R.V. Roush
Masad�s warning that he use the box in private allayed Norm�s doubt in its purported power, but increased his fear about its potency. Fear, Norm thought, was good if it allowed him to maintain a few inhibitions and some control over the affect of the box. Imagined reason quieted his fears.
So he didn�t tell Naomi. He didn�t want to share the experience, anyway, and closed himself behind his heavy steel front door. Norm�s brown, terrycloth slacks clung to him wetly, the box sharp in his pocket against his leg. He longed to avoid the grim realities of the outside world. Gremlins of anguish, be gone, he thought, trembling on the edge of uncertainty.
He pulled the box from his pocket and doubt crept in, a poisonous mist, an ethereally evanescent moment of skepticism. He worried that his dampness had been absorbed by the box, maybe sapping its power. Norm wished his doubts came conveniently bottled with a child resistant cap.
He sat on his plastic ensheathed sofa. Soon, he thought, I won�t need couch covers that have eternal mass, hanging around the world forever. I�ll sweat only when I exercise. I�ll get my sweat glands unsoldered. Was that reversible? He hadn�t thought about needing to dissipate heat through sweat before thinking of that plan.
With the courage of five librarians, Norm grasped the box, shaking with anticipation, praying for truth in advertising. He pressed the bottom of the box to his forehead and focused all of his energy into believing.
The feeling was subtle, subdued. It sloped smoothly into his soul to replace the troubled emotion that rushed from his depths. An apron of blushful warmth slumbered over him and he tumbled in the estrus of euphoria. His body lowered loosely into the sofa cushion, flowing with the force of nature, consciously null. His hair tumbled into his nude, hushed eyes and his mind travailed the heavens like a foolish vapor, encompassing nothing, space. He felt the peaceful hush of fresh pies cooling, of soap dissolving in a tub, of the breathless calm of spring. He surrendered to the rapturous splendor he felt, finally laughing deeply and stuffing the black box into his pocket. Carelessly, Norm left the prison of his home.
He felt timeless. Lateness became a concept for women predicting pregnancy. Deadlines no longer meant garrotes. After a Time trial, he sentenced Time to the electric chair. Norm questioned whether electricity could fry Time. Time had greater fluidity. But now it had stopped. He asked himself whether it even existed if no one were around to measure it? Incomprehensibly, he laughed again.
Norm felt a rising in his stomach. It seeped up into his esophagus and he felt the sliminess of it. It had been something deep within him and it was propelling itself toward the light. In his throat it gathered mass, a name. He hacked and grossly spit the phlegm to the sidewalk. Mrs. Hugo cringed and stepped to the side.
�That is disgusting, sir,� she castigated him.
�You think that�s disgusting, you should have felt it in my throat,� Norm said clearly, the mucous obstruction expelled. �I�ve always thought you should go on a diet, Mrs. Hugo. I don�t mean to be impolite, but if I were your size, I�d go on a diet.�
�My size is no concern of yours, Mr. Jitters,� she said, jiggling her flabby neck as she swung her weighty head forward and began to stomp off down the sidewalk with her spaniel. She wanted a cupcake.
�I mean,� Norm said calling after her, �it would be best for you.� And I wouldn�t have to look at your tank of an ass, he thought.
He put his hands in his pockets and wondered what else he could do today. He felt the black box in his pocket and thought of it as his lucky charm. He took it out and placed it against his forehead. It absorbed his social conscience. Masad�s warnings about its power now meant nothing.
For once in his life, Norm felt as if he were a part of nature. He expanded his chest with air and felt the coldness of it sear his lungs. The goose pimples popping up under his unfashionable terrycloth suit failed to warn him about the cold. He listened to late season crows, cawwing greedily over stale bread crumbs someone had thrown out. He saw the bareness of the maples and sycamores. Much of the ground had refrozen but Norm had never seen it so full of warmth before. The grass was golden brown and cold. The plumes of steamy breath from the mouths of chimneys rose and melded with clouds. Through the clouds, Norm thought he saw stars. Night was a breeze away.
Naomi would be home. If she weren�t, he�d find her and show her he�d changed. But then he felt he didn�t care whether she knew. He couldn�t explain it. He just didn�t care.
� 2004 R.V. Roush