Thursday, May 26, 2011

Steve and Lefty (pt. 1)

     Mick returns to writing short fiction in this much less symbolic yet not any less weird story about a man and his unwilling companion. I don't know why I went third person, and have since abandoned it. I don't know how long this is going to be, as I don't even know what the heck is going on in the story either. Just read it.

     Hello. My name is Steven, and I have a lot of problems. I’m sure you are thinking “Hey buddy, we’ve all got problems,” and you’re right, but I’m willing to bet that my problems are worse than yours. For example, take legs. Now, I have two firmly attached to my body, and we’ll get to those problems later. However, I also have two extra legs now lying in my kitchen, which, as you can guess, is quite a large problem. The biggest problem is that they aren’t attached to anyone, and I’ll be damned if I know just whose they are.
      Now, your commute might be an hour long or perhaps you only have one dismembered, ownerless leg in your home, but I’m willing to bet my problems are worse than yours.
      A second problem I have about legs is that since I was a boy, my knees have creaked and popped like an old barn that is always threatening to tip over. This is a might less problematic than the situation currently residing in my kitchen.
      The third and final problem about legs I have is that I only control one of mine. Now, the other works just fine, but shortly after I discovered my knee-cracking problem I began slowly losing the ability to command just what Ol’ Lefty was up to. No more carefree runs through the park, and eventually standing for too long became an exercise in concentration. There was nothing wrong with the muscles, and in fact, those in my now-totally-uncontrollable left leg are slightly in more shape. I’m almost jealous of his muscle tone.
       All of these problems with several pairs of legs would be enough to reduce a normal man to hysterics, but fate had elected to dump on me like I was some sort of elementary school urinal. The condition that started in my lower extremities had spread to my left arm about four months after I had graduated high school. I had crossed the stage in a wheelchair, to a roar of applause, mostly because I had told everyone I had lost temporary use of my legs from snowboarding into a large rock.
       I live in Arizona and always have. I don’t know why those people believed me. I’m not surprised, however, as I’m far from smart yet still graduated near the top of my class. Not bragging, or anything, just trying to explain a little more background. I’ll move on from this hole I’m digging.
       My entire left side below the neck is now out of my control. Whatever entity does control the limbs is slowly working its way up my body. I don’t say this to scare you. I do not believe that the owner of half of my body is evil or dangerous in any way, and the connection to the devil inherent in calling him “Ol’ Lefty” is an unfortunate consequence of my own lack of imaginative nick-names. This being said, the pair of legs still currently in my kitchen made me have my doubts.
      Now, I’ve been doing things towards fixing this problem while you’ve been reading, don’t you worry. Of course, until about the time I started blabbering on about my high school, my biggest activity consisted of starting at the legs, mouth agape. Thankfully, Lefty reached up and closed my mouth for me. Although he doesn’t control my mouth or my brain, I have gone deaf in one ear, and he has knowledge about the positioning of the body he shares. Also he sees through my eyes without controlling them. I’m sure it’s very frustrating, like watching somebody else play a first person video game.
      “Thanks,” I said quietly. I talk to Lefty. Don’t look at me like that, he’s quite honestly as close to a separate person as you can get.
       He is a male. I asked him. He pointed at my (our?) junk.
       I’ve since quit certain… habits since he arrived. He seems not to like it. Try to put yourself in his position.
       Of course, thanks to my condition, dating has become quite impossible. ‘Hi, I’m Steven. Pleased to meet you. Oh, and this half of my body is Lefty. Say hi. Give a wave.’ That’s not going to work very well. Not to mention the problems in shaking hands.
       I’m sorry, I’m rambling. I hope you understand. This part takes quite a bit of explanation, and frankly, I’m a little out of sorts thanks to those legs in my kitchen. I hate to beat a dead horse, but they were still there, and I had yet to deal with them. I mean, Lefty did shut my mouth and point to the paper towels, and we did walk over there to get them, but that was about it.
       I looked down to decide which part to clean, and to my surprise, there wasn’t anything. No blood, no mess, no anything staining the floors. It surprised Lefty too. The paper towels fell out of his hand.
            “What the heck is going on?” I uttered to a superficially empty house. Lefty didn’t know, and shrugged his shoulder. This is a question I have asked often, and just as often, Lefty doesn’t have an answer. Even if he did know, he can’t talk, and, hilariously, he is right handed, like me. You should see him try to write, it’s awful. Sometimes he leaves me notes when I’m not looking. Funny guy.
       Funny half a body.
       Funny life.

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