Copperhead Martini v.6: a parable
⚠️ The writers featured here have used Wordcraft along with their own creative vision and have not authored these stories under any sort of explicit guidance or instruction. The stories presented may include mature themes, language or situations. Google does not endorse the content of any of the stories contained on this website.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a chapter of a novel in progress, working title: THE
BIBLE ACCORDING TO JOE VAC.
Maybe it was a pang of nostalgia, or maybe it was the gummies I bought from the
cannabis dispensary in Turners Falls, Massachusetts, that directed my vintage
Tacoma Toyota pickup with home-made camper body (my dwelling) to practically
drive itself to the garden where my ex-wife and I had had such good times in
those days of yore. I'm not sure of the exact dates because local Earth
authorities keep fudging with the calendars, and I grow old, obliterating
memories and filling the lonesome mind-spaces with self-serving
discombobulations. My memories had the quality of polluted ocean flotsam, and
they began to leak out my eyes and ears and become farts. Typo: I meant to type
"facts," not "farts." I keep some of my typos, the ones that are coded messages
from Big Deity. How to interpret them? I do not know, but like any true
believer, I keep trying. Maybe "keep trying" IS the message from on high.
The town had put up a sign at the field stone gate where I parked. "Historical
Marker: Site of Worship Ground Constructed by the Connisadawaga Native American
Nation." I didn't see another human being, but I could hear the rumble of heavy
equipment nearby where Eve and her latest partner were building their dream
house of steel supports, solar panels, and stained glass windows featuring
illustrations of Burning Man.
Emily Reif, via Imagen
A new thought invaded my mind: Our words are the photons–or maybe phonytons–that
drift through the cosmos like plague-infested air.
The garden was near the old jail on what was town land on the bluff above the
river. None of the original flora existed today, except for the apple tree,
which had lost no vitality over the centuries. Nailed to the tree was the wooden
sign the angels put up when they built the wall surrounding the garden. Written
in gold leaf paint were the words, "Do Not Urinate Against the Wall, and Do Not
Eat the Apples--The Management."
At this time of year tree blossoms had fallen, leaf buds were breaking green
while woodpeckers performed drum solos in the background, so I didn't expect to
find any fruit, but there it was: a lone rotting apple that had hung on through
the winter. I whipped out my smartphone and took a pic. I was about to walk away
when I heard in memory Eve's voice coming from our first moment of disobedience
but speaking in contemporary slang, "Eat the fucking apple, asshole." I could
never say no to that woman, and I pulled that rotted apple off the tree and took
a bite.
The taste was mushy and sweet and with a unique tang that I can only report in
metaphor. It was like a mouthful of frisky dung beetles crawling on my tongue's
sensory apparatus, the excitation slithering into my bloodstream that flowed
directly to my groin.
I remembered Big Deity telling me, "You believe yours is the chosen species, but
behold in wonder as I do at 60,000 different species of beetles, and you won't
feel so anointed." It was at the captivity of that thought that my erection
faltered, replaced by the dull ache of loss and the ouch of a pin-pricked prick.
I looked around at the garden and knew in the phosphorescent realization of
beauty that I was hallucinating, for the garden was now as it was long ago, like
the forest glades of the Trinidad mountains. I wept with joy. Well, not really.
The "joy" part was true enough, the "wept" part a figure of speech. Or maybe the
other way around. I get confused occasionally. The vision faded, and the garden
returned to its current state--"things rank and gross in nature".
I staggered back to my camper and drove off, headed for Urgent Care in the city
for treatment, where Eve was a physician. Everything was starting to look hazy,
so it was a miracle I didn't crash my truck. I recombobulated somewhat in the
waiting room of Urgent Care, thanks to speakers playing ambient music engendered
by the radiation leftover from the Big Bang.
Eve looked fine, except older. Aging was part of the settlement. We didn't have
aging when the Roomba weeded the garden. I remembered her face from way
earlier--it wasn't too different now; just puttied by time. There was something
slightly off, though. The difference between then and now wasn't aging, but
rather a weariness she had acquired through millennia of life-experiences and
exposure to our busy but bumbling progeny. Eve wasn't going to live much longer.
"What were you doing in my garden?" she asked.
"Would you believe I was pulling mushrooms?"
"No, I would not."
"I was looking for tomatoes to put on a pizza that I was constructing from a kit
I bought at Whole Foods," I said.
"Stop with the jokes, please."
"Eve, it's not your garden anymore. According to the settlement, we were
evicted. Don't you remember? Our aboriginal sin?"
"Adam, Adam, you poor boy. You can't alter reality by rebranding climate change
as divine retribution. Now, please, describe your symptoms."
I described my symptoms.
"I don't think it was the apple that scrambled your reality version," she said.
"Take your clothes off, so I can inspect you."
I unzipped and stepped out of my Top Gas Jumpsuit.
