00:04:07:09
FASTIDIOUS ANDERSON Bates, the prematurely gray contract lawyer in row seven, seat two, wishes the crackers in front of him would at least wash their hair. He can smell it from here. Anderson works out of his split-level in Wood-bury. To stretch his legs, he sometimes rises from his desk and wanders from room to room in his house, parting the curtains and studying his neighbors’ homes for signs they are out: empty driveways, drawn shades, unclaimed mail. Anderson keeps careful records. Hands in pockets, he then casually strolls over (Ellen, his wife, volunteers at the local library four mornings a week), lets himself in, and has a poke around. He wears surgical gloves. He almost never takes anything. If he does, he makes sure it is an object no one will miss. A cheap pen. A handful of AAA batteries from a kitchen drawer full of them. He will often tidy atomizers and trays atop an armoire or products on a refrigerator shelf. Often he just likes to look. Anderson envisions himself an anthropologist interested in how other tribes live. He is especially drawn to bathroom cabinets. The information housed in pill bottles, spray cans, and salves makes Anderson’s head light. On occasion he likes to touch. He likes to feel other people’s property in his palms, knowing hours later his neighbors will handle the same objects he just handled. He likes to rearrange things so his neighbors can’t tell whether they have been rearranged or not. He imagines the slight sensation of disorientation his neighbors will feel and believes it will do them good. Those crackers in front of him break into laughter again and Anderson finds himself speculating about why toenails grow. They accomplish zero in life except the ceaseless increase of proteinaceous contamination. But why?
00:04:09:16
BETTY AND JERRY Roemer, retired middleschool teachers in matching pale blue jogging suits, have been members 30 of the Mall Walking Club for Seniors since Monday, August II, 1992, the day the doors opened. They assume the teens gathered in discrete herds throughout this place are making fun of them behind their backs for being old and odd looking as they power-stroll by. Betty and Jerry are right. Of course, it’s only natural. No teen can connect the dots leading from his or her own flesh to Betty’s and Jerry’s. To keep their brains breathing, they are taking a continuing education course on the history of movies at Normandale Community College. According to their professor, the film they have come to see deals with the fluidity of subject positions. They have no idea what the fluidity of subject positions means, but are looking forward to finding out, so long as it doesn’t involve violence, nudity, foul language, or subtitles. Although the attitudes of their bodies suggest they may not know each other, they are participating in the identical thought: the comforting thing about malls is the comforting thing about fastfood franchises: they are essentially the same wherever you go. Absentmindedly kneading his earlobe with thumb and middle finger, Jerry sees himself lose balance next week and tumble down the stairs in their duplex. It won’t hurt. For a second it will feel like gliding, then it will sound like a wetly cracking pencil. And then the lights will go out, just like that. Betty will follow three months later in her sleep because of what she will perceive as a violation of a fundamental filmic principle: the common sense philosophy implied by edited shots transitioning smoothly from one to another. Betty will brook none of it, none whatsoever.
00:04:11:11
1. Cynthia Morgenstern, one seat behind and right of Jerry Roemer, wants to love Cary Grant, only in black and white.
2. Conceivably there are special contact lenses for such a purpose.
3. Fat is horrifying because it makes you look like a bullfrog version of yourself. Fat reminds Cynthia of something washed up after a storm on a tropical beach.
4. Let your heart be a raisin.
5. Germs are filthy blizzards blowing through your bloodstream.
6. Cynthia wants to dwell in a silent film. Sans other actors.
7. Be still.
8. Cynthia believes in therapy through television watching. Treasure the angel within you. Remember we all awaken to the brightness of the same sun.
9. Don’t touch your armrests. Your seat cushion. Don’t touch your face.
10. Let your surgical mask do its work.
11. Recently Cynthia has realized life is probably the thing that arrives in ten-minute portions disturbed by commercials.