Hook, Bridge, Sink

A random story is selected and written, as any other. A character is selected, a disposition and a point of view. The moral may be different, but the format must remain the same, for consumption purposes.

“I don’t believe in the quantum path, the one I could have chose. Dark matter doesn’t exist to be seen or felt, or believed. And it always just so happens to be in the last place I look. Car keys in the 99^th drawer, defeating the very concept of a hundredth.

           

“Nobody is perfect. They never become, or are, hungry, sick, lonely, anxious or in the way. They are the negative environment that sets the standard for my positivity. I owe them a just amount: nothing. Just as I owe myself. At the resolution of the problem, the solution is simple. And I may dissect and subdivide the remainder, time permitting.

“The difference between one and zero is one. The difference between one and one is zero. And between zero and zero, there is no difference. . . ”

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George Schrödinger is hella stoked: the chance to meet the maker of The Akashic Records, the greatest record store on Earth. It just so happened to be erected not a block away, “meant to be,” as far as George was concerned. And today is the grand premiere.

“The sun is shining; not an obstacle in front of us. I must be trippin’ on each lace and crack as I certainly approach my destination. I broke my breakfast in half and I’m feelin’ it. And soon I will be there. I pray, “Mein Gott, clear my schedule until this afternoon. I must prepare my self to learn and retain my world.”

George finds himself on the footbridge, where a sign is posted: “Do not throw anything off bridge.” Upon reading, he glances around, down either end of the bridge. He is the only one around and he thinks “the coast is clear.” He’s always up for a challenge. So he pulls three bottles from his knapsack, one of goat’s milk, one of Malbec, and one fresh squeezed blue raspberry juice. He arranges them in a neat triangle between his palms and fingers, extends his arms beyond the railing, leaning his stomach, and lets go of all three at once. He waits to hear a crash on the asphalt below, which never comes. Instead his body is pulled back and thrown to the ground, and his rights are read. But he successfully persuades for his release, and concluding short hostile argument, with his explanation to the officer, “it wasn’t anything that I threw.”

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He got up and dusted his sleeve. His mouth was bleeding. The officer apologized, saying his name was Bart. George shook hands with his free one and said nothing. He was trying to concentrate on what he was doing before the shake, the blood, the explanation, the throw, the sign and the bridge. He stared at Bart’s badge listening for a solution. “Have you ever rode in a cop car?”

The seats had built in warmers and they listened to jazz. George recognized everyone as they flew and he had no time to speak with any of them. “They all do their best, as I do” he thought, “seeing independent success in self or an other.” He turned to Bart, “Won’t we ever stop fighting?” George thought hard at Bart, who continued cruising the center lane, silently professing a creed to his land and people.

“Here we are.” Bart pressed a button on the steering column and the passenger door slowly opened. George stepped into the golden light, waved goodbye and made his way for the door. His lungs adjusted to the darkness as his lungs adjusted to the smoke, pushed his way through the crowd, got to the bar and asked something that has always troubled him: “is this the path of least resistance?”

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