Alright. I suck for taking an entire six months to update this. Even though it's on my blog list. Which I load every day. God I'm pathetic. Now, moving on to the story.
It didn't work. Fargo cried and cried and cried. Then he cried a bit more. After that, he did some sobbing, which was a refreshing change. Then he cried a few more times and sniffled a little. Finally, (having had one last cry) he dislodged himself from his sad, smelly huddle between the trash cans and promptly tripped over an armadillo, which accosted him.
It took him a bit to realize that he wasn't hallucinating. There was an armadillo accosting him, for one thing, which is not something the normal human encounters in everyday life, or really, in life. Also, the armadillo was accosting him verbally. In Icelandic.
Fargo stared at the animal, which gazed right back, continuing to jabber shrilly. Time passed. Fargo's left side, slightly below his ribs, started to itch, but he was still very much convinced he was dreaming. Then the armadillo switched from Icelandic to English, and Fargo realized that the armadillo hadn't been insulting him, but instead (evidently) telling him a lengthy story about a worm race of some sort.
"I said, what's your name? I'm Avril. Your face looks very much like the Prime Minister, which is saying something as she's a lesbian, but the point of all this being, I'd bet on Simpleton even though his odds were 1:17, but don't you know Pushmar had let me know the real chances, and I must say you don't look at all interested in worm racing. Or possibly you are a bit lacking in brains."
Why does everyone think I'm retarded? "Er, I'm just a bit surprised by you."
"Ah. Well, actually, I am a bit of a hallucination, but I think you will find me a useful one." With that, Avril appeared suddenly on Fargo's shoulder. He jumped a few meters in the air but Avril hung on gamely, digging in her claws. She said conversationally into Fargo's twitching ear, "I've recently received intelligence that the Skellalary Institute long sessions begins in mere weeks. As your guardian hallucination, I am also aware that you are officially enrolled there. So er. We should maybe do something about that?"
"The long session starts in weeks?"
"Yup."
"But, but where did it say that on the brochures?"
"It didn't. The letter about it came tonight. They've offered you housing."
"Where? Also, how do you know?"
"I know everything." This with a wiggle of the eyebrow. "Want to go back to your house?"
A long, heavy sigh. "Sure."
So Fargo and the possibly imaginary Icelandic armadillo made their way home.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Monday, September 22, 2008
The Sad Tale of Fargo Fitz-Simmons (Part 9)
Forgive me for taking ages to post. Essay-writing seems to have killed all my creative impulses (if I ever had any to begin with). So I suck more than usual right now.
And forgive me for not noticing the lyrics in your last post, Laurel. As I have told you repeatedly, I am not, in fact, obsessed with Cher, hence I would not notice any lyrics other than "Do you believe in life after love, after love, after love..."
"WHAT?" Fargo shrieked, his hands trembling so violently that he nearly dumped the drinks he was carrying into Professor Hedge's lap. Fargo immediately regretted shrieking so girlishly in front of Dan/Danaë, but it did at least cause her to look up it him for the first time since he'd taken their order. "What did you say?" Fargo attempted more calmly, and nearly succeeded until he realized he was speaking hardly above a whisper and in the middle of the sentence decided he should speak louder, so it came out more like "What did YOU SAY?"
Professor Hedge arched an eyebrow. "The Skellalary Institute. You have not heard of it, I presume."
Fargo set the drinks down carefully. "No, actually, I have. I got an acceptance letter from the Institute. I just wasn't sure I heard you right."
Professor Hedge looked him up and down. "You wouldn't happen to be attending, would you?," he said, folding his arms and sniffing disdainfully.
Fargo was a little hurt. He shrugged uncomfortably. "Well, um..."
"Wait a minute." Dan/Danaë narrowed her eyes. "You look familiar. Have we met?"
If he hadn't loved her already, Fargo would have decided to love Danaë in that instant just for changing the subject.
"Why, ye..."
And then it hit him, quite like the way a very large train hits and then crushes a very stupid cow that has wandered onto the railroad tracks. Fargo suddenly realized that he had been granted a second chance at a first impression on Danaë. After all, if he ever wanted to win Danaë's heart, wouldn't it be easier if she didn't start out thinking of him as "the fucking idiot who knocked me over that time?" Oh, glory-of-glories! What a marvelous and rare opportunity had been placed before him! If he had believed in God, Fargo would have fallen on his knees and praised God with joyful hymns of thanks. (He might've done it now just for the hell of it if he hadn't known that it would probably not have been quite the second-first impression he would want to give Danaë.) Now, he could be anyone he wanted to be, could reinvent himself so that she would never know what a pathetic, socially-impaired loser he had once been. In this moment, Fargo realized, he could make Danaë love him. Adrenaline (or possibly something else - maybe insanity, maybe sex drive) coursed through his body, and Fargo knew exactly what he had to do.
He straightened up and put a hand on his hip, trying to make himself look older and more impressive. He flashed what he hoped was a winning smile and winked at Danaë. The winking was a mistake. His entire face tended to convulse when he did that.
"I don't think so, babe. But maybe you've seen my ad. I'm a Calvin Klein model." And then he winked. Again.
