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PAGE! OF CONTESTANTS!|
The world's richest homeless person stopped typing long enough to
see that what he had meant to say wasn't on the screen. He looked
at his hands and then up at the interruptor.
'What? What is it?'
Things in plastic bags. Styrofoam peanuts. Tables and desks not cubicles.
Computer equipment. Health insurance. Movies. His boss. His boss in
a plastic bag, sitting on a desk (not a cubicle) asking him about
health insurance. Explaining how movies work. Not light and film but
agencies, packages and points. Explaining how work doesn't have to
be alienation and bilious boredom, doesn't have to be cubicles, can
be like this sunny loft with it's tables and chairs and computers
and shiny white ethernet cables. Interrupting.
The world's richest homeless person knows something about movies.
They get between your hands and the thing you meant to say. They roll
around your head like a can of tennis balls in the trunk of your car.
They aren't safe. Meaning they aren't small, dangerously sharp, or
Festooned. Festooned with banners. Festooned with animated banners.
There were small, sharp opposites here. The sunny loft and the tiny
web empire which was almost all black. Moving pictures and pictures
that go from nothing to something and then back to nothing again under
the small sharp point of his pen, so black and so far away.
Running a tiny web empire is like inhaling nitrous oxide in the dairy
section of Basic Foods. It's mostly process. The casual walk, like
nothing's up. The glance, already salivating a little bit at the sharp
danger of it, and then the quick half-depress the rush of sweet reddi-whip
air gasping at the stupid colors the ridiculous sex-fantasy indian
girl on the land-o-lakes butter the big fat smooth white plastic milk
like the pompous boss of the dairy shelf at the carton of country
trim with its farmers daughter and missing children now grown old
and living in Arizona and the pang is like someone being murdered
in the background of a Donna Summer song like a ghost in a Tom Selleck
movie smiling, blurry, frame by frame, as if to say 'I never meant
to come here.'
Websites are like that. And there are so many of them.
Later, the world's richest homeless person crouches on the fast side
of the pedestrian walkway and the dirty wind combs his hair and the
city scrolls under him like a tiny empire of links and traffic. He
looks at his reflection in the glass, under the sign that says WATCH
YOUR HANDS, and he thinks he sees little forcelines thinking beads
of sweat worried snot bubbles asleep logs and saws and the last letter
of the entire alphabet wrapping around him like a doormat. WELCOME.