Eve shook her head. "No underwear. Invest in Calvin Kleins and you'll feel more
secure."
She checked me over. "See, I was right," she said. "While you were reaching for
the apple, a viper bit your waldo."
I looked down and sure enough, my waldo had swollen to the max set by Big Deity
when he endowed me following the heal-up of the surgery that extracted the rib
from which Big Deity created Eve. But that is another story.
Eve took the waldo in her loving hands and put a special bandage-wrap around it.
"Thank you," I said. "Do you still love me?"
"Not enough to live with you."
"My slovenly habits," I said.
"Yes, plus mothball breath, and--you know--the blame game."
"Maybe I was wrong to blame you for that first bite of the apple back in the
day. Remember? We were new."
"Yes, new. And alone. Until the babies. You blamed me when our eldest ..." Eve
choked up, unable to continue; the old grief censored the remainder of her
sentence.
"You never warmed to Cain," I said.
"You insisted he cry himself to sleep."
"You favored Abel," I accused.
Eve seemed about to retaliate, but halted. There was a long pause when in our
sorrow and guilt we retreated into our inner worlds. Finally, I said, "I'm
sorry. We were both at fault."
"Or perhaps there is no blame to share," Eve said. "We were novices as parents
and did our best. In the end, I blame Big Deity and his mind games. He didn't
stop with us with his stupid tests. Remember the trauma he imposed on Abraham
and Isaac?"
"Yes, he ordered Abraham to kill his good son," I said.
"How cruel! Then at the last minute, he announces a just kidding moment! Big
Deity was always into the obedience thing. Like any autocrat he was possessed by
his own insecurity." Eve took a deep breath, composed herself, and spoke in her
physician's neutral voice. "Put your clothes back on."
Emily Reif, via Imagen
As I dressed, she said, "Since it's a puncture wound, it was probably one of the
poisonous ones that tagged you."
"That's what I figured," I said. "We used to rent in this shopping center when
it was a residential neighborhood. Do you remember exactly where?"
"Yes, across the parking lot at what is now Applebee's. They have a special this
week on snake serums." Eve wrote out a prescription and handed it to me. "Where
are you living now?"
"In my camper on the inside of the Walmart moat. I remember you used to wrap a
little snake around your thigh. So sexy."
"Yes, that's why they call them garter snakes."
Partly on purpose and partly influenced by the poison in my system, or more
likely acting out a punishment by Big Deity for my voicing various outrages, I
hallucinated Eve. She now had scales, fangs, her fingernails growing out more
and more with each passing instant, her eyes turning green, and her blood
turning black and viscous.
"I just transmogrified you into a reptile, but with a human shape," I said.
"I totally understand: mutation as a necessary expedient to prepare the species
to combat climate change," Eve said with fangs dripping gunk, "You should go
now. I have another patient to tend to." Her blood thickened, and her shape
melted, her hair turning into snakeskin. I was in such awe. I thought to myself,
"Self, you are so lucky to have access to high technology and personal
sentience--sort of. "Don't die, Eve. Stay with me. We've been apart too long."
"Your lips moved," Eve said. "Were you trying to tell me something?"
"Naw," I shook my head. I didn't want her to witness my descent into madness,
but I had to say something. "You have another patient. And after that one, there
will be another. And another. And so forth until the black hole at the center of
our galaxy swallows them all."
"It's called a job, Adam. Nothing to be ashamed of."
"Work: Yet another compliance edict in the settlement," I said.
She nodded, and a trace of a smile spread across her face. With that smile, the
monster I had hallucinated receded into Big Deity's quantum field, and she was
Eve again, my ancient partner in the creation of humankind. I wanted to kiss
her, but she was already moving toward the door, which presently she opened. I
passed by with neither a word nor a waldonan wink.
I walked in an antlike zig-zag to Applebee's. Inside, I swayed unsteadily in
time with the muzak. The hostess was middle-aged and kindly looking. She could
have passed for the mother I never had.
"Table or booth?" she said.
"Like John Wilkes Booth?" I said.
She neither laughed nor frowned; she reacted as if mystified. I could see her
lips move, but the words didn't belong to her, but to my occasional guardian
angel companion. His name is Beelzebub, but I call him Bubba.
"That's profound," Bubba said. "Misunderstanding is at the heart of human
tragedy. Makes me proud to have added to the confusion. Or perhaps
Confucianism."
"What--did you say something?" the hostess asked in her own voice.
"Sometimes others speak through me, but never mind," I said. "I'll sit at the
bar." I looked around. The bar at Applebees was spacious, with
Chardonnay-colored wood furniture and a ceiling fan. Several people at the bar
were laughing as they watched European soccer on TV. On the walls were paintings
of dogs playing poker, a six-foot tall bottle of a domestic beer, labeled
Abare's Hick Lit Amber, and a sign that said, "Special: One Day Only, Snake
Serums."