Danaë's jaw dropped for a moment, and Fargo thought that perhaps he had succeeded in winning her heart, but then she burst out laughing.
"You?!? A model?!?!?! That's the funniest thing I've heard in ages!"
"Danaë!" Professor Hedge hissed, for though he was indeed a pompous old bag of air, he did still have some sense of propriety. "Control yourself!" (But of course, that was quite possibly the absolute worst thing Professor Hedge could have said, at least for Fargo's sake, for due to that lovely relationship that exists between most teenage girls and their parents, Danaë was now dead-set on laughing as hard as she possibly could just to make her father angry.)
Fargo stood petrified. This was possibly the farthest thing from what he'd intended to happen. Those eyes he had so cherished in his mind for the past year were now swimming with tears of mocking laughter. It was all Fargo could do not to fall down on the floor and die right in front of her. As soon as control over his physical faculties returned, Fargo sprinted as fast as he could through the kitchens and through the back door to the alleyway behind the diner, Danaë's laughter echoing behind him. Head in hand, he leaned heavily against the wall.
"Aargh!" he moaned. Fargo couldn't recall the last time he'd felt quite so embarrassed. Actually, he could. It had been in the third grade, when Peter Franklemeyer had tied him to a urinal in the boys' bathroom. But aside from that, this night was definitely a contender for the worst thing that had ever happened to him.
Fargo tried to kick the wall to make himself feel better, but he was far too crushed to be so actively angry, and besides, it really made his toes hurt.
Once again, he sat amongst the garbage cans and tried not to cry.
And forgive me for not noticing the lyrics in your last post, Laurel. As I have told you repeatedly, I am not, in fact, obsessed with Cher, hence I would not notice any lyrics other than "Do you believe in life after love, after love, after love..."
"WHAT?" Fargo shrieked, his hands trembling so violently that he nearly dumped the drinks he was carrying into Professor Hedge's lap. Fargo immediately regretted shrieking so girlishly in front of Dan/Danaë, but it did at least cause her to look up it him for the first time since he'd taken their order. "What did you say?" Fargo attempted more calmly, and nearly succeeded until he realized he was speaking hardly above a whisper and in the middle of the sentence decided he should speak louder, so it came out more like "What did YOU SAY?"
Professor Hedge arched an eyebrow. "The Skellalary Institute. You have not heard of it, I presume."
Fargo set the drinks down carefully. "No, actually, I have. I got an acceptance letter from the Institute. I just wasn't sure I heard you right."
Professor Hedge looked him up and down. "You wouldn't happen to be attending, would you?," he said, folding his arms and sniffing disdainfully.
Fargo was a little hurt. He shrugged uncomfortably. "Well, um..."
"Wait a minute." Dan/Danaë narrowed her eyes. "You look familiar. Have we met?"
If he hadn't loved her already, Fargo would have decided to love Danaë in that instant just for changing the subject.
"Why, ye..."
And then it hit him, quite like the way a very large train hits and then crushes a very stupid cow that has wandered onto the railroad tracks. Fargo suddenly realized that he had been granted a second chance at a first impression on Danaë. After all, if he ever wanted to win Danaë's heart, wouldn't it be easier if she didn't start out thinking of him as "the fucking idiot who knocked me over that time?" Oh, glory-of-glories! What a marvelous and rare opportunity had been placed before him! If he had believed in God, Fargo would have fallen on his knees and praised God with joyful hymns of thanks. (He might've done it now just for the hell of it if he hadn't known that it would probably not have been quite the second-first impression he would want to give Danaë.) Now, he could be anyone he wanted to be, could reinvent himself so that she would never know what a pathetic, socially-impaired loser he had once been. In this moment, Fargo realized, he could make Danaë love him. Adrenaline (or possibly something else - maybe insanity, maybe sex drive) coursed through his body, and Fargo knew exactly what he had to do.
He straightened up and put a hand on his hip, trying to make himself look older and more impressive. He flashed what he hoped was a winning smile and winked at Danaë. The winking was a mistake. His entire face tended to convulse when he did that.
"I don't think so, babe. But maybe you've seen my ad. I'm a Calvin Klein model." And then he winked. Again.
Danaë's jaw dropped for a moment, and Fargo thought that perhaps he had succeeded in winning her heart, but then she burst out laughing.
"You?!? A model?!?!?! That's the funniest thing I've heard in ages!"
"Danaë!" Professor Hedge hissed, for though he was indeed a pompous old bag of air, he did still have some sense of propriety. "Control yourself!" (But of course, that was quite possibly the absolute worst thing Professor Hedge could have said, at least for Fargo's sake, for due to that lovely relationship that exists between most teenage girls and their parents, Danaë was now dead-set on laughing as hard as she possibly could just to make her father angry.)
Fargo stood petrified. This was possibly the farthest thing from what he'd intended to happen. Those eyes he had so cherished in his mind for the past year were now swimming with tears of mocking laughter. It was all Fargo could do not to fall down on the floor and die right in front of her. As soon as control over his physical faculties returned, Fargo sprinted as fast as he could through the kitchens and through the back door to the alleyway behind the diner, Danaë's laughter echoing behind him. Head in hand, he leaned heavily against the wall.
