Insert Chassis Albuquerque: Chapter 5 - "Paris"

Chapter 5 - "Paris"
 We sat in the car.
“I don’t know what gets into her sometimes," my father had told me, shaking his head.
But I did – that one time, it was money.
No doubt about it.
I’d seen my mother vacantly paging through travel magazines, dreaming.
I was only 8 at the time. Frankly, I knew my father was as erratic as a rabid bat. Bats have had to stomach bad reputation but he'd deserved this one. My advice, don't eat bats, bats cause more confusion than anything else.
"You're mother, she's bat-shit crazy," he’d said.
"I don't think you should be saying mom's bat-shit crazy or telling me any of this stuff."
My father scoffed.
"Jesus! Just like your mother! What are you, bat-shit crazy? This is the greatest nation on the face of the goddamn earth! I can say whatever the fuck I want!"
Even then there was no denying it: I was the splitting image of my mother, minus the lies.
"Being honest will give you vaginal warts," my mother used to lie to me.
I guess she knew more than most.
My mother wasn't cut out for such precision work as the truth. She was a real professional, to. She knew nothing but grandiose dishonesty and mammoth, contemptuous arrogance. As her outcast powers grew, almost from nothing her belligerent vanity twisted and distorted any dishonesty into an entire castles of lies.
I try be creatively accurate.
That means I trim the truth just to get through the day.
It means: Whilst I research the facts, I will often lie about them.
Funnily enough, despite appearances and what you’ve read, I’m actually closer to my mother. Anyhow, actual scientific studies had concluded I was a nostalgic dreamer and always would be.
“You are in a deeply disturbed ideological state. You forget all this nonsense about dreams,” our family doctor had strongly advised.
“I’m only eight – what the fuck, a man can dream can’t he!” I’d yelled.
I don't know why I’d thought my dreams were real or what had ever given me that impression in the first place. I’d refused to quit dreaming on the grounds I was a King of the Dreamers!
My mother believed I'd been struck by a meteorite. Our neighbor, Gilbert Klingel, had thrown a stone at my head (and his mother had told my mother - who was a fool - it had been a meteorite that had struck me).
"Just quit it, okay? Nothing good will come of dreaming!" my mother had insisted, paging absently through her travel magazines.
“A man who dreams can’t function in reality,” my father had said.
Then he’d made the Nazi salute.
As I said, it was a dark time.
I wouldn't say it had ruined my life and forced me to begin taking a variety of anti-anxiety medications with multiple contraindications, but it helped. Nine months, a course of experimental anti-psychotic drugs, a medical team, a secure psychiatric hospital and campaigning for decreased amounts of radiation and radio waves in the home I'd suffered from: Irregularly Developed Eyeballs.
I couldn’t believe it - all those years of my parents using the microwave to cook chicken and boil water, they'd stored the microwave in my bedroom because they'd worried it emitted radiation!
Can you believe it? developed eyeballs!
Speaking of radiation and dreaming, I see Paris from my rented Downtown Tokyo window, the Eiffel Tower in the distance. Well, actually, it's a painting of Paris seen from out of a window in Paris, but the thought's the same.
But it reminded me of the time I'd visited Paris. Parts of it were so beautiful I couldn’t stand it and had had to fight an impulse to want to start fires and burn the place to the ground. In reality, back in Downtown Tokyo, there’s the unpleasant distraction of a large gorilla down below smoking a cigarette whilst taking laundry from off the washing line out in the back of her small courtyard. My view of "Paris" is really the small, square graveyard of her washed shirts, socks, t-shirts, underwear, jeans and even two pairs of shoes; everything is (L)arge.
The woman shows little emotion, unaware she’s been observed.
It’s only when she tilts her head skyward and reveals a sour heaviness about her face, an unpleasant, ugly scowl that can’t only be because of the inclement weather.
I looked out at the world and suddenly I was sick of this scene - Paris? There's nothing special about Paris. The truth is anyone in Paris can sing a song! Besides, deep in my own thoughts, high on pharmaceuticals and killing time I died in the splendor of stepping away and receding.
The dulled sun droned across the gray sky…

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