To be left outside alone
Events in life are often traced back by the scared human agents caught up in them to a single cause, something that helps catalyze the confusion. Some of these things are simple, for example pregnancy has a pretty cut-and-dry definite beginning, but most of the time it’s not that easy. Beginnings require explanations; they require contexts and back stories and other stories’ endings to help construct their existence. The holiday we were about to set out on had a whole bathtub load of kick-starts and reasoning but (apart from Soho’s little uterean blunder) there was a big glaring point of import. Mikey, you gotta understand, had a bit of a problem with xenogeniture.
It sounds rare, doesn’t it? Like a lung disease brought on by alien contact or some other thing no one else ever has, but it’s scarily common. And incidences of this multi-syllabular curse are growing. See, you’ve probably heard of primogeniture – the process in which the first born in the line gets everything – but this isn’t so popular anymore largely due to the fact that we’re none of us feudal kings. However there’s still a general pervasive societal undercurrent which drags money down through generations. Unless one of those generations happens to be a guitar playing poet alcoholic nymphomaniac who didn’t get into that pretty looking university with the old looking buildings. Like Mike. And in such a situation, the decomposing generation often deems it prudent to invest their considerable accrued assets somewhere more responsible. Somewhere… outside the family. This somewhat logical undertaking blossoms into a glorious ravaging disease though, and Michael was being eaten away by it from the inside. Michael was running out of other people’s money. He was dying, quickly, of xenogeniture.
I’d never really paid that much attention to the 30th of June before. As far as I was concerned it was just another day where things happened for other people to worry about. Like the other 364 really. But this year, this year we were riveted to the calendar, our minds and wallets locked onto that smoldering, blood-soaked date as though God himself had wrought the midnight moment in our hearts as the rapture itself. The 30th of June was when the banks closed Mikey’s account, when they bounced back his cheques, when his platinum Mastercard became… well… priceless. The 30th of June was the last day we had money, and thankfully it was almost four whole weeks away.
Few times, or at least fewer than I guess most people would hope, has the question been asked, “How can we blow a couple of million dollars this month?” In addition, when the topic is brought up it’s even rarer for there to be qualifying constraints such as “whilst running from a pregnant woman”. The majority of morons would buy something expensive and unsuited to fleeing maternal pursuit, like a mansion. I assume. The first thing we all bought was suits. Suits and ball gowns. Really, really, nice ones.
It sounds rare, doesn’t it? Like a lung disease brought on by alien contact or some other thing no one else ever has, but it’s scarily common. And incidences of this multi-syllabular curse are growing. See, you’ve probably heard of primogeniture – the process in which the first born in the line gets everything – but this isn’t so popular anymore largely due to the fact that we’re none of us feudal kings. However there’s still a general pervasive societal undercurrent which drags money down through generations. Unless one of those generations happens to be a guitar playing poet alcoholic nymphomaniac who didn’t get into that pretty looking university with the old looking buildings. Like Mike. And in such a situation, the decomposing generation often deems it prudent to invest their considerable accrued assets somewhere more responsible. Somewhere… outside the family. This somewhat logical undertaking blossoms into a glorious ravaging disease though, and Michael was being eaten away by it from the inside. Michael was running out of other people’s money. He was dying, quickly, of xenogeniture.
I’d never really paid that much attention to the 30th of June before. As far as I was concerned it was just another day where things happened for other people to worry about. Like the other 364 really. But this year, this year we were riveted to the calendar, our minds and wallets locked onto that smoldering, blood-soaked date as though God himself had wrought the midnight moment in our hearts as the rapture itself. The 30th of June was when the banks closed Mikey’s account, when they bounced back his cheques, when his platinum Mastercard became… well… priceless. The 30th of June was the last day we had money, and thankfully it was almost four whole weeks away.
Few times, or at least fewer than I guess most people would hope, has the question been asked, “How can we blow a couple of million dollars this month?” In addition, when the topic is brought up it’s even rarer for there to be qualifying constraints such as “whilst running from a pregnant woman”. The majority of morons would buy something expensive and unsuited to fleeing maternal pursuit, like a mansion. I assume. The first thing we all bought was suits. Suits and ball gowns. Really, really, nice ones.
posted by Cal Samson at 5:42 PM
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