"Aargh!" he moaned. Fargo couldn't recall the last time he'd felt quite so embarrassed. Actually, he could. It had been in the third grade, when Peter Franklemeyer had tied him to a urinal in the boys' bathroom. But aside from that, this night was definitely a contender for the worst thing that had ever happened to him.
Fargo tried to kick the wall to make himself feel better, but he was far too crushed to be so actively angry, and besides, it really made his toes hurt.
Once again, he sat amongst the garbage cans and tried not to cry.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
The Sad Tale of Fargo Fitz-Simmons (Part 8)
For the record, folks, I totally incorporated Cher lyrics into my last entry. It was a sacrifice, but I persevered. Barely.
Fargo didn't see the girl that day, though he drank three whole shakes. He left because it was late, and also because he had forgotten he was lactose-intolerant, which meant that he got very little sleep that night. So the next day he ordered pie slices instead. By the time he graduated, which was about three months later, he'd sampled the entire menu eight times and had somehow been coerced into working as a waiter.
He'd accepted the Skellalary Institute's offer (mainly because they'd generously given him something called the Gakgak Scholarship) ages ago—the bullet-proof container had been expensive, not to mention heavy—and was receiving packets from them daily, none of which made much sense but all of which looked intriguing.
His parents had dropped by a month back to get more Bibles (evidently the natives had started using them as cannonballs; Fargo didn't ask) and pinch his cheeks. They had vaguely approved of Skellalary ("Yes, I've heard it's quite prestigious, but what have you heard from Reverend Caball recently?" said his father, while his mother's commentary was, "Just make sure it's near a nice church, dear") but talked more about Christ than their son, as usual. As a sort of horrible parting gift they'd lectured him about sex for two and a half hours (Like I'm having it, Fargo thought bitterly the whole time). And then they were gone for the next six months, by which time he would be in college. He could breathe when they left.
He was saying goodbye to the diner workers and patrons on his last day there when the Girl walked in with a man.
Fargo nearly fainted. Instead, he dropped a platter full of dirty dishes on his shoes, which woke him up sufficiently to make eye contact with the Girl, who was of course staring at him for dropping the plates, like everyone else. He muttered something and bent quickly, trying to hide the mess with his body. His coworkers, used to this type of behavior (Fargo tended to get flustered whenever anybody so much as spoke to him), hopped over the counter to help.
The Girl, rolling her eyes magnificently, directed the man she was with—who was about forty years older than her and immaculately dressed—to a booth near the door. Fargo hurriedly tripped the waiter going towards their booth and hurried over with his own pad and pencil.
"Can I help you?" he said smoothly, but it really came out as "Calpha?" He coughed, trying to look unconcerned, and spoke again, this time discernibly.
"Iced tea," said the man, who was tall even sitting down and was clearly the Girl's father.
"Limeaid and Vanilla Coke. Half and half," said the Girl, not looking at him.
Fargo nearly killed himself running for the drinks dispenser. He was back in double time, possibly even before he left. The man's extremely thin brown eyebrows disappeared into his curly hair. The Girl was texting and failed utterly to notice Fargo's presence. Again.
"Very prompt service here," he said pompously. He glanced around, nose slightly in the air. "Not particularly clean, but Dan recommended it, and she has excellent taste." He brushed irritably at his jacket lapels, which had a half a speck of dust on them.
Dan? She? thought Fargo.
"Yeah, well, food's the best," said the Girl sarcastically. "C'n I have some lobster bisque? And an Augustus salad."
"You like lobster bisque, Dan?" said the father. "I thought you preferred crab."
Fargo couldn't help it. "Dan?"
The Girl rolled her eyes. "It's short for Danaë," said the father. "All of our family is named after mythological figures. I am Outis Hedge, professor of chemical studies."
"Oh?" said Fargo politely. "Where do you teach?"
"The Skellalary Institute," Professor Hedge said.
Fargo didn't see the girl that day, though he drank three whole shakes. He left because it was late, and also because he had forgotten he was lactose-intolerant, which meant that he got very little sleep that night. So the next day he ordered pie slices instead. By the time he graduated, which was about three months later, he'd sampled the entire menu eight times and had somehow been coerced into working as a waiter.
He'd accepted the Skellalary Institute's offer (mainly because they'd generously given him something called the Gakgak Scholarship) ages ago—the bullet-proof container had been expensive, not to mention heavy—and was receiving packets from them daily, none of which made much sense but all of which looked intriguing.
His parents had dropped by a month back to get more Bibles (evidently the natives had started using them as cannonballs; Fargo didn't ask) and pinch his cheeks. They had vaguely approved of Skellalary ("Yes, I've heard it's quite prestigious, but what have you heard from Reverend Caball recently?" said his father, while his mother's commentary was, "Just make sure it's near a nice church, dear") but talked more about Christ than their son, as usual. As a sort of horrible parting gift they'd lectured him about sex for two and a half hours (Like I'm having it, Fargo thought bitterly the whole time). And then they were gone for the next six months, by which time he would be in college. He could breathe when they left.
He was saying goodbye to the diner workers and patrons on his last day there when the Girl walked in with a man.
