Jake Goldman Will Throw You Into A Volcano

Right, so a parabola, a sin-wave and cosine walk into a bar…

…And everyone starts FREAKING the fuck out because this bar is just a regular neighborhood bar in San Antonio, and they don’t even let dogs in–nothing personal, it’s just a health code thing. In fact, one of the regular patrons Mary (who is absolutely tanked) will remark:

“Oh, I see – trigonometric functions can come into this shit-hole but I can’t bring in my cockerspaniel. Where’s the justice?  I’ll tell you where: all those toilets in the back.” (NOTE: Larry, another regular at this bar is a plumber that just got laid off, so to exact revenge on his former employer, he’s been stealing toilets from houses, using the company van he has yet to return, and stacking them up in the back room of the bar. The bar owner plans to sell these back to all the homes from which they were stolen at a PREMIUM. The thing Mary said, I’m not so sure what she means.  I guess what she’s trying to say is all the justice was FLUSHED down those toilets in the back.  Only kind of makes sense, Mary.  I know, I know–you’ve been drinking all afternoon.  You’re forgiven, but that probably won’t fly at your job, which is Chief Metaphor Officer at the San Antonio Express, which is an imaginary newspaper, so I guess it doesn’t really matter. Mary is absolutely, legitimately insane, by the way.)

Anyway, after everyone died, the parabola, sine, cosine and tangent curves were nowhere to be found because as it turned out, everyone in the bar was on acid.

The bartender just shrugs and says “We don’t serve your kind here,” to no one in pariticular.

In short, I am a frustrated writer.

During the day, I work for a company that plays music videos on television. Sometimes, big-time musicians come in and answer some questions like “If you were a salad, what kind of salad would you be?”  My job is to capture footage onto a computer, and then tell a producer that the footage is ready for them to view. And then they edit it into a piece and I become invisible.  I know.

Usually, I just say “Okay, it’s done,” in an email response to their request.  Well, I’m getting tired and also going insane, so I’ve decided to get creative with it.

This will be the first in a series of these.  Shh.

To: Jake

From: Producer

Hey Jake, can you please encode three Usher videos for me?  Thanks!

-Producer

From: Jake

To: Producer

Usher tapes are finished.

The world rejoices.

The files transfer to your desktops.

Files are transferred.

Pieces are cut, put on the television.

A small child living in Providence realizes after watching it on TV: “I want to be the next Usher.  That’s me.”

He takes dancing lessons, singing lessons too, really hones his craft.  His mother dreams of penthouses and Jaguars — not the cars; actual, real Jaguars.

ABC decides to bring back Star Search, for one year only, and he auditions, makes it to the finals, but he loses to a kid that juggles chainsaws and he’s crushed.

He goes back to his DVR where, all these years, he’s saved that Usher piece, and the last three episodes of Everybody Loves Raymond. (Because, you know “Usher Raymond.” This kid isn’t very smart).

He watches it over and over, saddened by the fact that he may never be Usher.  But, he could still–at the very least– meet Usher, couldn’t he?  He devises a plan.

And so, he moves to the big city, gets a low-level production job at a music television company.

For weeks, Usher doesn’t show, keeps canceling.  This young kid, now a man, spends his free time in the company kitchen sipping sodas, looking for leftovers.  He finds a half-eaten Reuben sandwich in the crisper drawer.  He looks around the corner, to make sure no one is watching.  No name on the tin-foil – that sandwich is free-game.  He bites down, the kid, and closes his eyes.  The sweet mixture of sloppy slaw and pristine pastrami dance sambas across his tongue.  He starts to dance, first a little hip-shake, a turn on his heel, and into the moon-walk.

He looks up, and leaning in the doorway, there is Usher, now grey-haired and smiling.  The kid, swallows hard and stares.

“Go on,” Usher says.  “Go on.”

And he does.  As we all do.

“Hmm, interesting,” says Usher.  ”I think I’d be a Cobb.”