Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
I parked beside a bright blue Jeep Wrangler today. As I closed my door and turned to walk away, I glanced into the car.
There, are their dash were small plastic ducks. I counted twelve, all neatly lined up.
It prompted me to smile as I walked away. I was happy for them. Not many people can be said to have their ducks in a row these days.
You gotta respect it when someone does.
Well, I suppose I would compare myself to common, lowly housefloofs. Basically, a floof is an animal, bird, fish, or reptile. A housefloof is then one of those critters living with humans, even if their accomodations aren’t an actual ‘house’.
I say that I’m a housefloof based on my observations of housefloofs residing with me. Those were cats and dogs. My typical housefloofs were creatures of comfort who enjoyed lazing in sunshine, periodically apparently thinking themselves into a doze. This is something which I also do, although I’ll often have a book in my hand and will read myself into a doze. I have seen animals with books, newspapers, and magazines; they enjoy sleeping on them. I’ve yet to witness any housefloof holding a book. I suppose they could be waiting until I’m not around to pick up a book. They do the same with my computer, logging on when I’m not using it, trying to order themselves things from the net. How else can some of the things delivered to our door be explained?
The other thing about housefloofs which I’ve noticed which cements my comparison to one of ’em is their interest in food. They can be sound asleep — or so convincingly pretending to be that I can’t tell they’re awake — when a can, bag, or refrigerator is opened. Then, pop! Their eyes open. They sit up and look up, orienting their senses with precision: “I hear food; there it is.” Some are so adept at this, they react to the sound, leap up, and dash to the food before awakening. I swear, one cat became so good at this whole thing that she picked up our intentions to get something to eat and was there to greet us when we entered the kitchen.
I can honestly say that I’m quite like those housefloofs. I hear the ‘frig open or a bag. Click; hello, what’s that noise? I seek out my other to see, “What are you eating? What do you have?” And like my housefloofs, I’ll sometimes try to surreptitiously seize a share and scurry away.
Sometimes, though, like the housefloofs, I’m disappointed by the result, and sulk away to resume my previous activity.
I read aloud.
“Hello, old man! If you’re reading this letter, then you made it: you’re 100 years old! Congratulations to you.
“Or, congratulations to me, I should say. I set you up for your success, right? Come on, give me credit. I’m the one who signed the contracts, took the money, made the payments.
“Yes, there are some downsides. You should be 100 years old but you’re probably not living on Earth. Part of the agreement, right? I have no idea which planet you ended up settling, either. That’s one reason why you’re getting a preserved paper letter. If you’re reading this, you remember all of this. It’ll be as real to you as it is to me. And you know all the details. Hell, biologically, you’re younger than me now, because they gave you a new body, assuming they lived up to their end of the agreement. You should now be 25 biologically, which, yes, you know. Yes, you’ll be another color; you won’t be white. Small price, right? They weren’t sure whether you would be blue or green. Said both of those were possible with our genes. Wish you could write me back and tell me.
“Hard to write this. I know things but you know them, too. But I write to think, to make sense of it all. I never expected the things to happen which did. The war. Getting frozen. Sent to storage in space, then returned to Earth. I mean, as you know, I know these things, but it’s all abstract to me. Happened to me but I wasn’t conscious of it. Not this version of — well, yeah, you know.”
I stopped reading then. I knew what the letter said. I just wrote it yesterday. Realizations were creeping up. I’m a slow thinker but I usually get there.
So I took in the shimmering individual standing before me. Gorgeous guy. Blue. Azure. Well built. So tall, his thick, glossy black hair brushed the room’s ceiling.
“You’re me,” I said. “But you don’t look anything like me.”
He snorted. “Yes, I know. I’ve seen myself and I see you now, along with the old photos of you. They gave me options to change my appearance and I took them.”
“I see.” I smiled.
“I mean, wouldn’t you?”
“I probably would. Well, I did, because you’re me and…anyway. So, you made it. I made it. We made it.”
“Oh, yes. It’s quite a future, so improved over this. And you wanted to know what color we’d be, so….” He shrugged.
“You came back to show me.”
He grinned. “Bingo. Well, mostly. I also came back to thank you.”
