Friday, April 14, 2006
The Frustration of Sisyphus
Mr. Hermner had finally broken a sweat. He was alone, in cut-off shorts, a white T-shirt and old sneakers. The leaves beneath the hedges were now, as a result of his toil, just to the right of the hedges. He wiped his brow after dropping the rake and went inside.
"Honey," he said to no one. "Where are the leaf bags?
By now, reader, you'll hate him as much as I, the narrator, do. I'll let you in on a little secret. Mr. Hermner is not married and he does not live with anyone. Whenever he gets home from work he says "Honey, I'm home."
Mr. Hermner found the leaf bags. He reached in the box, unrolled the spool until the perforation was visible, and tore off a bag. Outside, he opened the bag and, sticking his toe in the opening, pushed little palmfuls of leaves into it. He had to extract a thorny twig before closing the bag.
He had a hard time tying the bag because it was so full it wouldn't twist enough to allow room for a knot. He put his foot in the bag and pushed down the leaves, which kept coming right back up. When he was finished he put the bag at the curb.
He raked under the maple tree, bagged the leaves, tied the bag and put it by the curb.
In the kitchen he drank a glass of water and looked out the screen door.
The reader will have a moment of sympathy for Mr. Hermner, Mr. Hermner being tired.
How did Mr. Hermner come by this house, with its curb and its hedges and maple tree? If the reader is interested in that, the narrator must laugh and say, "I'm not."
By now, of course, the reader will loathe the author. Let me remind the reader that I'm the narrator, not the author. Please don't make your mind up about me yet.
Mr. Hermner paid rent. He worked a five-day week, which often turned into a six-day week, for people he vaguely mistrusted.
The narrator wishes he didn't have to focus on Hermner. The narrator would prefer another assignment.
After putting the two bags of leaves by the curb, Mr. Hermner wondered if he should bag a third. He decided he wouldn't. He took a shower, drove to a supermarket, bought a flank steak and some beer and drove home.
Shhh! The author's tired. Let's stand on his shoulder. He's looking at the manuscript. He doesn't know what to do with it. He's just staring. Okay, I'd better climb down and get back in place.
After putting the flank steak in the refrigerator, Mr. Hermner folded up the shopping bag and put it in the garbage. He went to the couch, lay down and fell asleep.
I think the author's fallen asleep. While we've got a chance, do you want to know what he was going to call this? Wait, wait, wait, I'll tell you later, he's awake.
Mr. Hermner rolled over.
He wanted to call it "The Sis of Mythyphus." It was supposed to be about a blocked writer whose sister does something. The whole thing was created to fit the title. Then he decided this was just ridiculous, so he sumply focused on the frustrated writer.
Mr. Hermner heard a sound in his dream. One arm shot out, adreniline filled his bones and he yielded to slumbers.
"Honey," he said to no one. "Where are the leaf bags?
By now, reader, you'll hate him as much as I, the narrator, do. I'll let you in on a little secret. Mr. Hermner is not married and he does not live with anyone. Whenever he gets home from work he says "Honey, I'm home."
Mr. Hermner found the leaf bags. He reached in the box, unrolled the spool until the perforation was visible, and tore off a bag. Outside, he opened the bag and, sticking his toe in the opening, pushed little palmfuls of leaves into it. He had to extract a thorny twig before closing the bag.
He had a hard time tying the bag because it was so full it wouldn't twist enough to allow room for a knot. He put his foot in the bag and pushed down the leaves, which kept coming right back up. When he was finished he put the bag at the curb.
He raked under the maple tree, bagged the leaves, tied the bag and put it by the curb.
In the kitchen he drank a glass of water and looked out the screen door.
The reader will have a moment of sympathy for Mr. Hermner, Mr. Hermner being tired.
How did Mr. Hermner come by this house, with its curb and its hedges and maple tree? If the reader is interested in that, the narrator must laugh and say, "I'm not."
By now, of course, the reader will loathe the author. Let me remind the reader that I'm the narrator, not the author. Please don't make your mind up about me yet.
Mr. Hermner paid rent. He worked a five-day week, which often turned into a six-day week, for people he vaguely mistrusted.
The narrator wishes he didn't have to focus on Hermner. The narrator would prefer another assignment.
After putting the two bags of leaves by the curb, Mr. Hermner wondered if he should bag a third. He decided he wouldn't. He took a shower, drove to a supermarket, bought a flank steak and some beer and drove home.
Shhh! The author's tired. Let's stand on his shoulder. He's looking at the manuscript. He doesn't know what to do with it. He's just staring. Okay, I'd better climb down and get back in place.
After putting the flank steak in the refrigerator, Mr. Hermner folded up the shopping bag and put it in the garbage. He went to the couch, lay down and fell asleep.
I think the author's fallen asleep. While we've got a chance, do you want to know what he was going to call this? Wait, wait, wait, I'll tell you later, he's awake.
Mr. Hermner rolled over.
He wanted to call it "The Sis of Mythyphus." It was supposed to be about a blocked writer whose sister does something. The whole thing was created to fit the title. Then he decided this was just ridiculous, so he sumply focused on the frustrated writer.
Mr. Hermner heard a sound in his dream. One arm shot out, adreniline filled his bones and he yielded to slumbers.
# posted by Fredwemyss @ 3:40 PM 
