Superstar Plumbing Quality Assurance Phone Transcript 12.1.09

BEGIN CALL 19:23:54

Superstar: Good morning. Thank you for calling Superstar Plumbing. How can I be of service?

Caller: (Frantic) I need to have a plumber come to my house right away.

Superstar: Of course, ma'am. May I ask the nature of the service required?

Caller: Can you send someone now? The water's getting everywhere.

Superstar: Okay, ma'am. Everything is going to be alright. Can you try to explain what's going on?

Caller: Uh...I'm not really sure what's wrong. (Water sounds) My bathtub keeps overflowing. And yesterday, I had to take a pot and...uh...scoop all the water from the tub.

Superstar: Okay, so the tub isn't draining fast enough? Or is it plugged altogether?

Caller: It's just draining too slow. And some brown water started coming out of the sink drain when I used the tub...flooding onto the floor. It's ruining my carpet.

Superstar: Just try to stay calm. It sounds like you might have a clog in your main line. I'll make a note of that on the service request.

Caller: I've just never dealed with stuff like this before. (Sigh) My husband used to take care of all this stuff. He was a plumber, and I...I just never learned about it because he'd fix it fast.

Superstar: It's okay ma'am. That's what we're here for. If I could just get some of your information, we can send someone right over.

Caller: Thanks.

Superstar: Your address please?

Caller: 5454 South 98th Street. Oakland. California.

Superstar: Okay. And I'll send someone over within the next two hours to help get that drain cleared up for you. Is that okay?

Caller: Yes. That's good. Thank you.

Superstar: It's my pleasure, ma'am. And thank you for choosing Superstar.

END CALL

Return Address: 24863 W Jayne AveCoalinga, CA 93210

Solid flesh can never live up to the bright shadow cast by its absence. Time and distance blur the edges; then suddenly the beloved has arrived, and it's noon with its merciless light, and every spot and pore and wrinkle and bristle stands clear.

from The Blind Assassin

Dear Jen,

Time moves slower than I thought it would, and time moves even slower since I don't know when you'll come next. You might think that the anticipation of your next visit would paralyze me, but not having you at visiting hours is much, much worse.

I should have listened to you more. I remember waiting for you on stone stairs outside your classes. The class would finish and hundred of scholars, your peers, would stampede their way over me. Even though there were people all around, I felt isolated that they, and you, were living in a different world.

I should have read more books you told me to read. That's one good thing about being in here: I have more time to read. I can't really remember the books you told me about except one by Margaret Atwood. I only remember cause you said she was the only good thing to ever come out of Canada. We were in McDonald's when you said that. You were eating an apple pie. I guess I did pay attention...sometimes.

Jen, I'm sorry. Things weren't supposed to be like this. I think about you all the time. This one guy Ken said that, in here, dreams drive you crazy. Like mirages or something like that. But the two times you came to visit were great. They didn't drive me crazy; they kept me going. I remember you kept worrying about your hair or saying you looked like a mess. But you know? I'm a mess too. Even though you don't look as good as you do in my dreams, I'd rather have someone at the bottom of the dungeon with me, even if it's only temporary. I'd pick your rough hands over the smooth fingers of a phantom any day.

Come back soon,
Brian

Falling in Love

A triumvirate, a holy trinity of truly juicy apricots surprised me on the street: such smoothness, such freshness to be sitting upon a container for the rotten and forgotten. I imagined picking one up, my fingers instinctively searching for a sore or bruise—but there were none. The grove of fragile white hairs circumnavigated, uninterrupted, around the face of the fruit.

I felt warm liquid flow inside of my cheeks. This saliva of anticipation is not the same viscous bubbly spit used to swallow a pill. This is clear. This is the unique warmth that prepares my mouth, my entire body, for something juicy and sweet...and extraordinary.

In my mind, I touched the apricot to my open mouth. The gentle fur teased the grooves on my lips. My front teeth searched for the natural crevasse between the two hemispheres of the fruit.

I pierced the skin.

The engorged orange-pink flesh leaked nectar and pulp into my lips. My tongue and teeth worked to skin the mound of pure apricot flesh from its peel. I swallowed the pieces. My throat made the sound like I was gulping water. My throat moved more smoothly than when it is swallowing jell-o.

I examined the hole my teeth left behind. The blood of the apricot osmotically clotted its wound, like water filling a hole dug in shoreline sand. I sipped the excess juice from the divot and cherished the sound and the flavor. I loved it.

But I awoke to the smell of the trash. Garbage is composed of seemingly random parts, but the smell is always predictable. Maybe there is a waxy-paper wrapper with scalene triangles of melted cheese. Perhaps there is a clear, plastic cup with half a shot of melted ice at the bottom. And maybe, just maybe, there is some rotting fruit: delectable flesh decaying from its state of perfection.