Fargo nearly fainted. Instead, he dropped a platter full of dirty dishes on his shoes, which woke him up sufficiently to make eye contact with the Girl, who was of course staring at him for dropping the plates, like everyone else. He muttered something and bent quickly, trying to hide the mess with his body. His coworkers, used to this type of behavior (Fargo tended to get flustered whenever anybody so much as spoke to him), hopped over the counter to help.
The Girl, rolling her eyes magnificently, directed the man she was with—who was about forty years older than her and immaculately dressed—to a booth near the door. Fargo hurriedly tripped the waiter going towards their booth and hurried over with his own pad and pencil.
"Can I help you?" he said smoothly, but it really came out as "Calpha?" He coughed, trying to look unconcerned, and spoke again, this time discernibly.
"Iced tea," said the man, who was tall even sitting down and was clearly the Girl's father.
"Limeaid and Vanilla Coke. Half and half," said the Girl, not looking at him.
Fargo nearly killed himself running for the drinks dispenser. He was back in double time, possibly even before he left. The man's extremely thin brown eyebrows disappeared into his curly hair. The Girl was texting and failed utterly to notice Fargo's presence. Again.
"Very prompt service here," he said pompously. He glanced around, nose slightly in the air. "Not particularly clean, but Dan recommended it, and she has excellent taste." He brushed irritably at his jacket lapels, which had a half a speck of dust on them.
Dan? She? thought Fargo.
"Yeah, well, food's the best," said the Girl sarcastically. "C'n I have some lobster bisque? And an Augustus salad."
"You like lobster bisque, Dan?" said the father. "I thought you preferred crab."
Fargo couldn't help it. "Dan?"
The Girl rolled her eyes. "It's short for Danaë," said the father. "All of our family is named after mythological figures. I am Outis Hedge, professor of chemical studies."
"Oh?" said Fargo politely. "Where do you teach?"
"The Skellalary Institute," Professor Hedge said.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
The Sad Tale of Fargo Fitz-Simmons (Part 7)
Fine, Laurel. I will stop mentioning Cher. Though I am sorely tempted with this beginning part here. And sorry this one is so long. Dialogue. Heh.
Fargo was unpleasantly jerked awake by his cell phone ring. He groaned and covered his head with one of the couch pillows. He hated that sound. And not because he hated his ringtone -- it was actually a song he liked pretty well -- but because it meant that his parents were calling.
Fargo's parents had been gone for two years now. They had decided to become missionaries in Guatemala. Though he couldn't understand exactly what had possessed them to do that (they claimed it was the Spirit of the Lord), Fargo had been glad to see them go. It wasn't that he didn't love his parents, or that they didn't love him, but he knew that he wasn't the sort of son they truly wanted or had ever expected they'd end up with. For one thing, he was an atheist, every eccentric-Christian-parent's nightmare, and two, his social status had always worried them (which was odd, considering the name they had given him. Fargo had always suspected they had been slightly drunk when they'd decided upon his name). His parents had always been the most popular of the popular in high school. Up until the time they left on "God's calling", they had badgered him endlessly to study just a bit less and socialize just a bit more ("a bit less" meaning "virtually not at all" and "a bit more" meaning "nonstop"). Since they had left, Fargo had gone to live with his grandmother who slept all day and only awoke occasionally to remind him to feed the cat (which had died six years ago). Needless to say, his life was now much more pleasant.
Except for times like these, of course.
The phone stopped ringing for approximately five seconds before it started back up again. Was it possible that the ringing sounded more insistent this time? Fargo decided he had better answer it.
"Hello?"
"Hello my little monkeykins! How are you, dear, how are you?"
"I'm fine, mom. I decided..."
"Well now, that's wonderful, just won-der-ful! And how is grandmother doing these days?"
"She's fine, but I'm worried that..."
"Won-der-ful! And your college applications, how are those going?"
His mother was forever forgetting that those had long since been turned in. "Finished. I got back several..."
"Oh, you won-der-ful boy, you! Getting ahead on things! And how is your love life?"
Damn. The dreaded question. "The same. Nonexistent."
"Oh, well now, that's too bad. Just too bad! Tssh tssh. I'm sorry to hear that, dear. And a boy of your talents and looks, too!"
"It's fine, mom. I..."
"Well isn't that won-der-ful? I'm glad you're happy with it! We see the bright side of things, now, don't we? Always appreciating what God gives us instead of moaning about what he doesn't, now, don't we?"
His mother was also constantly forgetting that he was an atheist. In denial, perhaps. "Yes, mom."
"Oh, good, good! Now, I just wanted to fill you in on ev-er-y-thing that's happened to us since we last called! It's been so won-der-ful! We helped the natives build..."
At this point, Fargo set the phone down and rubbed his eyes. There was no need to really listen to what his mother was saying. She was not the kind of person who needed constant "umhm"s and "yes, yes, I understand"s to convince her that you were listening. She automatically assumed that you were hanging on her every word.
Fargo had about ten minutes before she'd finish her ramble. He buried the phone under the couch pillows (his mother talked very, very loud) and went to the pantry to find some marshmallow fluff. It occurred to him for the millionth time as he dug through the cans of tomato sauce and the bottles of cooking wine that he really needed to organize the pantry.
Finally (and fortunately) it only took Fargo seven minutes to find the marshmallow fluff, giving him plenty of time to enjoy several spoonfuls before he picked up the phone.
