Neither, Nor

I was annoyed by the Supreme Court’s ruling allowing corporate sponsorship in politics, so I wrote this tonight.  It is fiction:

“I stepped slowly from behind my home desk, trying to counteract the beat in my heart, which was faster than normal.  My skin was studded with goosebumps, which I quickly stifled with in the warmth of the shower, allowing the steam to open my lungs at will, my brachia singing from deep within a song that I did not know.

With my Gillette I shaved the remains of the day previous from my face, dressed in the Levis, Alfani, and my favorite Gap, which was white.  I tucked my LG into my Levis and stepped into a pair of Rockports, and then shoved off in my Toyota, which was white.  I whistled to the radio, to The Black Eyed Peas, who are a band, as I inched forward at approximately 40 miles per hour on the main road.  Thankfully, when driving on the highways surrounding the city, if one avoids the urge to change lanes – that futile little urge that only worsens traffic, despite notions that might dictate otherwise – one needn’t crane one’s neck or even change focus from the straight ahead.  Ours was designed in such a way where you could land an airplane, a road in a line so unmolested by direction that one could secure the steer with a knee and work on a proposal without looking forward, were there no Fords or Chryslers or Jeeps to be concerned with hitting.

Tonight the floodlight glanced off the billboards, which, set like arrows urging you forward, lended the city a most colorful glow.  As a testament to the remarkable work of the city’s architects, the citizenry, in their Brooks Brothers or their Nikes, (dependant on the time of the day) mercifully kept to the designated pedestrian zone.  I had timed it to where, once downtown, if I kept at a steady pace of 33 miles per hour, I would rarely, if ever, need to heed a stoplight, not that it mattered this particular evening.  My heart continued to beat with great rapidity, something I indebted to a sort of nervousness, perhaps excitement, and even if I was thirty minutes early, I kept checking my Citizen, as if its tics might somehow speed beyond my control.

I arrived before her tenement residence with twenty-four minutes to spare, so I sat in the Toyota and looked at the windshield.  After six minutes, my eye caught the Seven-Eleven down the street and I panicked, but was calmed in opening my glove box to find ample supply of 1-800 Flowers, which were white silk, and Fannie Maes, which were truffles, both ready to be purposed.  Again, around 14 or 15 minutes into the time I spent sitting in the Toyota, I worried when my eye passed over the Target, wondering if I should have perhaps worn a tie, but then I looked down to find that I was, and it was a Jerry Garcia, Limited Edition, at that.  I remarked, reverently, the process involved in its selection, as surely it would reflect my true nature as a real spirit, but would do so in necktie form, so as not to raise any concern over responsibility.  It was a grand compromise of virtue.

When it was three minutes before six-thirty, I checked my LG for the chance of a last-minute change of plan, which did not occur, left my Toyota with my gifts, locking it remotely with my key fob, and marched gallantly toward her building.  I buzzed the apartment number she had listed on my Post-It, answered with, “it’s me,” and almost melded with the elevator as if I had used it regularly, which I had not.

I got to the door, handed to her the gift items with an appropriate amount of toothsmile, and kissed at the air with my lips as our cheeks touched, which I thought, if you’ll excuse the pun, was a nice “touch” in itself.

She invited me into her apartment and showed me around, but it smelled of something sweet and unidentifiable, and I asked if we could leave.  It was five minutes before I had intended to do so, and I noted optimistically and with great adaptability that it would afford us a more leisurely stroll from the Toyota to The Cheesecake Factory.  I even allowed us a stoplight en route, which functioned not only to allow us to discuss the temperature outdoors, which was sixty-four degree Fahrenheit, but also so as not to wisen her to my successful driving formula, which might have been overwhelming in its efficacy.

We arrived at The Cheesecake Factory at 6:59, and I apologized to the hostess for our careless spontaneity, who said, “right this way,” without further protest, and showed us to our reserved seats nearest the thermostat.  They handed us our menus and I smiled again, for the second time, in remembering that I now had my new Visa Platinum to brandish, the smile that, in added bonus, she interpreted as directed at her, warranting a smile in return.  So far, the evening was a grand success.

Before conversation could begin we decided what we were to order, as I like to do, but really only she, as I knew what I was to order, which was the Chicken Madeira.  She asked me what I was to order and I said, “you’ll see,” which I think added to the excitement of the situation.  The server came over and asked us if we had dined at The Cheesecake Factory previously, to which I responded in the affirmative on behalf of both of us, taking control, which I think she appreciated.  She ordered the Pasta da Vinci, which featured the Madeira wine sauce, and I noted as being one undeniable thing we had in common, but then she ordered the Jack Daniels Whiskey Sour, which concerned me.

When the server had departed in possession of our intended items to be consumed, I immediately implored into her selection of drink.  I ordered a Fiji Natural Artesian Water.  She said that she enjoyed it with her pasta, which seemed a little dubious at first, but which I also allowed as a reasonable excuse, as a reasonable person.  Then, she began to describe herself.  She was a female, she listened to The Black Eyed Peas and watched Two and a Half Men, and I thought I was falling in love with her facial structure, but then she described herself as an “artist”, and I spit onto the floor into the center of a large mauve tile.  When I calmly investigated further into her artistic pursuits, she said she worked in television, and I breathed a sigh of relief, and told her so.  She laughed in awe, and touched my hand, and we had a wonderful moment that consisted of love and like-mindedness.  She commented on my Citizen and I said it was an Eco-Drive and was “green”, and as an artist she appreciated that.  I was dating an artist!  I decided that I appreciated this, was thankful for my fortuitous choice of necktie, and in retribution, complimented her breasts, which were large.

After we ate dinner, which went accordingly, we talked for ten more minutes before my LG alarm sounded, signifying the end of our date.  Of course, I noted in her eyes her appreciation for my new Visa Platinum, which was reflected in those of the server just the same.  The dinner had been as successful as I had intended it to be.

We had a very romantic and leisurely stroll back to the Toyota, and I commented on the new Walgreens sign; she retorted of its superiority to the design scheme of Rite-Aid, and we shared in a laugh.  I asked her a trick question, if she preferred Barnes & Noble or B. Dalton, and she said neither, nor, and we kissed, no saliva.

Later, I asked her to marry me with a Zales, and we bought a home in Shady Hills, on a cul-de-sac, with Countrywide Mortgage.  We honeymooned on a Disney Cruise to the Mediterranean and saw The David and the Sistine Chapel and the Eiffel Tower, which is in France, and then I put my penis into her vagina and out came two babies, a boy and a girl, which we gave different names.  He liked playing baseball and she wanted to be a fashion designer.

One day I got cancer, and I died, so I don’t know what happened after that.”

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~ by nearhelsinki on January 25, 2010.

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