Troped

“You can’t do that. You can’t just expect me to be fine with living with a stranger just because you all can’t keep track of a simple list. That’s all it is, a list. People, rooms. Why is that hard?” He was rapidly losing his civility, but was still more determined not to give in.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Copeland, but it was a computer error. There were two room listings for 400 when they’re should’ve been only one.”

“You can’t blame the computer, it’s a dumb machine. Someone in your department created two listings or entered the number twice. The computer didn’t decide to get it wrong. And that’s your department’s problem. And since you’re speaking with me, that makes it your problem. And if you can’t do anything about it, then you need to put me in touch with someone who can.”

And now, modern reader, can you guess what happened next? Yes! The geometric modern trajectory of phone calls, forms and hierarchies pulled Gene Copeland ever onward from office to office, building to building, hold song (“Dancing in the Moonlight,” King Harvest, 1973) to hold song (“Belero” Maurice Ravel, 1928) until he landed at last, in front of an old factory building. He’d won, yes, because he would not have a roommate in this place, but then, had he really won? The site of the industrial-era leviathan caused him to hear the faint shoomp sounds of pneumatic tubes and wonder to himself if we were really any better off.

Gene shrugs. Fair enough.

From the Thread: A Field Guide to the Socially Inept

Tags: bureaucracy : dancing in the moonlight : Gene Copeland : kafkaesque : roommates

Dear Mr. Advice,

I recently purchased some jelly beans. These were not just any sort of jelly beans; they were the very special kind that taste like all sorts of assorted tastes like celery, tomato, coffee, and pudding. But I have lost them and looked everywhere for them and they are nowhere to be found. I’ve asked my wife about where they could be but she’s says I should keep track of my own snack foods. Can I trust her?

Lost Jellybeans

Dear Lost Jellybeans,

Okay, let’s get one things straight: pudding has to be, like, vanilla pudding or chocolate pudding—it doesn’t taste like anything on its own. On top of which, you’ve bought some shitty jelly beans here, it seems obvious to me. Tomato? Why tomato when you can have orange or frankly, anything that’s not tomato. Who makes tomato jelly beans? I seriously want to know because I’m shorting the stock in that company tomorrow. Finally, what kind of loveless marriage are you trapped in when you have to keep separate track of your snack food? Seriously, are there separate stock piles around the house? This is disturbing me. I think the clear answer to your question is: no. No, you cannot trust your wife because anyone who keeps stock piles of snack food from you is someone that cannot be trusted.

From the Thread: A Field Guide to the Socially Inept

This guy walked by me on Brooks, carrying a gas can, looking beat up—like black-eye beat up. He looked beat as in tired, too. He stops me, I pull my headphones out—believe me, hot from walking to the bus and not at all happy about being held up in the heat. He proceeds to tell me a story that indicates about five words in that he needs help. And I think I might see what I could do. But he doesn’t let me get a word in edgewise and talks and talks and talks—he tells me about a crime, he tells me about injuries, he tells me about where he works, what he pulls in, and tells me the street corner where his bank is. And I know he’s trying to indicate that he’s reliable, but the more he talks, the less I want to help. After more talking he finally asks if I can help. I’m already thinking, like don’t waste my time. Let me save you the trouble. I tell him I don’t carry cash (I have some in my wallet), I tell him I only have my student ID for the bus and for food at the University. He says, “You have a debit card,” as if I’m already going to lie to him. I say no; I leave it home since I can buy food on the student ID. He looks incredulous and then picks up his gas can and nods and says “Thanks, bro,” at the same time that I say, “Sorry.”

From the Thread: A Field Guide to the Socially Inept

Does it ever sound like the steady clack of steel wheels on rails that pass through a chasm or a city? And if the proof ever sounded like a freight train rumbling toward you, would you ready yourself for it or just try to get across the street before the intersection is blocked for another ten minutes? And why look for it when it’s nowhere to be found? His mind is somewhere near just that question (near but not in words) as he drags a widdled pencil across a page, the graphite tracing out a curve that cuts from the already present origin on the page out and up the cartesian plane. Same old logarithm, Gene thinks as he watches the curve pass through an inversion where the change in length will forever be greater than the change in height, and his mark drags off to the edge of the paper. He knows the line will keep going and going, long after the pencil has been worn down to a nub, and even long after he is gone. The line, like the train, like the approach to proof, never stops. It never ever stops, not even long enough to let you hop on. So he just draws the line as far as it will go and takes an abstract shortcut, labeling the x-axis “Life” and the y-axis, “Truth.”

From the Thread: A Field Guide to the Socially Inept

Tags: Gene Copeland : Louisville

“Gooooood morning.”

Enwrapped in the overcast sky, enwrapped in the eulogy of the low light of his room, Allen rubs his eyes. He isn’t speaking to anyone—just remarking on the lateness of his waking: 11:36am. Days like this one keep you in bed. An errant memory of Jodie laughing at his sarcasm comes to him and he still sighs shyly. He was never used to being the center of anyone’s attention but she shown spotlights of flirtation and joy at him, always leaving him overwhelmed. Producing an audible groan and then forced to laugh at his sloth, Allen rolls himself over to cooler parts of the sheets. His clock’s red digits buzz like guilt in his face and Allen looks to them for pity. Perhaps someone would be so kind as to blow a fuse or cut the power?

From the Thread: A Low Cloud Reflex, The Library