A dreary gray Monday morning, this third Monday in August. It was a gloomy weekend, tinged by the blues. Jimmy Chile dropping a bomb on Friday before leaving for the day made Saturday and Sunday collateral damage. More Saturday than Sunday.
I came home Friday night and within 10 minutes I was out of my clothes and doing laundry. It was the third weekend without Mike being around and it was OK on our end and Mike did not say it was like being in jail. That’s his usual line when he is told to stay home by his parole officer. When it’s a voluntary position, it’s not like prison, I reckon.
I have been at the fruit stand for 3 hours and have seen 2 people. That’s it. I’m not complaining but when I hear I should be more of a team player, it’s not easy when there is no one around to be a team player with.
Saturday was the day of the blues. I went to the supermarket with Bill and that was OK. He wanted to know what was going on. I mentioned Jimmy Chile, I mentioned that not going anywhere this summer was getting me down as it has been two summers in a row. He claimed he couldn’t afford it, but if he had let me know I could have done something and perhaps saved some extra money. But Bill does not like to talk about money or sex.
I was thinking about getting a haircut and did have an idea to get up early on Saturday to do just that. But I slept in instead, which was good. I keep catching my reflection and thinking I look like my brother Frank which is a bit unnerving. Frank’s widow Elaine is having a tough time with her house.
I spoke with Elaine last week and listened to her tale of woe. I plan on going out there, perhaps in a week or two. I have gone out there a few times already and my sister Annemarie was compelled to tell me I should go out there again. Elaine could have asked but she wouldn’t. And no one asks Brian and so Annemarie took it up herself to tell me what I should do, stamping my ticket for a guilt trip.
I don’t ask for much, I do enjoy my Sunday bike rides, it is good for the heart and mind and soul but apparently I should rearrange that for people who complain they never hear from me even if their phones have my number programmed into them should they ever have a need to call me.
Needless to say, I plan on going up the last Saturday in August. The next weekend is somewhat booked already and that depends on the weather.
Bill and I watched Project Hail Mary on Thursday. We both enjoyed it. We watched Gravity last Monday. It starred Sandra Bullock. It was good, and had me at the edge of my seat. In-between Gravity and Project Hail Mary, we finally got around to finish watching Hacks which we both enjoyed.
Annemarie texted me about it a few weeks ago. I thought we had finished it, but apparently we didn’t. Happy Days Are Here Again and Get Happy by Barbra Streisand & Judy Garland was the ending theme. Hacks involved making end of life decisions and that was also touched upon in Project Hail Mary.
Bill and I also enjoyed Brilliant Minds, ever so loosely based on Dr. Oliver Sacks books, placed in this modern era. That show was cancelled and so there was no closure following the final episode which definitely left us hanging, knowing that no one else would be picking up the show. At least Hacks gave us closure.
Last night we watched Merrily We Roll Along. It was good, and I suppose I will watch it again. Then we watched a documentary on the original Broadway cast in 1981 and how the show closed after 16 performances, greatly affecting the lives of these young people.
We had seen it before, and it seemed most apt after watching the latest version with Jonathan Groff, Daniel Radcliffe and Lindsey Mendez. Even though they are the three leads, it’s mostly about Franklin Sheppard played by Jonathan Groff.
At work I find myself missing Marcus and Jimmy Chile. Brian who has been filling in for the housekeeper is leaving Friday. Brian was bemoaning turning 33 in October. I am 30 years older than him.
A William S Burroughs Google Gemini essay rewrite
The standard Monday script—gray, third week of August, stale static in the air. Weekend dead on arrival. Collateral damage from the Friday bomb dropped by Jimmy Chile before he slipped out the door. Saturday bled out. Sunday followed suit.
I hit the apartment Friday, ten minutes out of the civilian rags and into the laundry machine routines. Third weekend without Mike. Voluntary confinement. When the parole officer pulls the strings, Mike calls it jail. When it’s self-inflicted, the control track shifts. Freedom of a sort, I reckon.
Three hours stationed at the fruit stand. Two control-group humans pass by. That’s the entire census. They broadcast directives through the ether: *Be a team player.* Hard to execute a group operation in a ghost frequency.
The Saturday blues set in like a viral transmission. Supermarket run with Bill. He wants the lowdown, the intelligence report. I lay out the Jimmy Chile payload. I tell him two consecutive summers trapped in the city zone is wearing the host thin. He pulls the empty-pockets defense. A cover story. Should’ve briefed me early; I could have reallocated funds, adjusted the budget matrix. But Bill operates on strict blackout protocols: no data exchange on cash, no data exchange on sex.
Considered a head-shave, an alteration of the external physical profile Saturday morning. Slept through the window instead. The mirror reflects a compromised identity—catching glimpses of brother Frank staring back through my eyes. Unnerving mimicry. Frank’s widow, Elaine, is struggling with structural collapse out in the suburbs. House falling apart, real estate decay.
I picked up her signal last week. Listened to the audio log of grievances. System demands a visitation in a week or two. I’ve made the run before, but sister Annemarie feels compelled to issue external directives. Elaine stays silent; Annemarie operates as the proxy control center, stamping tickets for the guilt engine. Nobody sends directives to Brian. Just me.
They want the Sunday bike ride canceled. Re-engineer my internal cardiac maintenance to accommodate targets who claim radio silence, while their personal communication units hold my code on speed-dial. I’m scheduled for the final Saturday run in August. Weather permitting.
Screen time acts as a temporary neural buffer. Thursday: *Project Hail Mary* with Bill. Monday: *Gravity*, Sandra Bullock suspended in zero-G, keeping the central nervous system wired to the chair. In between, we closed out the *Hacks* tape. Annemarie sent a text ping about it weeks ago—I thought the file was complete, but the log was open. Streisand and Garland singing “Get Happy” over the terminal credits. End-of-life termination protocols, a thematic crossover shared with the space transmission.
Then *Brilliant Minds*, the Oliver Sacks rewrite. Modern update, signal cut off by the network censors. Cancelled mid-stream. No resolution, no landing sequence, no other station picking up the broadcast. Hanging in the dead channel. *Hacks* at least terminated its program properly.
Last night: *Merrily We Roll Along*. Followed by the 1981 archive footage—sixteen performances before the curtain came down, crushing the young operatives involved. We watched the modern reboot with Groff, Radcliffe, and Mendez, but the core terminal remains Franklin Shepard. The loop running backward.
Back at the station, the ghost personnel linger. I miss Marcus. I miss Jimmy Chile. Brian—currently filling the housekeeping vacuum—punches out for good on Friday. He’s running a panic routine about turning 33 in October. I look at his file, then look at mine. Thirty years ahead on the biological clock, watching the young agents worry about the inevitable drift.