M
Mr. So & So
Guest
Suzanne sat stoically indulging herself on a half-used pack of Marlboro cigarettes, while running an imaginary race with her fingers along the cold and unrequiting switchboard.
"If only we were able to play 'Different Strokes' reruns, the $8.25 I make an hour would be somewhat worth it all." she said to herself, right as the door to the programming room kicked open shattering her stream of lonely thoughts.
Her head circled in surprise, wondering who it could be that was arriving at this time.
On a typical night, Suzanne kept the program room all to herself, as the graveyard shift was deemed undesirable amongst the station’s overworked, and unappreciated staff.
"So, Suzanne, what makes a classic 'Different Strokes' episode?" the man said, folding his arms and cradling his head in a rigged nest of slim muscle.
She quickly placed her cigarette down into a nearby clay ashtray, crafted after a large "X-Files" symbol.
"And you are who?" she said casually.
The man’s arms uncoiled, as he extended his hand in Suzanne's direction.
"My name is Luther."
For a moment his hand hung unaccepted, paused within in the air, awaiting Suzanne's response.
"You expect me to shake that?" she said.
A wide, creasing smile grew atop his face as he retracted his arm and sat upright to face her.
"You still haven't answered my question."
She lifted herself from the chair, and leaned against the room's paint chipped wall, as the third part in the 'Shaka-Zulu' series played in the background unattended.
"Who are you?" she replied, annoyed yet somewhat curious.
"Well, like I said, my name is Luther and I am curious to know, seeing that you are a fan as well, what makes a really special -- I mean, a really special 'Different Strokes' episode?"
"How do you know I'm a fan?" she said.
"Because I heard your thought," he said.
"What thought?" she said.
"The one you had just a second ago. I heard you say to yourself that you wish you were able to run some old ‘Different Strokes –"
"Look!" she interrupted, "I don't know who you are, or how you got passed security but you don't belong in here, and you sure as hell don't know what I'm thinking!"
"I wonder if he likes Travis?" she thought to herself immediately after scolding him with such passion.
"No, I think 'Travis' is quite possibly as overrated as 'Radiohead,' but they are much better than say 'Coldplay,' or anyone of the other cookie cutter British groups currently forcing themselves upon us," he said in reply to her thought.
All sound paused within the room, as Suzanne's eyes widened in amazement.
The mysterious man smiled again, while moving closer towards her.
"So, now do I deserve an answer to my initial question?" he said.
Suzanne walked casually to the other end of the room, and carefully picked up the cigarette that had been lying peacefully in its tray.
"The only thing you have proven to me is that you are a frequent visitor to ‘Morrissey-solo.com.’" she said, still unimpressed by his telepathic performance.
"Ok, I see, I have no idea what ‘Morrissey-solo.com’ is, but I am willing to prove to you that I can indeed read what you are thinking. Go ahead, think something that you have never revealed to anyone but yourself, not even to your closest set of walls."
She shifted uneasily against the door, speaking cautiously with her eyes, while suspending her thoughts in case he was indeed telling the truth.
"Go ahead." he said.
"Go on, think something Suzanne... think."
Slowly, with the same amount of caution as before, she eased her mind into replay, thinking back on the time she ran the counter of the bean bag toss at a local Church festival.
"Do you regret that Suzanne?" he said suddenly.
"Regret what?" she replied.
"Do you regret associating yourself with the Church festival? Furthermore, do you feel anger for the fact that you were given the bean bag counter to run?”
Suzanne stopped tugging the mist from her cigarette, and raced in the direction of the program console.
"Shlt!" she cried.
"A commercial was supposed to be queued right now." she said, her voice quavering with panic.
The "Shaka-Zulu" episode had run over leaving an awkward slice in the stories procession. Suddenly calls began to pour into the station as Suzanne paced frantically caught between the severity of her mistake and the reality that this strange man was actually able to read her mind.
"Suzanne, I'm sorry it was my fault, I shouldn't have come at this time. I'm sorry, I just felt this desire to get your opinion on something that I felt we shared. You see, this power that I possess, I rarely wish to respond to it, but you see, with you... with you Suzanne I feel this pull, this urge to get close to..."
The entrance to the room swung open once again, but this time it was Suzanne's boss anchored in the doorway, glaring angrily at her.
"Suzanne, your ass is gone!" he shouted, leaving as swiftly as he had arrived.
Suzanne's mouth dropped open, as the cigarette she was holding fell abandoned to the floor.
The man looked as equally phased by the entire event, gently placing his hand on her shoulder.
"I'm... I'm sorry Suzanne," he said quietly.
She grabbed her army surplus bag and stormed out of the room in complete silence.
The man followed her into the parking lot where she was fumbling to ignite another cigarette.
It was drizzling, and the night sky grew even darker, as if it had anticipated this exact moment in her life.
"Suzanne, I’m sorry, honestly I am."
She twisted toward him, stabbing a glare into his eyes.
She began to cry as her lower lip contorted into sadness, with tears racing down her cheeks.
"What? You want to know what I think makes a supreme 'Different Strokes' episode? Is that what you have come to find out? Ok, fine then, I’ll tell you!"
The sobs echoed in the parking lot, ricocheting off the unburdened cement.
"Do you remember when Kimberly tried to dye her hair, and it came out green, and…"
Suddenly she stopped talking and thrust the unfinished cigarette directly into his forehead.