"...so gratifying and won-der-ful to be serving the Lord! Wouldn't you agree, dear?"
"Yeah, mom, it sounds really great."
"Yes, it really is. It really is! But we're about to go mango-picking with the natives now, so I should go. I'm so sorry to cut this short, dear!"
"That's okay."
"Well it was just wonderful talking to you, dear! Just won-der-ful! Kisses!"
"Yeah, mom."
"Have a won-der-ful day! Buh-bye now!"
"B..."
But she had already hung up.
Fargo fell back onto the couch, exhausted from the ordeal. He wished it was his father that had called for a change. He at least let Fargo finish his sentences.
Fargo was about to go back to sleep when he remembered the girl. The Girl! He sat back up with new energy and checked his watch. Three o'clock in the afternoon. Three o'clock in the afternoon? The day was almost over! Time was wasting! He had to use every minute he had to find her! Never mind that the piece of paper from the Skellalary Institute was still lying upstairs on his bed, as of yet not folded into the required origami crane. But that was no matter. Finding his soulmate was far more important than college.
Fargo dashed upstairs, spent a little longer than usual selecting his shirt, and combed his hair for once. Feeling just "won-der-ful," as his mother would say, he half-ran, half-skipped to the diner. He had determined that the best way to find The Girl was to wait there. She was bound to come back again at some point, wasn't she?
Well, wasn't she?
He picked a corner table by the window, ordered a chocolate shake, and began his vigil.
Fargo was unpleasantly jerked awake by his cell phone ring. He groaned and covered his head with one of the couch pillows. He hated that sound. And not because he hated his ringtone -- it was actually a song he liked pretty well -- but because it meant that his parents were calling.
Fargo's parents had been gone for two years now. They had decided to become missionaries in Guatemala. Though he couldn't understand exactly what had possessed them to do that (they claimed it was the Spirit of the Lord), Fargo had been glad to see them go. It wasn't that he didn't love his parents, or that they didn't love him, but he knew that he wasn't the sort of son they truly wanted or had ever expected they'd end up with. For one thing, he was an atheist, every eccentric-Christian-parent's nightmare, and two, his social status had always worried them (which was odd, considering the name they had given him. Fargo had always suspected they had been slightly drunk when they'd decided upon his name). His parents had always been the most popular of the popular in high school. Up until the time they left on "God's calling", they had badgered him endlessly to study just a bit less and socialize just a bit more ("a bit less" meaning "virtually not at all" and "a bit more" meaning "nonstop"). Since they had left, Fargo had gone to live with his grandmother who slept all day and only awoke occasionally to remind him to feed the cat (which had died six years ago). Needless to say, his life was now much more pleasant.
Except for times like these, of course.
The phone stopped ringing for approximately five seconds before it started back up again. Was it possible that the ringing sounded more insistent this time? Fargo decided he had better answer it.
"Hello?"
"Hello my little monkeykins! How are you, dear, how are you?"
"I'm fine, mom. I decided..."
"Well now, that's wonderful, just won-der-ful! And how is grandmother doing these days?"
"She's fine, but I'm worried that..."
"Won-der-ful! And your college applications, how are those going?"
His mother was forever forgetting that those had long since been turned in. "Finished. I got back several..."
"Oh, you won-der-ful boy, you! Getting ahead on things! And how is your love life?"
Damn. The dreaded question. "The same. Nonexistent."
"Oh, well now, that's too bad. Just too bad! Tssh tssh. I'm sorry to hear that, dear. And a boy of your talents and looks, too!"
"It's fine, mom. I..."
"Well isn't that won-der-ful? I'm glad you're happy with it! We see the bright side of things, now, don't we? Always appreciating what God gives us instead of moaning about what he doesn't, now, don't we?"
His mother was also constantly forgetting that he was an atheist. In denial, perhaps. "Yes, mom."
"Oh, good, good! Now, I just wanted to fill you in on ev-er-y-thing that's happened to us since we last called! It's been so won-der-ful! We helped the natives build..."
At this point, Fargo set the phone down and rubbed his eyes. There was no need to really listen to what his mother was saying. She was not the kind of person who needed constant "umhm"s and "yes, yes, I understand"s to convince her that you were listening. She automatically assumed that you were hanging on her every word.
Fargo had about ten minutes before she'd finish her ramble. He buried the phone under the couch pillows (his mother talked very, very loud) and went to the pantry to find some marshmallow fluff. It occurred to him for the millionth time as he dug through the cans of tomato sauce and the bottles of cooking wine that he really needed to organize the pantry.
Finally (and fortunately) it only took Fargo seven minutes to find the marshmallow fluff, giving him plenty of time to enjoy several spoonfuls before he picked up the phone.
"...so gratifying and won-der-ful to be serving the Lord! Wouldn't you agree, dear?"
"Yeah, mom, it sounds really great."
"Yes, it really is. It really is! But we're about to go mango-picking with the natives now, so I should go. I'm so sorry to cut this short, dear!"
"That's okay."
"Well it was just wonderful talking to you, dear! Just won-der-ful! Kisses!"
"Yeah, mom."
