remind myself that I’m trying to learn something about Hiskott from this guy, just as he’s trying to learn something from me. “What decision?”
“That is classified information. Can you tell me exactly where Norris Hiskott might be in Harmony Corner?”
Although my anger is subsiding, I’ve still got some attitude, so I say, “That is classified information. Another reason I don’t like you is you have no social skills.”
He broods about that while I examine the interesting console, which, I’ve got to tell you, appears complicated enough to control the entire planet’s weather.
Then he says, “You are correct. I have no social skills.”
“Well, at least you can admit shortcomings.”
He’s silent for maybe half a minute, and though I throw switches and push some buttons on theconsole, the stupid thing remains dark and silent, so I probably haven’t destroyed Topeka with a tornado.
“Can you?” he asks.
“Can I what?
“Can you admit shortcomings?”
“My neck’s too long.”
“Your neck is too long for what?”
“For a neck. If you must know, I don’t much like my ears, either.”
“What is wrong with your ears?”
“Everything.”
“Can you hear with your ears?”
“Well, I don’t hear with my feet.”
Again he’s silent. Silence is his frequent refuge, but it’s seldom ever mine.
No cameras are obvious, but I’m sure he can see me. To test him, using a finger, I bore into my nostrils with a way-disgusting, almost erotic pleasure. If I could find something in there, I would really gross him out, but unfortunately there’s no mother lode.
He says, “Your ears and neck are not shortcomings as long as they function properly. However, I have identified a shortcoming regarding your social skills.”
“If you mean I mine for boogers, that’s just part of my ethnic heritage. You can’t criticize someone’s ethnic heritage.”
“What are boogers?”
I stop excavating my nose and try to wither him with a sigh that implies he’s tedious. “Everyone knows what boogers are. Kings and presidents and movie stars know what boogers are.”
“I am not a king, a president, or a movie star. The shortcoming in your social skills that I have identified is this: Jolie Ann Harmony, you are sarcastic. You are a wise-ass child.”
“That’s not a shortcoming. That’s a defense mechanism.”
“A defense mechanism against whom?”
“Against everyone.”
“Defense implies conflict, war. Do you mean to say that you are at war with everyone?”
“Not everyone. Not everyone all the time. But you just never know about people, do you? Especially strange people like you.”
“I must make two points.”
“If you must.”
“First, I am not strange. A strange thing is one difficult to explain, but I am easily explained. A strange thing is something that was previously unknown in either fact or cause, but I am well known to many.”
“You aren’t known to me. What’s your second point?”
“I am not people. I am not a person. Therefore, you are not at war with me and need not resort to wise-ass sarcasm. I am not human.”
SIXTEEN
I don’t like spectacles other than the most gentle displays of nature, such as color-splashed sunsets, and the more frivolous works of humanity, like fireworks. Otherwise spectacle is always twined with damage and nearly always with loss, the former partial and perhaps repairable, but the latter absolute and beyond recovery. We’ve lost so much in this world that every new loss, whether large or small, seems to be a potentially breaking weight on the already swayed back of civilization.
Nevertheless, I’m riveted by the massive truck, a ProStar+, shuddering across the brink of the first slope, angling down so sharply that for a moment it appears about to tip forward, stand on end, and slam onto its back. But quickly it rights itself and rushes seaward as though an eighteen-wheeler cruising overland, breaking a trail through the tall wild
“That is classified information. Can you tell me exactly where Norris Hiskott might be in Harmony Corner?”
Although my anger is subsiding, I’ve still got some attitude, so I say, “That is classified information. Another reason I don’t like you is you have no social skills.”
He broods about that while I examine the interesting console, which, I’ve got to tell you, appears complicated enough to control the entire planet’s weather.
Then he says, “You are correct. I have no social skills.”
“Well, at least you can admit shortcomings.”
He’s silent for maybe half a minute, and though I throw switches and push some buttons on theconsole, the stupid thing remains dark and silent, so I probably haven’t destroyed Topeka with a tornado.
“Can you?” he asks.
“Can I what?
“Can you admit shortcomings?”
“My neck’s too long.”
“Your neck is too long for what?”
“For a neck. If you must know, I don’t much like my ears, either.”
“What is wrong with your ears?”
“Everything.”
“Can you hear with your ears?”
“Well, I don’t hear with my feet.”
Again he’s silent. Silence is his frequent refuge, but it’s seldom ever mine.
No cameras are obvious, but I’m sure he can see me. To test him, using a finger, I bore into my nostrils with a way-disgusting, almost erotic pleasure. If I could find something in there, I would really gross him out, but unfortunately there’s no mother lode.
He says, “Your ears and neck are not shortcomings as long as they function properly. However, I have identified a shortcoming regarding your social skills.”
“If you mean I mine for boogers, that’s just part of my ethnic heritage. You can’t criticize someone’s ethnic heritage.”
“What are boogers?”
I stop excavating my nose and try to wither him with a sigh that implies he’s tedious. “Everyone knows what boogers are. Kings and presidents and movie stars know what boogers are.”
“I am not a king, a president, or a movie star. The shortcoming in your social skills that I have identified is this: Jolie Ann Harmony, you are sarcastic. You are a wise-ass child.”
“That’s not a shortcoming. That’s a defense mechanism.”
“A defense mechanism against whom?”
“Against everyone.”
“Defense implies conflict, war. Do you mean to say that you are at war with everyone?”
“Not everyone. Not everyone all the time. But you just never know about people, do you? Especially strange people like you.”
“I must make two points.”
“If you must.”
“First, I am not strange. A strange thing is one difficult to explain, but I am easily explained. A strange thing is something that was previously unknown in either fact or cause, but I am well known to many.”
“You aren’t known to me. What’s your second point?”
“I am not people. I am not a person. Therefore, you are not at war with me and need not resort to wise-ass sarcasm. I am not human.”
SIXTEEN
I don’t like spectacles other than the most gentle displays of nature, such as color-splashed sunsets, and the more frivolous works of humanity, like fireworks. Otherwise spectacle is always twined with damage and nearly always with loss, the former partial and perhaps repairable, but the latter absolute and beyond recovery. We’ve lost so much in this world that every new loss, whether large or small, seems to be a potentially breaking weight on the already swayed back of civilization.
Nevertheless, I’m riveted by the massive truck, a ProStar+, shuddering across the brink of the first slope, angling down so sharply that for a moment it appears about to tip forward, stand on end, and slam onto its back. But quickly it rights itself and rushes seaward as though an eighteen-wheeler cruising overland, breaking a trail through the tall wild
Similar Books
