June 16, 2009

I'll Read Your Madness Later

By May B. Yesno © 2009

Can you believe receiving an email such as that? Can you? Four days later, late into the evening I sit and review that statement. I have gas so bad I cannot breath. I dry heaved and couldn't rid myself of the gas.

I need to burp. Badly. Or goodly, as you will. "I'll read your madness later."

Well, and good, then, damn you. Read it later and choke.

But it did begin me thinking. One of the thinking bits was about the brain. Or, at least parts of the brain; namely the right and left sides. Only before the thinking about the brain came to mind a question came up in the thinking. I suppose I best start with...

One side of the brain is logical, I forget which one. And one side of the brain is creative, I suppose that'd be the other half - I wish I could keep them straight.

Then, there are all the people out in the world telling us that the two halves of the brain must speak to one another, which they do through tiny connections between the brain halves. That way all those creative things can be set down logically so those haves, can show the have not's - and the other way around. That makes us all happy. Buildings stay up, and art work gets protection. Done deal.

My mind, of course, came up with two questions. The first question was: If it is necessary for the two halves to talk to one another; why do we put folks that talk to themselves into padded rooms? I mean, isn't it logical if one half has a question for the other half, shouldn't it ask it.

And common courtesy, would after all, demand the question be answered. And isn't it creative to use language to both ask and answer questions, logical or not?

I picture it this way: Left side (for lack of a better name) thinks of a question but isn't sure of the answer, so he goes, "Knock, knock."

Right side (for lack of a better name), opens a small door in the hallways of the mind, and says; "Yes?"

"Right side," says Left side, "I have a question."

"Alright, ask it."

"Well, do you remember reading long years past about camels?"

"Well... ah..."

At the hesitation, the strong but mild voice of the Cortex (or is it the Cerebellum? Never mind, we'll use Cortex) echo's through the corridors of the hemi-sphere's: "Of course, she does!"

Which satisfies both halves, so Right side says: "Why, yes, I remember reading about Camels many long years ago. Why do you ask?"

"Well, if you remember, then you remember that they are said to spit." Left side states, asks.

"Yes. Camels spit. They spit at people they do not like. They spit at people they do like, when they're half pissed at them. Yes, they spit. And they're very accurate when they spit. (Thank you, Cortex.) Now why do you ask, Left side?"

"Well, it wasn't important, and it wasn't really trivial," Left side muses, "but I was wondering What would happen to people if Camels liked watermelon, but hated the seeds."

BANG! Right side slams the door in Left sides face, and Cortex mutters, "One should always wear safety sun glasses in the Desert."

Having gotten this far, I must say some of the gas is easing. I've burped a dozen small one's and still hope the BIG one comes soon. The other end has been fascinating the cat. Smelly though.

Anyhow, while I was thinking about that "madness" shtick laid upon me, I got to thinking about that NFL Player - HeHatesMe.

I was thinking that with all the name changes that character put on the legal system before they finally told him enough, all ready, that I'd hate to be that guy's IRS review agent. Really. Can you imagine trying to follow all the various names through all the different contracts in all the different names and banks, from all the different sources?

Picture it. IRS Agent standing over a full up desk, piled to over flowing near the big corner window. IRS Agent, veins budging, rigid, fists clenched, muttering between halves of his brain, glancing at the window and down fifty stories and back at the paper, and the Cortex's strong mild voice echo's down the corridors, "Not Yet. There has to be a way. Not yet. We're not the FBI."

You know? That's weird. I started writing about that IRS Agent and I burped the BIG one. Felt really good, the cat left though. Gone to bed, I think. The little ones from that end were too much.

Anyhow, thinking about expressing the IRS thing and then mentioning the FBI and all, caused one side the brain to Knock, Knock on a door of the other side. I not sure which was doing whom. Is that right? Whom? Well, never mind. We'll say Right side did the knocking this time, except Cortex is going to help all the time and Left side will get the straight skinny - just so he'll be ready when the FBI Agent needs him.

Yes. Well, the agent.

Good man? Yes. Good agent? Yes. Case Overloads? No., well, no more so than any other agent experiences. Good college, better than average grades, good family back ground. Has to be. Can't be an agent without all that. Average looking, average height... Average everything. Has to be. Can't be an agent without all that.

So, among the many cases, what's our man doing.

Chasing Dope. Chasing illegal dope. Chasing dealers of illegal dope. Out on the streets; talking, walking, watching, seeing. Looking for the big one. Screw the little, want the brains; take the cookers, want the distributors. Out on the streets; talking, walking, watching, seeing.

Then, one day, he comes on a name. And his life changes. It's a big one, of that it's certain. Nothing that will make him the director of the agency or anything, but big enough, by rumor, to make most anyone pay attention. And give up a life.

He obsesses. He goes into over time. Then gives free time. And finally, months later, he names a face. Face's a name. Need proof, need proof. Gotta have proof. More time, He's seen his man. And still more time. Nothing. No proof, no proof.

Paper. Follow the money. Follow the money. Years, now. Years have passed, this tract, that trace. Follow the man, follow the money, follow the paper.

Nothing. Smells, maybe's. No proof, no proof.

Lean on the guy. Let him taste the cuffs for suspicion. No warrant. Wipe the smile. Tell the street. Where is he? Where is he? Where is he?

Got him. In a hotel. Damn, that's a posh place. Go for it. Lean on him for suspicion. Show the desk the plain gold shield, lean on the clerk and manager, swing the weight, get the master key. Get the manager, take the key. We'll lean on this guy, he'll look over his shoulder, make the mistake.

The agent goes through the door into a room he could never, ever, afford and is aware of sex in the air, as 9mm out, cocked and ready, out in front, two handed grip, ready. Get the face and name, got him.

The agent freezes; there on that glorious bed lay two figures. The face and name was banging a woman. The woman clawing gently on the back of the face and name, eyes silted in pleasure, yet aware enough to look at the agent coming through the doorway.

Aware enough, through the pleasure, to press hands to the back of the face and name, stopping him in mid-stroke, they both look over the face and names right shoulder. The woman speaks.

"Hello, Husband. What took you so long? It's been five years, now. Face and name and I want to be together. I want a divorce, and I'm going to take half of everything you have."

Well, my gas is gone now. I'm feeling better. I wonder what that Agent decides to do. I mean, all those halves talking inside his head and that loaded, cocked and ready gun.

Think he'll get an email saying: "I'll read your madness later?"

May B. Yesno is a writer from Fresno, CA.

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