Cafe 212: "Objects in the Room" Writing Exercise
1. TRASH CAN
"Feed the crap through my flap." I'm touched by a hundred hands an hour, enjoying only the refuse of my customers: the pent up soda cans, impotent sandwich meats, the aluminum bags that nestle and crackle, then slide. Even with my brown, harsh skin; these square ridges; this smell of mine - I am needed. They pay me to wear this dirt like a sequin dress: "Trash Only," on my designated chest.
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2. BLUE JAVA MUG
The idea for the Blue Java mug originated when Mr. Perry Schumacher, III, Jr., a third-year CC student of Economics-Political Science major, was constructing his resume (a la Morgan-Sachs), and needed one detail to lift him above the rest. He pushed the sleeves of his Kenneth Cole shirt up to the crook of his elbow, exposing his delicate but well Bow-Flexed forearms. This helped him think, as great thought was indeed required for his object. How to lift a gold-rimmed trust fund man like Mr. Schumacher III, Jr., above a thousand other equally bespectacled princes of Venture Capital America....
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3. FIRE BELL
The alarm bell rang, and the glass vibrated at an unseemly frequency, flushing back and forth. "Oh shit," said Juan, as he pulled his legs together at the conclusion of a six-step on the first floor. "Oh fuck," said Donna, as she ripped the roast beef out of her sandwich in Cafe 212. The piano hummed, excited by the surrounding sound waves. On the third floor, Professor Linglelittle, lecture mid-sentence, pushed his glasses up to his nose. His glasses were shaking too. All the student government officers in the Student Government Office immediately began drawing a plan as to how to handle this dilemma and to best serve their difficult, interschool, multi-desirous constituency. They had already formed committees and were right about to elect Committee Officers for the new offices, when BOOM. The glass house rocked.
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4. PEARL NECKLACE
Theresa received her pearl necklace from her grandmother at age five, the day before Nai Nai Gloria's impulsive trip to Las Vegas. Rumors from the card dealers say, the woman married a fat Russian man with a lip twitch and five million red chips swept clean off a roulettes table; Gloria was a fine-looking mid-life lady, with a keen passion for things that clinked or twinkled. Off she disappeared into renaissance at the very beginning stages of her granddaughter Theresa's life, leaving only this string of Oyster entrails in memorandum.
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5. MATT'S HAIR
Matt got his curl from a rabid cow, everyone knnows it. Jeremy once said to me as we were passing smoke on the I-90, chasing leprachauns and former victims of Michael Jackson, "You saw Matt's hair right?" "Yeah," I huffed. "That shit was stolen from a rabid cow," he puffed. "Oh okay," we said , as we blew the house down. Thereafter, by some miracle of rabies, Matt's hair clung to the bottom of the house like old glue on hands, a thin, skin-like nettle. It held the pieces together. I dove into Matt's curl, and drank of its rabid milk, and I transformed into an animorph. Not a real animorph, not one of those super-cool characters in those chapter books, but one of their flipping illustrations, just one, taped onto the corner of a fucking children's book, in the back black alleyways of Barnes Noble.
"Feed the crap through my flap." I'm touched by a hundred hands an hour, enjoying only the refuse of my customers: the pent up soda cans, impotent sandwich meats, the aluminum bags that nestle and crackle, then slide. Even with my brown, harsh skin; these square ridges; this smell of mine - I am needed. They pay me to wear this dirt like a sequin dress: "Trash Only," on my designated chest.
-----------------
2. BLUE JAVA MUG
The idea for the Blue Java mug originated when Mr. Perry Schumacher, III, Jr., a third-year CC student of Economics-Political Science major, was constructing his resume (a la Morgan-Sachs), and needed one detail to lift him above the rest. He pushed the sleeves of his Kenneth Cole shirt up to the crook of his elbow, exposing his delicate but well Bow-Flexed forearms. This helped him think, as great thought was indeed required for his object. How to lift a gold-rimmed trust fund man like Mr. Schumacher III, Jr., above a thousand other equally bespectacled princes of Venture Capital America....
----------------
3. FIRE BELL
The alarm bell rang, and the glass vibrated at an unseemly frequency, flushing back and forth. "Oh shit," said Juan, as he pulled his legs together at the conclusion of a six-step on the first floor. "Oh fuck," said Donna, as she ripped the roast beef out of her sandwich in Cafe 212. The piano hummed, excited by the surrounding sound waves. On the third floor, Professor Linglelittle, lecture mid-sentence, pushed his glasses up to his nose. His glasses were shaking too. All the student government officers in the Student Government Office immediately began drawing a plan as to how to handle this dilemma and to best serve their difficult, interschool, multi-desirous constituency. They had already formed committees and were right about to elect Committee Officers for the new offices, when BOOM. The glass house rocked.
---------------------
4. PEARL NECKLACE
Theresa received her pearl necklace from her grandmother at age five, the day before Nai Nai Gloria's impulsive trip to Las Vegas. Rumors from the card dealers say, the woman married a fat Russian man with a lip twitch and five million red chips swept clean off a roulettes table; Gloria was a fine-looking mid-life lady, with a keen passion for things that clinked or twinkled. Off she disappeared into renaissance at the very beginning stages of her granddaughter Theresa's life, leaving only this string of Oyster entrails in memorandum.
---------------------
5. MATT'S HAIR
Matt got his curl from a rabid cow, everyone knnows it. Jeremy once said to me as we were passing smoke on the I-90, chasing leprachauns and former victims of Michael Jackson, "You saw Matt's hair right?" "Yeah," I huffed. "That shit was stolen from a rabid cow," he puffed. "Oh okay," we said , as we blew the house down. Thereafter, by some miracle of rabies, Matt's hair clung to the bottom of the house like old glue on hands, a thin, skin-like nettle. It held the pieces together. I dove into Matt's curl, and drank of its rabid milk, and I transformed into an animorph. Not a real animorph, not one of those super-cool characters in those chapter books, but one of their flipping illustrations, just one, taped onto the corner of a fucking children's book, in the back black alleyways of Barnes Noble.
posted by Green Stripster @ 3:21 PM
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