Stepping forward, he offered me his huge hand. “I don’t want to get mushy, but thank you. Thank you for having the fortitude to persevere. Thank you for the decisions you made and supporting the science. Thank you for trusting it.”
Setting the letter I’d written to my hundred-yead-old self onto the desk, I stood and shook his hand. “You’re welcome.”
My first name is Michael. My middle name is Wayne.
But that isn’t what was planned.
“Why did you name me Michael Wayne?” I asked Mom. I was looking for a story about why those names were selected, thinking something inspired my name.”
“I didn’t,” Mom said. “Your father did.”
“What?”
“I’d just given birth and I was out of it. He filled out the paperwork and named you. That’s not what I wanted.”
“What did you want?”
“You were supposed to be Dwayne Richard.”
“Dwayne Richard? Why?” And also, “Rick’s name is Richard Dwayne.” That seemed like a weird part of the puzzle. Richard Dwayne is my cousin, born a month before me.
Mom nodded. “I told your Aunt Jean that I wanted to name you Dwayne Richard. She stole it and named her son Richard Dwayne.”
Wild. I later asked Dad, “Why’d you name me Michael Wayne?”
“I didn’t.”
“Mom said you did.”
“I named you what she told me to.”
“That’s not what she said.”
“She probably doesn’t remember. She was pretty out of it. Listen, you know your mother. Do you really think I wouldn’t do exactly what she told me to do?”
I never got any satisfying reason for why my middle or first name was chosen. It’s just is what it is.
A man entered the coffee shop. Not paying much attention to him, I don’t know how old he might be.
A song was playing on the speakers: “Dancing Queen” by ABBA.
The man said to the baristas, “You know this song? I know it from Vietnam. I’d heard this song when we were surrounded by Viet Cong. Oh, man, what a nightmare.”
My mind did a little tumble as the guy hastened back out of the door. I pulled up Wikipedia to confirm what I was thinking: the Vietnam War ended in April of 1975.
“Dancing Queen” wasn’t released until August of 1976.
No way he heard that song when he was fighting in the Vietnam War.
Questions followed in my head. Was he deliberately lying, just creating something for part of a fake persona to gain attention, or had something screwed with his memory? Maybe he was just confusing songs…
Hard to say. These things happen to us. Part of being human.
It seems to me that it’s strange to go to a coffee shop, plug in a game, and sit there, playing a few hours. I mean, I can see sitting there reading a book. That makes complete sense, as does doing homework and studying. I’m puzzled by those who come in, plug in, and watch movies or videos for hours. Of course, I also know what an energy suck that games, movies, and videos can be.
Then again, others probably find it strange for me to go to a coffee shop less than two miles from home, set up a computer and then spend hours there in pursuit of writing. I know from riding others’ blogs that some people find it pretentious.
I defend my writing with extenuating circumstances. Bet the rest can make the same defense. Bottom line, it’s all just as legitimate, normal, and natural in today’s tech world, so just get over it, boomer.
My wife was stewing. “Papi changed his routine today. For some reason, he suddenly wanted outside at 4:22, more than two hours before his usual time. I don’t know what’s going on but there he was, scratching on the door, yipping at me because he couldn’t wake you up.”
Between us, I had been awakened but ignored the floofcas Papi was causing because I didn’t want to get up.
I thought of the reasons why Papi the ginger blade, aka Butter Butt, changed his hours. May have been a bowel movement thing. Papi prefers to use the outdoors as his toilet, frequenting the area by the fence behind the bushes.
But, him being a cat, perhaps he heard noises outside and felt a need to investigate. Conversely, maybe he realized the noises were coming from inside the house and decided that the outside was safer.
Other ideas are possible. Flooflight savings time may have kicked in. From what I understand from floofotologists, floofs are notoriously independent about FST. Each decides when they’ll switch over — or if they won’t switch at all. Often, though, once one floof changes to FST, other housefloofs do the same. After all they don’t want to miss out by falling an hour behind their floofmate, cause food. They’d rather get up an hour early rather than missing out on food.
I can respect that.
It was the beginning of the end the moment I was born but before the end was finalized, I was required to travel and seek answers, although I don’t think I ever understood the question.
Michael Seidel, writer 