FireVaney

Do you ever listen to your eyeballs as they roll in their sockets? I discovered this sound only recently. It terrified me. I never wanted to move my eyes again. You think something’s wrong. You shouldn’t be hearing this. Perhaps your sockets require some sort of oil change. Like sex, is this yet something else mommy and daddy failed to adequately explain? That every few decades you might need to replace your eye lubricant? If so, is it an in-patient or an out-patient procedure? Will insurance cover it? Does it hurt? Will it affect your sight? And if it’s not done, will your eyes eventually freeze and stare in one direction? Can you imagine that? Everyone looking at you while your eyes are permanently lodged up, down, or askant?  “Hey!” snaps every woman you talk to, “I’m up here!”  “I know,” you plead, “but my eyes are stuck!”  They’ll slap you anyway.  And while we’re on the subject of corporeal embarrassments… When you’re really anxious or scared do you ever start...

11/24/96:  You think a triple shot of espresso is stimulating? Pour a can of Jolt over a bowl of Fruity Pebbles. The mere thought bulges the eyes, eh? The trick is to do it by mistake. Intoxication helps. Are you a man? If so, do you ever leave home with a dollop of shaving cream hanging off the lobe of an ear? I don’t mean on purpose. You catch glances from fellow pedestrians as you stride toward the train. You assume you’re having a good hair day. But then you hear a little girl whisper, “Mommy, is that man foaming at the ear?” Instead of taking the hint, you rationalize that this kid is talking about the Mighty Morphin Power Ranger toy in her twin brother’s hand. You forget that denial can eclipse the sun. On the train, an attractive woman takes the seat opposite yours. She looks at you and smiles. What with your good hair, could this be your lucky day? Has your natural animal magnetism reached its zenith? Everything is possible in this moment. Her smile is a gift. At last, have...

 11/19/1996: You wouldn’t believe the truth. That’s why we’ve got to bedizen it with special effects, million dollar marketing campaigns, and celebrity endorsements. Volcanoes are little more than the acne of the earth. When one erupts, it’s just God giving a good squeeze. Earthquakes happen when the world has a heart attack. That is unless they’re the result of sphere-fisted blackbelts whacking their hands against the sidewalk. Typhoons are earthly sneezes. An avalanche is a runny nose. A blizzard is a dandruff problem. A parking lot is a bald spot. A lake is water retention. It is. People are the lice of the planet, but lice with character. (And, no, I don’t mind offending lice with that last remark. Methinks lice would appreciate the comparison. If you can provide evidence that one single louse feels differently, I will consider modifying my position.) My room is so messy, it’s like a Toys “R” Us exploded. * I toot the horn because it’s there. There needs be no motivation other...

 11/19/1996; 11:27 A.M. (APPROX.); ARABICA LOVE CAFÉ: Today I watched a man chop a block of ice in half with his bare hand. The block, in its original form, had been the size of a thick phone book—nay, three thick phone books—nay, three thick phone books and a hardcover edition of Webster’s 1957 New International Dictionary, 2nd Edition, Unabridged. I tell you it was thick, this block. The man who halved said block of said size was unharmed. Clearly, the Force was strong with this one. The decision to split the ice block was, seemingly, unpremeditated. You might say the block invited, lured, summoned his hand. If it was lonely, this block, then it was lonely no more, for now it had a twin. It had become twins. Why this block of ice was lying on the counter beside the cash register in the first place remains, at this writing, a mystery. My question to Sir Ice Slasher was not, “Why?” No, instead I asked, “How?”  “I clear my mind,” he told me, “and create an invisible sphere arou...

ALSO ON NOVEMBER 18, 1996 : Lately, FireVaney’s had the afternoons off. He makes plans—detailed plans, practical plans, ambitious plans—but ends up sleeping the rest of the daylight away. Waking from a long afternoon nap feels like somebody’s splashed the back of his head with a bucketful of mostly melted ice. A depressive fog settles over and seeps into his matter—which was gray to begin with. Lying there, sofa-sprawled, he tells himself, aloud, to heed the words of Pascal: “All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.” There, on his back, he repeats the aforementioned quote louder and louder until he’s shouting it up at his cracked ceiling. FireVaney feels bad for letting Pascal down. Aside from not sitting quietly, simply sitting up seems something of a challenge.  FireVaney can’t finish anything he begins, unless it’s a pizza. He starts all these projects—things that will propel him out of the world of professional cup stamping and into ...

NOVEMBER 18, 1996 ; TWENTY-FIVE-ISH MILES NORTH OF CHICAGO, IL: I live in a second story walk-in closet with a window and a toilet. The window and the toilet are at opposite ends of the space. Is it ironic that there’s nowhere to hang clothes? And, no, that’s not a phone booth next to the toilet, it’s a shower stall. There’s a “kitchenette,” too. It’s more “ette” than “kitchen.” It’s an all-in-one sink / stovetop / minifridge. If apartments got any narrower than this one, you wouldn’t be able to sleep on your back. I think of it as a walled-in Winnebago wannabe. The floor holds up the ceiling of Arabica Love. (Unless the ceiling of Arabica Love holds up the floor.) Below your feet you can hear the hiss and scream of a steam wand frothing milk; you can hear the grinding of coffee beans; you can even hear old man Holstein shout, “You call this a bagel?” And he still comes in every day—not to buy a bagel, but to complain about it. (To be clear, he buys the bagel and, in so doing, he purc...

NOVEMBER 17, 1996; CHICAGO, IL: I’d like to ask this girl out. But there’s a problem. She’s with this group. They like to stop street traffic and commuters on subway platforms during rush hour. They’re out there to spread “The Way to God.” I admire the effort. It takes pluck to slow down people who do not want to stick around. This girl, though, she’d correct me. “Not pluck,” she’d say, “faith.” And that’s great. Only there’s one little snag. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but I don’t share her faith. I’m supposed to be Jewish. Just between you and me, I’d prefer to be Jedi. I’m not trying to convert you or anything, but the Force is real. I know what you’re thinking. It’s not like you see in the movies, though. Hollywood tends to glamorize. The real Force isn’t about rearranging the furniture by closing your eyes, sporting a shit squeezing face, and waving your fingers in the air. No, on this planet, the real Force is more about… charisma. As far as my family is concerned,...