A Grilled Fish
14th April 2004, 09:20 AM
The Human Condition
It was another dark and gloomy day in the old man’s apartment. The apartment had but one room, and no windows. There was barely room for the old man’s minute bed. The only other entities in the room were an old broken typewriter and a tattered desk. The old man cared not for his typewriter or desk; even if the typewriter worked, the old man did not care to write. In fact, the only reason he kept them was that he did not want anyone else to have them. He was afraid that others would hideously misuse them, and so he carefully locked his door every time he went out.
The old man was afraid of other people’s actions in general. He was terrified at the thought that people could murder, steal, kill, commit suicide and adultery, lie, covet their neighbor’s lampshade, and all sorts of other atrocious and ghastly perversions. They spat, they littered, they chewed with their mouths open, they drooled, they snored, they coughed and sneezed without covering their mouths, they slept on benches covered with bird droppings, ate food that they had dropped on the filth and squalor of the grimy streets, and did not comb their hair. Other people wore ragged clothes, supported fascist ideas and slavery, and generally loved to watch other people’s pain. They would not help old women across a street, and would not hold doors for others. If they saw a person in need, they would walk by without notice. They would openly cheat, mock, ostracize, and purposely hold information from others for sheer wickedness. On a whole, other people were disgusting, iniquitous, filthy, nasty, cruel, malicious, and quite unkind.
The old man did not trust high-ranking authorities, police, firemen, postal workers, pizza deliverymen, actors, actresses, waiters, waitresses, cooks, farmers, programmers, garden hose manufacturers, and janitors, because they were all other people. When the old man went out, he would avoid coming into any contact with others, in fear that the human condition would infect him.
Various situations occasionally forced the old man into interaction with others, and he could only hope that the grime and filth of humanity was yet to taint them.
“Your total comes to thirty dollars,” the cashier said casually, chewing her gum ubiquitously with her mouth open. She snorted, and looked up at the old man. The old man locked eyes with her shortly. When she saw the horror and age in the old man’s eyes, she recoiled, startled at his expression. She took a small step back, and stammered, “Err…” The old man cut her off with a silent shake of his head. He placed thirty smudged dollars on the counter. She took the filth slowly, as if she was afraid that the old man had poisoned them. Ink and coffee stained the counter. After he had finished paying, the old man walked away from the counter, and pulled open the door. The handle was grimy, and the paint was chipped. He walked out and carried away the sandwich he had bought to the park, and sat down on a bench covered with bird feces. The bench was quite dilapidated. A brown paper bag danced across the park gracelessly as a gust of wind blew. The power lines above the old man crackled with electricity. Egg cartons and beer bottles, along with other flotsam and jetsam, filled the polluted brown lake. The old man took out his sandwich and took a bite. The old man was thirsty, but he did not trust the tap water as other people ran the water treatment plant. Suddenly, a man carrying a black briefcase ran past him. Shortly afterward, police ran in the same direction. The old man did not move his head, even as gunshots fired around him. He took another bite of his sandwich. As his teeth sunk into the sandwich, breaking through the layers of bread and meat, a bullet similarly lodged itself into his head, breaking through the layers of skin and bone. As the old man’s sight faded, he did not bother to cry in pain. There was nobody to listen.
It was another dark and gloomy day in the old man’s apartment. The apartment had but one room, and no windows. There was barely room for the old man’s minute bed. The only other entities in the room were an old broken typewriter and a tattered desk. The old man cared not for his typewriter or desk; even if the typewriter worked, the old man did not care to write. In fact, the only reason he kept them was that he did not want anyone else to have them. He was afraid that others would hideously misuse them, and so he carefully locked his door every time he went out.
The old man was afraid of other people’s actions in general. He was terrified at the thought that people could murder, steal, kill, commit suicide and adultery, lie, covet their neighbor’s lampshade, and all sorts of other atrocious and ghastly perversions. They spat, they littered, they chewed with their mouths open, they drooled, they snored, they coughed and sneezed without covering their mouths, they slept on benches covered with bird droppings, ate food that they had dropped on the filth and squalor of the grimy streets, and did not comb their hair. Other people wore ragged clothes, supported fascist ideas and slavery, and generally loved to watch other people’s pain. They would not help old women across a street, and would not hold doors for others. If they saw a person in need, they would walk by without notice. They would openly cheat, mock, ostracize, and purposely hold information from others for sheer wickedness. On a whole, other people were disgusting, iniquitous, filthy, nasty, cruel, malicious, and quite unkind.
The old man did not trust high-ranking authorities, police, firemen, postal workers, pizza deliverymen, actors, actresses, waiters, waitresses, cooks, farmers, programmers, garden hose manufacturers, and janitors, because they were all other people. When the old man went out, he would avoid coming into any contact with others, in fear that the human condition would infect him.
Various situations occasionally forced the old man into interaction with others, and he could only hope that the grime and filth of humanity was yet to taint them.
“Your total comes to thirty dollars,” the cashier said casually, chewing her gum ubiquitously with her mouth open. She snorted, and looked up at the old man. The old man locked eyes with her shortly. When she saw the horror and age in the old man’s eyes, she recoiled, startled at his expression. She took a small step back, and stammered, “Err…” The old man cut her off with a silent shake of his head. He placed thirty smudged dollars on the counter. She took the filth slowly, as if she was afraid that the old man had poisoned them. Ink and coffee stained the counter. After he had finished paying, the old man walked away from the counter, and pulled open the door. The handle was grimy, and the paint was chipped. He walked out and carried away the sandwich he had bought to the park, and sat down on a bench covered with bird feces. The bench was quite dilapidated. A brown paper bag danced across the park gracelessly as a gust of wind blew. The power lines above the old man crackled with electricity. Egg cartons and beer bottles, along with other flotsam and jetsam, filled the polluted brown lake. The old man took out his sandwich and took a bite. The old man was thirsty, but he did not trust the tap water as other people ran the water treatment plant. Suddenly, a man carrying a black briefcase ran past him. Shortly afterward, police ran in the same direction. The old man did not move his head, even as gunshots fired around him. He took another bite of his sandwich. As his teeth sunk into the sandwich, breaking through the layers of bread and meat, a bullet similarly lodged itself into his head, breaking through the layers of skin and bone. As the old man’s sight faded, he did not bother to cry in pain. There was nobody to listen.