Clyde

Clyde

It's not easy to see the source of Edgar's irritation, that whispering two centimeter man named Clyde.

Dwelling in Edgar's nose as furtively as a trapdoor spider, he scurries across detailed facial hairs with flickering agility and speed; clinging like a burr, hiding under the lobe of edgar's ear. No being was ever so plagued by an unreahable flea, as Edgar and the pernicious little fiend.

Friday afternoon.

The sun slants gray through tinted office windows and lengthens along the carpet, prowling a corridor down a hive of empty cubicles.

Clustered together in a clear space towards the middle of the building, each member of Team Onset (the revamped marketing division of Big Bang Enterprises) is wearing a large blue button with a red star-burst and the word "POW" projecting from the center in elongated white letters. They have gathered together to celebrate the signing on, of a new account, by the world largest manufacturer of children's breakfast cereals.

Edgar sips hesitantly from an energy drink as he listens to a slim man in his mid twenties....a recent transfer from the entertaiment division who was recruited for his experience with music videos.

"Grumstead and Rove din't stand a chance, I'm telling ya," the man enthuses. "They don' have the guts to dig for the freshest, meatiest trend. Rap and the bare-midriff are played out. It's patriotic-comouflage-leatherette tha'll crank the numbers this qaurter."

"Expecting a raise?" Edgar says, offering a sardonic smile.

"Hey, this is the big league now, buddy. Everyone in on this is go'na fly."

<<he'll be an exec before he's thirty, ed. get him. get him tonight.>>

"I don't know," Edgar says and scrathes his cheek, "still seems a bit risky to me. What about reputation. how do we cover our ass if it flops. Where would you go from here?"

"Healthy pessimimism is one thing, but don' go paranoid. It's not like I'd be moving back to the flats of Texas just because a few numbers won' cruch," the man says, " You gotta be on the...UP...side of the team," and turning Edgar aside, he lowers his voice, tapping the pin on Edgar's chest, "How long have you been here, five years? One firm is as good as the next, so don' go bailing on the project before it starts. If the ads don' pan-outblame it on, oh, production...pow...not our department. Most of those arty geeks won' know what hit 'em. See what I mean?"

<<tonight ed. tonight.>>

"Maybe," says Edgar. He fingers the knife in his pocket. "Maybe."

Friday night.

A congested bus spits out a breath of diesel air as it picks up speed in trafic. Edgar is sandwiched against the glass in the rear corner by a three hundred pound man perspiring in the skin tight folds of his faded purple jogging suit. Edgar stares out the window.

<<that one, ed. look at those ludicrous pointy black shoes, see how she feeds on the systemic rot; that one too, ed; or the suits on the corner; or the hag in the furs; and her companinion, how many struggle in the filth for his comfort?

<<You have the knife ed. jumpoff, ed; do it now or i'll claw out your eardrum, shimmy on down, and bite your uvula. >>

"Maybe," says Edgar. He fingers the knife in his pocket. "Maybe."

Leaning his cheek on the glass he mutters, "Sleep, Clyde. I need sleep. Leave me alone."

Saturday, four am.

<< all around the mulL B erry Bush THE MONKEY chased the weasel, all around the mullberry bush....POP,,,, goes the weasel, Aaallll around themulberry bush the munkey chased the weasel... >>

Monday morning.

Edgar has called in sick. Clyde has been quiet for three hours now; but, sleep deprivation has detached Edgar's vision and tactile awareness. The objects in his loft are obscure in depth, perceived only for the abstract way their strident colors fuse into a portrait: the brass door-handle suspends itself, patiently, untouched in a steely wall of beige; the sand blasted red bricks encircle, hovering the room; white chunks of padded leather furniture clash, momentarily, grounded and glaring at the glass table, black telephone, yellow toothbrush, avocado refrigerator, and all manor of brilliant, extravagant quotidian-utensils float in scattered remote designs -- seen but insubstantial, almost mottled to his touch.

Unwilling to sleep, and risk being woken again by clyde, Edgar dresses and leaves to buy coffee and cigarettes. As he slides down the pavement past the warehouses, and up the side streets approaching the shops on Eigth Ave, the sensationof his motion overtakes him. the sunlight is a warm vapor through which he passes, stretching each stride further in a fluid gait till wandering in unnoticed detour he finds his fingers trailing to halt at a gap in a chain link fence.

<<yes,yes. start with a child.>>

Edgar slips inside the school yard and ducks behind a bush. At the end of the yard, a group of children line up across the pavement for a race. Edgar draws the knife.

<<the first across the line, ed. the first. >>

"No, Clyde. Let me choose."

<<ok, yes, but do iT ! >>

A whistle blows, and the dimple faced kids pelt the ground with earnestly flailing feet. edgar reaches for his cigarette lighter.

<<which, ed. which>>

"The last, a straggler, not readily noiced."

Edgar waits till the race is finished, spotting a boy not easily distracted by an odd tremmor in the bush. As the other kids walk back down the court yard, edgar raises the knife. And, with a flick of the lighter edgar ignites his beard, chases clyde back into the nose, slashes that protruberance clean off his face. while the young boy, William, pokes his way into the bush and stands dumbfounded, Edgar methodically mashes the nose into the earthand sputters, with blood flooding into his mouth, "dyou... kant-h... wi-mnb ... dyou... kant-h... wi-mnb..."

Monday Evening

"How was school today, William?"

"Scary. There was a Monster at school."

"Now, now, there's no such thing as monsters."

<<That's right billy. no such thing.>>