"Have a won-der-ful day! Buh-bye now!"
"B..."
But she had already hung up.
Fargo fell back onto the couch, exhausted from the ordeal. He wished it was his father that had called for a change. He at least let Fargo finish his sentences.
Fargo was about to go back to sleep when he remembered the girl. The Girl! He sat back up with new energy and checked his watch. Three o'clock in the afternoon. Three o'clock in the afternoon? The day was almost over! Time was wasting! He had to use every minute he had to find her! Never mind that the piece of paper from the Skellalary Institute was still lying upstairs on his bed, as of yet not folded into the required origami crane. But that was no matter. Finding his soulmate was far more important than college.
Fargo dashed upstairs, spent a little longer than usual selecting his shirt, and combed his hair for once. Feeling just "won-der-ful," as his mother would say, he half-ran, half-skipped to the diner. He had determined that the best way to find The Girl was to wait there. She was bound to come back again at some point, wasn't she?
Well, wasn't she?
He picked a corner table by the window, ordered a chocolate shake, and began his vigil.
The Sad Tale of Fargo Fitz-Simmons (Part 6)
I really like that I'm doing the even numbered parts. ^__^
The Girl struggled to her feet. He saw that she was balanced precariously on neon green platforms. She set her fists at her hips and stared down at him, an adorable frown on her freckled face.
"Dude, what's your fucking problem? Are you a retard? I'm pretty sure you're a motherfucking retard. God. Why does this always happen to me. Here."
She extended a multi-bangled wrist with a smallish hand protruding from it. He observed the limb calmly. The fingernails were an inch long and painted alternating purple and pink. There was poetry in those nails. Real love. He believed in real love, at that second.
"Fucktard," she muttered, pulling the hand back after he failed to accept it.
No! he thought. You bring me up when I'm down!
"Wait," he said, his voice sounding very strange. He reached his hand up. "Please?"
"You had your chance, retard," The Girl said, flipping her brownblondepink hair expertly over her shoulder. She stepped lightly around him and prounced out the door. A second later she'd stuck her head back in.
"Oh," she said to him, smiling largely, "and fuck you."
And she left.
"Need a hand?" the burly biker grunted.
"Oh, no thanks," said Fargo, scooting off of the man's shoe. "But thanks."
"Yeah," growled the biker, turning back to his coffee.
Fargo set himself, shaking his head. His damned hair was in his eyes again. He pushed it back, went to the counter, ordered a cream cheese and scallops sandwich (with apple-flavored chips), ate, paid, and left.
He remembered none of it. His head was filled with The Girl. Her bottomless blue eyes. Her immaculate hair. Her unique, perfect attitude. He sighed flutteringly as he left the diner. Halfway home, he tripped spectacularly over a badly placed rock (more of a small boulder, he thought grumpily) and bruised his arm so badly that he was leaking tears by the time he got home to pop a few Tylenol. Exhausted, he fell asleep on the couch.
He dreamed about The Girl.
The Girl struggled to her feet. He saw that she was balanced precariously on neon green platforms. She set her fists at her hips and stared down at him, an adorable frown on her freckled face.
"Dude, what's your fucking problem? Are you a retard? I'm pretty sure you're a motherfucking retard. God. Why does this always happen to me. Here."
She extended a multi-bangled wrist with a smallish hand protruding from it. He observed the limb calmly. The fingernails were an inch long and painted alternating purple and pink. There was poetry in those nails. Real love. He believed in real love, at that second.
"Fucktard," she muttered, pulling the hand back after he failed to accept it.
No! he thought. You bring me up when I'm down!
"Wait," he said, his voice sounding very strange. He reached his hand up. "Please?"
"You had your chance, retard," The Girl said, flipping her brownblondepink hair expertly over her shoulder. She stepped lightly around him and prounced out the door. A second later she'd stuck her head back in.
"Oh," she said to him, smiling largely, "and fuck you."
And she left.
"Need a hand?" the burly biker grunted.
"Oh, no thanks," said Fargo, scooting off of the man's shoe. "But thanks."
"Yeah," growled the biker, turning back to his coffee.
Fargo set himself, shaking his head. His damned hair was in his eyes again. He pushed it back, went to the counter, ordered a cream cheese and scallops sandwich (with apple-flavored chips), ate, paid, and left.
He remembered none of it. His head was filled with The Girl. Her bottomless blue eyes. Her immaculate hair. Her unique, perfect attitude. He sighed flutteringly as he left the diner. Halfway home, he tripped spectacularly over a badly placed rock (more of a small boulder, he thought grumpily) and bruised his arm so badly that he was leaking tears by the time he got home to pop a few Tylenol. Exhausted, he fell asleep on the couch.
He dreamed about The Girl.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
The Sad Tale of Fargo Fitz-Simmons (Part 5)
Since Laurel hopped on my fun boat of rambling-ness and wrote a multi-paragraph entry last time too, I think "part" makes more sense than "paragraph" as a subheading sort of thingy.
It took Fargo seventy-eight hours, fourteen containers of peanut butter, ten packages of band-aids, six bottles of rubbing alcohol, three extra spicy burritos, two (now broken) blowtorches, and one spirit-boosting viewing of Moonstruck to finally open the first piece of paper.
