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Nathan Graziano |
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My War I haven't bought a bumper sticker to pledge support of myself in the war against the fly that invaded my office and continues to terrorize me. But I called CNN and invited them to bring their cameras to my apartment and film the war in its entirety. Then the whole country can comment on my clandestine attack with a rolled up Atlantic Monthly while I hid under my desk. "I thought he finally had that slippery son of bitch," they'll say in subways and shops and supermarkets. "And after he gets that one fly, he should kill the rest of them too." The fly will send videos with voice-overs to Dan Rather, as it rubs his arms together and taunts me like it did the other night under the desk lamp. And soon it will be established that this is a war I cannot win. So everyone will stay glued to their television set and wait for me to drop the Big One. Clown "I went to clown school in Colorado for six weeks after college. I got certified and even landed a couple of jobs. Mostly birthday parties. But all my balloon animals ended up looking like dicks. I told the kids they were giraffes, but the parents complained to the agency setting me up with the gigs. Tough racket," he said, grabbing the ashtray and crushing out his cigarette. "The money was good. 80 bucks an hour. But it takes a special kind of person to be a clown. I mean, a real clown. You're a clown. But not a real one. Now I sell insurance and hate every minute of it. Goddamn giraffes." Redefining The American Novel Through the stench of adolescent armpits lingering In my classroom, I picked up spitballs and read notes my students dropped on the floor. I looked up and noticed a copy of Huck Finn left on a desk. In black permanent marker on the binding of the book a student wrote: Fuck Finn. I laughed. And suspect Twain would have as well. Joe And The Flies Joe sat on the stoop outside his apartment, smoking a Kool. I had never met Joe before that day when he stopped me as I was walking down the street and introduced himself. "Sit down," Joe said and patted the steps. "Don't worry, I ain't gay or nothing. Have a cigarette." I took the cigarette and thanked him. Joe stared across the street, lost in the angles of a "stop" sign on the corner. "Why?" He tugged at his beard. "Why did God create flies? All they ever do is buzz by my face and annoy the living shit out of me." Joe swatted at a fly. "I think to keep people from becoming too complacent," I said, despite being an atheist. Joe nodded his head and pursed his lips. "That's good answer," he said. We sat in silence. Then Joe turned to me. "What about mosquitoes?" |