"Go to hell!" she said, as she leapt onto her bicycle, and quickly sped off into the rain.
"If only we were able to play 'Different Strokes' reruns, the $8.25 I make an hour would be somewhat worth it all." she said to herself, right as the door to the programming room kicked open shattering her stream of lonely thoughts.
Her head circled in surprise, wondering who it could be that was arriving at this time.
On a typical night, Suzanne kept the program room all to herself, as the graveyard shift was deemed undesirable amongst the station’s overworked, and unappreciated staff.
"So, Suzanne, what makes a classic 'Different Strokes' episode?" the man said, folding his arms and cradling his head in a rigged nest of slim muscle.
She quickly placed her cigarette down into a nearby clay ashtray, crafted after a large "X-Files" symbol.
"And you are who?" she said casually.
The man’s arms uncoiled, as he extended his hand in Suzanne's direction.
"My name is Luther."
For a moment his hand hung unaccepted, paused within in the air, awaiting Suzanne's response.
"You expect me to shake that?" she said.
A wide, creasing smile grew atop his face as he retracted his arm and sat upright to face her.
"You still haven't answered my question."
She lifted herself from the chair, and leaned against the room's paint chipped wall, as the third part in the 'Shaka-Zulu' series played in the background unattended.
"Who are you?" she replied, annoyed yet somewhat curious.
"Well, like I said, my name is Luther and I am curious to know, seeing that you are a fan as well, what makes a really special -- I mean, a really special 'Different Strokes' episode?"
"How do you know I'm a fan?" she said.
"Because I heard your thought," he said.
"What thought?" she said.
"The one you had just a second ago. I heard you say to yourself that you wish you were able to run some old ‘Different Strokes –"
"Look!" she interrupted, "I don't know who you are, or how you got passed security but you don't belong in here, and you sure as hell don't know what I'm thinking!"
"I wonder if he likes Travis?" she thought to herself immediately after scolding him with such passion.
"No, I think 'Travis' is quite possibly as overrated as 'Radiohead,' but they are much better than say 'Coldplay,' or anyone of the other cookie cutter British groups currently forcing themselves upon us," he said in reply to her thought.
All sound paused within the room, as Suzanne's eyes widened in amazement.
The mysterious man smiled again, while moving closer towards her.
"So, now do I deserve an answer to my initial question?" he said.
Suzanne walked casually to the other end of the room, and carefully picked up the cigarette that had been lying peacefully in its tray.
"The only thing you have proven to me is that you are a frequent visitor to ‘Morrissey-solo.com.’" she said, still unimpressed by his telepathic performance.
"Ok, I see, I have no idea what ‘Morrissey-solo.com’ is, but I am willing to prove to you that I can indeed read what you are thinking. Go ahead, think something that you have never revealed to anyone but yourself, not even to your closest set of walls."
She shifted uneasily against the door, speaking cautiously with her eyes, while suspending her thoughts in case he was indeed telling the truth.
"Go ahead." he said.
"Go on, think something Suzanne... think."
Slowly, with the same amount of caution as before, she eased her mind into replay, thinking back on the time she ran the counter of the bean bag toss at a local Church festival.
"Do you regret that Suzanne?" he said suddenly.
"Regret what?" she replied.
"Do you regret associating yourself with the Church festival? Furthermore, do you feel anger for the fact that you were given the bean bag counter to run?”
Suzanne stopped tugging the mist from her cigarette, and raced in the direction of the program console.
"Shlt!" she cried.
"A commercial was supposed to be queued right now." she said, her voice quavering with panic.
The "Shaka-Zulu" episode had run over leaving an awkward slice in the stories procession. Suddenly calls began to pour into the station as Suzanne paced frantically caught between the severity of her mistake and the reality that this strange man was actually able to read her mind.
"Suzanne, I'm sorry it was my fault, I shouldn't have come at this time. I'm sorry, I just felt this desire to get your opinion on something that I felt we shared. You see, this power that I possess, I rarely wish to respond to it, but you see, with you... with you Suzanne I feel this pull, this urge to get close to..."
The entrance to the room swung open once again, but this time it was Suzanne's boss anchored in the doorway, glaring angrily at her.
"Suzanne, your ass is gone!" he shouted, leaving as swiftly as he had arrived.
Suzanne's mouth dropped open, as the cigarette she was holding fell abandoned to the floor.
The man looked as equally phased by the entire event, gently placing his hand on her shoulder.
"I'm... I'm sorry Suzanne," he said quietly.
She grabbed her army surplus bag and stormed out of the room in complete silence.
The man followed her into the parking lot where she was fumbling to ignite another cigarette.
It was drizzling, and the night sky grew even darker, as if it had anticipated this exact moment in her life.
"Suzanne, I’m sorry, honestly I am."
She twisted toward him, stabbing a glare into his eyes.
She began to cry as her lower lip contorted into sadness, with tears racing down her cheeks.
"What? You want to know what I think makes a supreme 'Different Strokes' episode? Is that what you have come to find out? Ok, fine then, I’ll tell you!"
The sobs echoed in the parking lot, ricocheting off the unburdened cement.
"Do you remember when Kimberly tried to dye her hair, and it came out green, and…"
Suddenly she stopped talking and thrust the unfinished cigarette directly into his forehead.
"Go to hell!" she said, as she leapt onto her bicycle, and quickly sped off into the rain.