Words, printed in excruciatingly tiny font, filled about an inch of the upper right-hand corner. Or the lower-right hand corner. Or the lower left-hand corner. Or maybe it was actually upper left-hand corner. Depending on your perspective.
"CONGRATULATIONS,"
(It began.)
"IF YOU ARE READING THIS, YOU HAVE COMPLETED THE DAUNTING TASK WE SET BEFORE YOU AND HAVE NOW PROVEN YOURSELF TO BE THE EXACTLY THE KIND OF LIFELESS LOSER WHO WOULD BENEFIT FROM AND ENJOY ATTENDING THE SKELLALARY INSTITUTE. REFOLD THIS PIECE OF PAPER INTO AN ORIGAMI CRANE, WRAP IT IN APPROXIMATELY 6.2 FT OF BUBBLEWRAP, AND MAIL IT IN BULLET-PROOF CONTAINER BY THE IDES OF MARCH TO THE FOLLOWING ADDRESS:
THE SKELLALARY INSTITUTE
c/o REGINA S. PEYTON
AREA CODE BRX2941HXP6ITTTECH
WE WILL CONTACT YOU WITH FULL DETAILS WITHIN THREE WEEKS OF RECEIVING YOUR PACKAGE.
THANKS FOR YOUR DEDICATION!
MAY THE FORCE BE WITH YOU.
HUZZAH!"
Of course, the letter hadn't actually said "lifeless loser." It had said "earthling." The lifeless loser part had been implied.
Fargo, slightly befuddled but too dazed to care, was feeling rather proud of himself. He was just about to crawl into bed and completely conk out for the next week and a half when his stomach roared at him. He groaned, pulled on a clean shirt, and decided he would go to the diner about three blocks away for a sandwich.
It was three o'clock in the morning, but the diner was oddly busy. All the tables were full, and so was the bar, except for one seat.
Fargo sprinted as fast as he could (which, being so weak from hunger and fatigue, was more like a very slow walk) towards the bar stool. Just as he was about to reach it, he smacked into another person. Both of them fell backwards and onto the floor.
"Oof," Fargo said, rubbing his head. He had landed on the shoe of a very burly biker who was now glaring down at him angrily. Fargo sat up quickly and looked to see who he had knocked down.
It was a girl, about his age or maybe a little older. She had very dark brown hair streaked with blonde and pink highlights. Her bangs fell into her face as she sat up.
"You fucking retard," she said. "What's your fucking problem?"
But Fargo couldn't answer. He was staring too intently at her chest. And it wasn't because she had overly impressive cleavage (quite the opposite in fact, but Fargo wasn't the sort of guy who would care about that anyway).
"Hello? Earth to idiot?"
After several more curses from the girl, he was finally able to tear his eyes away from her chest-area to gaze into her startlingly blue eyes. He knew then, with more conviction than he ever had known anything his life (including that Mamma Mia was quite possibly the most frightening thing he had ever seen), that he had found The One.
And why?
She was wearing a Cher t-shirt.
It took Fargo seventy-eight hours, fourteen containers of peanut butter, ten packages of band-aids, six bottles of rubbing alcohol, three extra spicy burritos, two (now broken) blowtorches, and one spirit-boosting viewing of Moonstruck to finally open the first piece of paper.
Words, printed in excruciatingly tiny font, filled about an inch of the upper right-hand corner. Or the lower-right hand corner. Or the lower left-hand corner. Or maybe it was actually upper left-hand corner. Depending on your perspective.
"CONGRATULATIONS,"
(It began.)
"IF YOU ARE READING THIS, YOU HAVE COMPLETED THE DAUNTING TASK WE SET BEFORE YOU AND HAVE NOW PROVEN YOURSELF TO BE THE EXACTLY THE KIND OF LIFELESS LOSER WHO WOULD BENEFIT FROM AND ENJOY ATTENDING THE SKELLALARY INSTITUTE. REFOLD THIS PIECE OF PAPER INTO AN ORIGAMI CRANE, WRAP IT IN APPROXIMATELY 6.2 FT OF BUBBLEWRAP, AND MAIL IT IN BULLET-PROOF CONTAINER BY THE IDES OF MARCH TO THE FOLLOWING ADDRESS:
THE SKELLALARY INSTITUTE
c/o REGINA S. PEYTON
AREA CODE BRX2941HXP6ITTTECH
WE WILL CONTACT YOU WITH FULL DETAILS WITHIN THREE WEEKS OF RECEIVING YOUR PACKAGE.
THANKS FOR YOUR DEDICATION!
MAY THE FORCE BE WITH YOU.
HUZZAH!"
Of course, the letter hadn't actually said "lifeless loser." It had said "earthling." The lifeless loser part had been implied.
Fargo, slightly befuddled but too dazed to care, was feeling rather proud of himself. He was just about to crawl into bed and completely conk out for the next week and a half when his stomach roared at him. He groaned, pulled on a clean shirt, and decided he would go to the diner about three blocks away for a sandwich.
It was three o'clock in the morning, but the diner was oddly busy. All the tables were full, and so was the bar, except for one seat.