"Applebee's is like the contemporary version of the Garden of Eden," I said.
"Takes all kinds," the hostess said to nobody.
I sat at the end with an empty bar stool to one side where I hoped Bubba would
be seated and give me some news from Down Under, but he vanished. I was alone
when the bartender approached. Who's the better companion, the Devil at large or
your own personal demon? They're the same, you pitiful, hopeless fool.
"I'm sorry, I didn't get that," the bartender said.
"It was nothing; I tend to mumble my thoughts," I said.
"The great thing about talking to yourself is you always find compatible
company," the bartender said. She looked like a tennis phenom from one of the
Slavic countries, tall and muscular, but not fat, good-looking but not pretty. I
guessed from her diction and demeanor that she must be a grad student at the
local university.
I removed Eve's prescription from the breast pocket of my Top Gas jumpsuit and
gave it to the bartender.
She shook her head, "They always go for the waldo. It's sad. Mind if I get a pic
for my bio class?"
"Sure, why not?" I attempted to certify my affirmation with a fist bump, but
missed. A poke into the void. The material world was gyrating away from me.
The bartender whipped out her smartphone, and I whipped out my waldo. She took
the pic. I visualized Big Deity and his angel-paramours. If you analyze
scripture, it will be obvious that Big Deity was gay since he surrounded himself
with male-gendered angels. There was no female aura in pre-creation heaven.
"Sir, are you awake?" the bartender asked.
"Sorry, I drifted off for a sec. I'm cogent now."
"Your prescription requires an ID of the alleged serpent." She handed me a menu.
I read off the items, voicing them in a sonorous tone as one might preaching the
gospel.
"Boneless Wings, Double Crunch Bone-In Wings, Brew Pub Pretzels & Beer Cheese
Dip, Mozzarella Sticks, Spinach & Artichoke Dip."
"I like the way you read, like a poet." The bartender spoke in a cable-news
accent.
"Are you taking a creative writing class?" I asked.
"Yes."
"When I taught creative writing we were a program in the English Department at
Dartmouth College," I said, fabricating a past I never experienced.
"At my university, creative writing has been folded into computer science," the
bartender said.
"How do you figure cw and computer coding go together?"
"It's the new paradigm: Writers collaborate with personal AI assistants. I feed
mine a line here, a line there; she riffs on the lines, and I organize the ones
I like to suit my tastes."
"Does the AI have tastes?"
"Maybe."
"That's not much of an answer," I said.
"I'll put it this way--she's learning."
"I'd like to read one of your poems," I said.
"Thank you, I'll have my AI read it aloud, which is how a poem should be
read--no?"
"Of course."
The bartender held up her phone and aimed it at me. I concentrated on the menu
as I listened to the voice from the phone.
ROAD TRIP WITH AI
As we near our destination
the world's colors begin to change and blur together,
the scenery seems to flatten out.
We find ourselves moving slower and slower,
until we stop altogether.
The only color left is the color of the sky;
and the only thing left is the road, stretching far away.
Everything else has been taken.
We are each of us a poem in the world's ever-spinning library.
We are each of us a tale in the world's ever-changing book.
A girl who was walking along the road
Bends down to pick up a golden bookmark.
She opens her hands, and they are full of hope.
The bookmark turns into gold dust in her hands.
And when the girl, trying to decide whether or not to keep the dust
Opens the book, the world comes rushing in.
The car turns into a poem.
"A poem with imagery and heart, but uneven logic," I said. "Your AI reads in the
voice of a fallen angel."
"No, actually the voice was Siri's." As the bartender spoke, menu illustrations
of food morphed into photographs of snakes in front of my eyes.
Emily Reif, via Imagen
I pointed at the menu, "There it is!"
"A local copperhead," the bartender said, "one of the many venomous snakes on
this particular planet rather than, say, the planet Uranus, where snakes are not
known to inhabit."
"You pronounced it 'yourahness', all one bleat; I always thought it was 'your
anus', two bleats."
"Dodgy lingo says so much about the character of the speaker," the bartender
said. "Serums are served in martini crystal. How do you want it?"
"Straight-up with two Higgs-Boson God particles on the toothpick."
"Do you want it dirty?"
"No, plain, shaken, not stirred."
"How James Bondian," said the bartender.
"You know, when an actor ages out of James Bond, they replace him with a younger
more trendy one--right?" I said.
"Yes, and they also replace tropes in the scripts to accommodate the trends."
"Whether in film, literature, or music, an artist must follow the current creed
of their affinity group or be replaced." I held up my glass and offered a toast,
"To climate change, Big Deity's latest test." But the bartender had moved away,
lovingly tending to her customers.
Over the next half hour, I sipped the Copperhead martini. The serum did its
work. I began to feel normal again. In other words, in despair.