Wednesday, June 22, 2016

Signal 30

“It’s hard to breathe in this heat,” says Joel.
“You’re getting old,” says Naomi. “Your lungs are the first to go...”
“I have asthma, okay. I’m not getting old.”
“Everyone’s getting old, Joel. That’s the way time works. It progresses. We move forward. Age...”
“Golly, you’re wise. Hey, I heard a wonderful phrase the other day.”
“Oh yeah? What?”
“I was watching – I forget - one of those old car accident films. Signal 30 or Mechanized Death or something.”
“How can you watch those things? I hate those things.”
“Too gross and disturbing for you?”
“I don’t like to be reminded how delicate or tenuous life is. How endangered we are. With just a little bit of bad luck and split-second circumstances and they’re shoveling your guts off the asphalt. I don’t need to be reminded of that.”
“Yeah, I get that. So, anyway, it was showing this poor guy at the scene of an accident. He was still alive, but the narrator says, get this, He has the pallor that the doomed assume... Isn’t that great?”
“It’s okay.”
“The way those two words work together, doomed assume. I thought it was cool.”
“You’re easily impressed.”
“No kidding. That’s why I like you.”
“The sky is oppressive.”
“What are you talking about? It’s clear and blue. Azure, as they say. Not a cloud in sight.”
“That’s why it’s oppressive. I hate fair weather. I’d like to shoot holes in that sky.”
“Tell me what else they said in the car crash film.”
“Nothing. The usual. Obey traffic laws. Don’t speed. Don’t drink and drive...”
“None of that is very poetic. Poetical? Poetic? Whatever. Why do you like to watch those movies?”
“They’re gaudy, grainy and gory. I don’t know. They achieve a weird kind of art by accident - no pun intended. The amateur acting combined with footage of real mangled bodies. It’s irresistible.”
“To you.”
“To me. Damn that sky.”
“Don’t you damn my sky, I like it. You’d rather be standing in the pouring rain?”
“Right now, yes. This heat and sun is assaultive. I wish it were raining.”
“You’re such an ass.”
“Not that kind of ass. And your inner self is immature.”
“Whoa! Where did that come from?”
“Am I wrong?”
“No, you’re not wrong. I admit it, I’m almost forty and I still feel like a teenager. But some people would say that’s a good thing. Y’know, you’re only as young as you feel...”
“How young do you feel?”
“I don’t feel young. I feel old. About eighty.”
“You’ll feel different when you ARE eighty. Then you’ll wish you’d taken better advantage of your youth.”
“Blah blah blah.”
“Mark my words.”
“Mark your own words.”
“Come on, let’s find some shade. Get out of this fucking sun.”
“I like the sun.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“You could use some sun, some color. Talk about doomed pallor...”
“I’m suddenly dissatisfied with this conversation.”
“You want to call it quits?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Okay then.”

No comments:

Post a Comment