Fargo sprinted as fast as he could (which, being so weak from hunger and fatigue, was more like a very slow walk) towards the bar stool. Just as he was about to reach it, he smacked into another person. Both of them fell backwards and onto the floor.
"Oof," Fargo said, rubbing his head. He had landed on the shoe of a very burly biker who was now glaring down at him angrily. Fargo sat up quickly and looked to see who he had knocked down.
It was a girl, about his age or maybe a little older. She had very dark brown hair streaked with blonde and pink highlights. Her bangs fell into her face as she sat up.
"You fucking retard," she said. "What's your fucking problem?"
But Fargo couldn't answer. He was staring too intently at her chest. And it wasn't because she had overly impressive cleavage (quite the opposite in fact, but Fargo wasn't the sort of guy who would care about that anyway).
"Hello? Earth to idiot?"
After several more curses from the girl, he was finally able to tear his eyes away from her chest-area to gaze into her startlingly blue eyes. He knew then, with more conviction than he ever had known anything his life (including that Mamma Mia was quite possibly the most frightening thing he had ever seen), that he had found The One.
And why?
She was wearing a Cher t-shirt.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
The Sad Tale of Fargo Fitz-Simmons (Paragraph 4)
Fargo shuffled hurriedly through his acceptance letters until he found a pale pink envelope emblazoned with the words "SKELLALARY INSTITUTE OF LEARNING". It was quite literally emblazoned. The words were fiery and stood out at least half an inch from the letter. He blinked at it. I don't remember applying to this college. Maybe it was in the Common App.
He opened the envelope. There were two loose-leaf sheets and a brochure, both folded oddly. He tried to open the first sheet, but the complexities of the fold escaped him for the moment. Afraid he would tear the paper, he attempted the other sheet, which was bright red. It came undone easily.
Dear Sir or Madam:
Congratulations on being accepted to the Skellarly Institute of Learning. We're interesting, to say the least. Should you be able to unfold the other paper, please return it to us by exactly June First so that we can guarantee your spot in our college.
Thank you for your time,
Jane Doe
Primus Professor Emeritus
Fargo blinked at it. The stir-fry rumbled in his stomach. Jane Doe? We're interesting, to say the least? Should you be able to unfold the other paper? What kind of place was this?
He attempted the brochure.
It was also bright red and much easier to open than even the second letter. It folded out in to thirteen panels, each of which was a different eye-scorching color. Images of almost disturbingly upbeat current students were, at times, embossed and polychromatically saturated. The effect was nearly blinding.
Laying the brochure out on the table, Fargo started at the beginning. The introductory panel flew breezily through Skellalarly's attributes and deposited Fargo's attention upon the second (bright mauve) panel, which described Skellalarly's "unique and ego-boostingly impressive location," though it failed to specify the exact geographic position of the college. Subsequent panels detailed their former students, none of which Fargo had ever heard of but all of which sounded quite accomplished and intelligent; their bachelors' and masters' programs, none of which were mentioned in great detail; their faculty to student ratio, which was the alarming number of 5:3; their student housing, which looked like something out of Nanny McPhee but seemed to cost a nearly invisible amount; their nightlife, which was evenly divided between things called "cemetery parties" and "lightbulb banquet extravaganzas"; and the libraries, which were evidently "absolutely positively without a doubt the best in the entire history of the world."
Fargo was impressed enough that he decided he wanted to go. He turned to the first tightly folded paper and began to work.
He opened the envelope. There were two loose-leaf sheets and a brochure, both folded oddly. He tried to open the first sheet, but the complexities of the fold escaped him for the moment. Afraid he would tear the paper, he attempted the other sheet, which was bright red. It came undone easily.
Dear Sir or Madam:
Congratulations on being accepted to the Skellarly Institute of Learning. We're interesting, to say the least. Should you be able to unfold the other paper, please return it to us by exactly June First so that we can guarantee your spot in our college.
Thank you for your time,
Jane Doe
Primus Professor Emeritus
Fargo blinked at it. The stir-fry rumbled in his stomach. Jane Doe? We're interesting, to say the least? Should you be able to unfold the other paper? What kind of place was this?
He attempted the brochure.
It was also bright red and much easier to open than even the second letter. It folded out in to thirteen panels, each of which was a different eye-scorching color. Images of almost disturbingly upbeat current students were, at times, embossed and polychromatically saturated. The effect was nearly blinding.
Laying the brochure out on the table, Fargo started at the beginning. The introductory panel flew breezily through Skellalarly's attributes and deposited Fargo's attention upon the second (bright mauve) panel, which described Skellalarly's "unique and ego-boostingly impressive location," though it failed to specify the exact geographic position of the college. Subsequent panels detailed their former students, none of which Fargo had ever heard of but all of which sounded quite accomplished and intelligent; their bachelors' and masters' programs, none of which were mentioned in great detail; their faculty to student ratio, which was the alarming number of 5:3; their student housing, which looked like something out of Nanny McPhee but seemed to cost a nearly invisible amount; their nightlife, which was evenly divided between things called "cemetery parties" and "lightbulb banquet extravaganzas"; and the libraries, which were evidently "absolutely positively without a doubt the best in the entire history of the world."
Fargo was impressed enough that he decided he wanted to go. He turned to the first tightly folded paper and began to work.
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