Ryan's Room

Chapter  1

As he fumbled with the cord, another came loose from him. He closed his eyes and sat there. No movement but the eyelids and the slightest possible neck droop.

Eyes so dry. Filmy and itchy and sore. Unbreathable hot air from the space heater at his feet. Everything would be impossible.

Chapter 2

Was there some shaking? Probably. Possibly not. Possibly not even that. Firefox prevented a pop up.

"What the fuck?" Sexy Reggie, the yellow USB cord, thought.

Belongy, a torn plastic seal from a Milk Thistle bottle, was interested in how Ryan's job was going. Did he have a bad day or a good day? Belongy decided neither.

Chapter 3

Mike Vector, a CVS receipt from 11-2-10 was half asleep when he heard
the beeping of some flash game. The only games Mike got into were flash games, and he wished he'd get shuffled to the front of the open drawer so he
could see some of it.

"Awwwwww", went DMDelta_97, a tiny piece of crust on a spoon.

He had a real nasally Tony Danza inflection, an almost perfectly bad
imitation and no one much cared for him.

Ryan tried to muster some fake enthusiasm in an online message. It seemed legitimate.

Chapter 4

"I know he ain't gonna brush his teeth," Exchequer, the resin stained end of a bent coat hanger, grumbled. Followed by a text from Charles Smith, the bent up Bulls 2010-11 pocket schedule.

"I can't read it. What does it say?"

"LOL"

"The message, or are you doing that now?"

"The message said ROFLMAO."

"Laughing your ass off about hygenie?" He was always sending bullshit texts.

Ryan moved the mostly clean clothes off his bed and turned the light
off (or vice versa).

"Gnight chall," said Old Man Fuss N Feather, a remnant of a fragment thought about the Eazy-E/Dre feud, as he floated into the drapes.

Chapter 5

Nothing. And then "GOOD LUCK!" from Ekna, a cork screwed onto an opener, with strange forcefulness. Ekna loved to conversate convivially with regular folk. About popular shows, in a soft, somewhat mushed voice with bland straight down the middle opinions. It almost couldn't even be heard, or processed, catching one's attention only at the end of his statements when he would laugh quickly at his own weak jokes. In a "just kidding" attempt to appease for some reason, like he'd gone too far. It was sickening.

Still, he was very nice and hard to dislike one on one. Always the first to bless a sneeze. Always.

"FAGGOT!" yelled L'il Vinegah, a platic Bud Light pitcher 3/4th's full of week old pee.

Chapter 6

Ekna is a girl's name. Khailya (not present) isn't? Southern Gentleman my ass, Ryan glared up to the middle shelf at the "former military man". The greater the amount of urine, the more he sounded like a marble mouth. Or maybe that was someone else?

How was HE gonna get out of this one? How WAS he? Had he gone too far finally?!

Just let time (Upset Grr Grrr) work its magic and survive, as per usual. Make it through this day. He probably wasn't ruined, and the traps would untangle.

"BE CAREFUL!" Jetsy and Jools, all the glass shards on the carpet, prayed.
"TAKE CARE!"

Matt the RA, a temporary file, didn't like incidents, or where this was going. He was skittish and worried about the wrong things.

Chapter 7

"Wassa you talkin to me?" said Dirigeo, former bricklayer and bowler, an out of touch old Italian, and empty BC05 printer cartridge, to L'il Vinegah. He tended to personalize conversations that had nothing to do with him, and go on about how 'proud' his people were. "Mangiai macarona!"

"No one ever mentions that my people have pride," retorted Van Illa, the original wall color.

Chapter 8

"Internets!" yelled rbgwrbwe, the hiding nail clippers.

"HAHAHAHAHAAAHAAHA!!" laughed everyone.

Just as it started to die down, an even more uproarious cackling came from the back corner of the closet. "You know that's right!"

"oKAY?"

"Don't get it twisted now!"

Voices shouted amongst the laughing, and WOOing, and kheeeeehehee-keh-keh-heh-ing. Ryan started to tighten up. It made his head and neck sore, trying to think. It was impossible to block out, and became like a knife carving into him.

It kept going. It went on for a long, loong time.

He wished someone would sarcastically "Shhhhh"  them. That'd be rich as hell.

He didn't say anything, just kept hoping and waiting for it to be over.

Chapter 9

Space heater shot. There was a pop, then a puff of smoke came from where it was plugged in to the extension cord.

Right nearby, Andrew Brackman II, a People's Gas bill mailed 2/17/10 and unopened, was relieved. He could sense the heat coming from the connection when it was blaring. It made him anxious.

But he hated the room, and this puff of smoke "climax", the obvious pedestrian sexual symbolism of it all. He kind of wished it would burn down.

He made up names for the cord plug in, and the extension receptacle, and used that symbolism to make up sarcastic little vignettes for the hell of it.

The plug was black, the extension cord white. Gawd. Kumbaata and Camille.  Something like that. No, not Camille, something more Victorian. What was it? You could go on and on with the double meanings. Bah It was all stupid. This room was stupid. He knew it would get changed around, maybe even new carpet. Paint. He'd be long gone by then. Good. But not good enough to erase the regret that was his life here.

The female occupants (he couldn't recall ONE name) never lasted long. Eye roll. How DEEP!

Chapter 10

It was Akshaya, not Khailya, Ryan remembered finally. He never pretended to stare in his room, like he would often outside of it. He was always self-conscious when that happened, wondered WHY he was pretending to stare at something. It just happened automatically. Why not? Something to do. You had to look a certain way, hold yourself in a certain manner, with a purpose as you moved from place to place. A pretense of focus hid the complete lack of one, and made it easier.

You could just as easily lose yourself in the parade of nincompoops on 2 legs with their shirts and footwear and faces, look at their expressions, complexions, movements, souls, pores...and unravel quickly. He had enough practice to pull it off as long as necessary.

Sometimes Admiral Dennis aka "Old Gilligan", a sub-atomic particle, fake whistled.