whitman and fede were playing their usual afternoon game of mah-jongg. “that movie last night,” fede had popped out of concentrating on the table, “that movie was damn spooky, it was all kindsa messed up!” “was it?” whitman seemed particularly intent on keeping his focus on the game. “yeah, it was just too real.”
without even a glance upward, whitman responded “people are crazy these days.” he then took a long drag from a cigarette that appeared to be just ash and, placing a bright orange tile onto the pile, added, “who’s to know where even to begin.”
jenny checked the panel and was astonished to see that it was 3:40pm. she tried to remember why she had left work so early. she had planned, assumed, really, that she’d be in for the long haul again tonight, as usual, probably clocking out around ten. with her head spinning in an attempt at understanding what she was doing, her pontiac had slowed to a crawl, and she instinctively flicked the blinker left and readied to make the turn onto maple drive; her small red-bricked house sat just a few meters beyond the cul-de-sac at which the short residential road came to an end.
when it finally dawned on her, jenny had been home only a few short minutes. at first she felt a few prickles of apprehension. before long, she began to feel right ready, awake and aware. things were definitely not normal here in normalton. “this would not be subtle, of course,” she thought, “and why should it be?!” the rows of tulips that ran adjacent to the walkway to her front door, to which every weekend since early february she had gotten down on knees to attend, smothering each plant with love and want, were distinctly ablaze. nothing else but the tulips were on fire. the afternoon sky was the color of a turnip and the sun, which could be seen with ease on its perch upon and beyond the purple sky, had sprouted long, garish petals, as if the sun itself were a bloom awaiting its blaze.
the purple sun that’s sprouted four long, billowing petals that glow neon green at north, south, east and west or noon, 3pm, 6pm, 9pm and midnight, is now, therefore, more recognizably a colorful “x” or a cross, appeared for some reason violently oversized for something as faraway as sky and sun and space. this new celestial sphincter, and by now this should come as no surprise, begins to bellow: a smoothly booming baritone voice, coming from what used to be the sun, with language most easily understood by all, speaks now, at great length, of diminishing returns. a sermon about investments that dry up and wither away is being delivered by this huge new celestial being to the people of normalton, to the people of earth.
several hours later, well into the night of diminished returns and the end of normalcy as it was once comfortably known, whitman arrives home, parks in the cul-de-sac at a precise 90 degree angle against maple drive, walks through the corridor of flaming tulips and into the front door of his home, where his wife jenny sits facing the living room window as if it were an oversized television. her jaw is frozen in a dropped position as she applies what appears to be lipstick or, perhaps, lip balm over the “o” that her lips make, the stick travels the entire circle of her mouth and then starts over again, her hand rotating in the air between the window and her open face.
“honey,” whitman says, walking toward his wife at an easy pace, “jen dear, you’ve got it on the wrong channel, you silly willy.” arriving where she is, he helps her up from the chair she has unfolded just to sit and watch the spectacle that has unfolded on the front lawn, above and beyond. tucking his shoulder underneath hers, he leads her toward the stairway. “no wonder you’re so confused, honey. you’re not even watching our show. let me get it right for you.”
and then he half-carries, half-leads her up the stairs, where they each then proceed to remove their respective day-wear, pull on their night-wear and, each, individually, from their respective side, slip underneath sheet and comforter onto the big bed, just as they have done most every night for many years. once each is packaged neatly atop the mattress and beneath the linens, their heads, the one belonging to whitman and, about a meter away, the one belonging to jenny, swivel a little until each is each propped just so, on a pillow apiece. after a couple or so minutes, with eyes beginning to flutter a bit, both heads begin to fill with the deadpan rhythms of ordinary dreams.
