click would be from bones cracking, and the safety release would be the
swing of the wielder. If anything, such a masochistic process resembles, most
closely, the ancient art of Seppuku, where one splits open their side and lets
everything come tumbling out to restore something lost
. There is a kind of ritual to the
thing, what with the directions and all.
Kneel with the Pen in your hand, thumb on top for better leverage: Aim
for just the right spot where it’s most fleshy. Thrust it in.
There are very few
things in this world that spark life through stabbing, but
an EpiPen is one… I suppose the other is a dick.
©2014 Lex Vex