The perfect summer apricot, waiting for me on the street, stays perfect only in anticipation. And with that, I penitently smiled, leaving the trio intact.

Fireworks

Daisy hated fireworks. It wasn't that she was particularly unpatriotic. She loved eating 4th-of-July hotdogs that carelessly fell to the floor. And she loved lying by the warm oven as the evening's apple pie browned. It's safe to say that she loved everything about the 4th except for the fireworks.

Around 9 pm, exactly when the navy blue and the ruby orange skies reconciled, Daisy could sense the inevitable. It was the sound, the repeating din of fireworks that drove her insane. She tried her best to cover her ears as she ran around the house screaming, but when one of your hands is actually one of your feet, this is a difficult task.

One year, the fireworks over Kailua Beach started a bit early, and Daisy was still outside. She tried her best, but her phobia and momentum carried her through the screen door into the house. She didn't just rip the mesh—she ripped the screen from its hinges.

I guess I'm a bit like Daisy. I often hope to have bad seats for a fireworks show: that the fireworks actually explode a great distance away from me. I've been to three 4th-of-July shows when the fireworks would explode directly over my head like I was wearing a hat made of igniting firecrackers.

Looking heavenward, the biggest of the explosions expanded wider than my eyes could perceive. It was as if God himself was revealing a part of his own body. The sublimity of the sky mixed with the pounding resonance in my chest made an experience thought-provoking, not celebratory. If a man-made ball of gunpowder could be that terrifying, think how big God would be. Or Satan.

Daisy died of cancer in mid-June 2006. Driving home from the vet, an empty dog bed in the back seat, I thought that the timing of the disease was the one silver lining: she lived thirteen years but only experienced twelve 4th of Julys. Daisy wouldn't need to rampage through the house with a tumor sloshing around in her chest. Daisy hated fireworks. And I guess I do too.

I didn't watch the fireworks that year. I just sat on the couch watching syndicated sitcoms. I listened though. I heard the starting slow cadence of ricocheting pops build into a grand crescendo of machine-gun rounds fired into the air.

I live only a few blocks from the beach, so the sound always shakes the figurines on my shelves, but the evening seemed calm and tranquil—and lonely. I had no one to bark in my ear as I held them, whispering, "Happy birthday, America."

Why This Man Excercises Every Morning

Death notice
July 3, 2004

Jeannie Chu passed away peacefully on June 26, 2004. She was born in 1924 and passed away just one month short of her 80th birthday.

She was a loving and vibrant person who had a life full of accomplishments. She worked as a seamstress for over 25 years, and her elegant and quality alterations attracted a loyal following. She had a deep passion for the violin and, after she retired, she enjoyed giving lessons to the local youth. She was well-known in her neighborhood both as a seamstress and as a musician.

Jeannie was an ardent patron of the arts, especially the theater and the symphony. Jeannie loved the outdoors. Early in the morning, she could always be found with her husband practicing Tai Chi.

Jeannie leaves behind her husband, Walter, of 42 years, their two sons, Jason and Charles, their three grandchildren, Alice, Mark, and Stephen, and their dog, Bobo. Jeannie had a wonderful life and will be missed dearly by her family and friends.

Special thanks to the caregivers and wonderful staff at Pathways Hospice Care. Instead of flowers, Jeannie's family requests donations be made to the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation.

Explaining Death to My Son

We watched the yellow balloon float higher and higher. My son was crying those uncontrollable tears and screaming those seemingly disproportionate screams. To me, it was just a drifting $0.10 trinket from Red Robin, but to my son, watching the balloon fly away was an act of helplessness against the infinite sky.

"Don't cry. It'll be okay."
"I want it back."
"It's so high though. Look how high it is now. Even the tallest ladder couldn't reach it."
"But where will it go?"
"No one knows. We just have to watch it float away. It'll land somewhere, though. All balloons eventually land."
"Where?"
"Somewhere. We won't see it'll again, but it still exists somewhere far away."

I held his hand that, moments ago, held the ribbon of the balloon. I got vertigo watching the balloon twirl higher and higher. The ribbon, once tethered to my son, chased the balloon like a line of six ducklings following their mother.

"We can go back and get another balloon if you want."

He stayed for a few more moments watching the balloon float south.

"It's so small now. It looks like it's farther away than the clouds."
"Yeah."


~~~


PS:











I killed a snail on accident this morning. I spread his innards a good three inches. That incident birthed this post.

Glue Trap

I don't get these mice. Obviously this glue trap is a dangerous area. Why would this second mouse come over and step onto the same area that another mouse corpse was rotting away on. They don't have any sense. Man, if I saw a dead body, I would be damn sure to go the other way. Stupid mice.

She didn't come home for two days. So he went to look for her. He checked the hallway, the kitchen, and the closet, and he finally found her in the garage behind the freezer. Her back left foot and the right side of her face were stuck in a glue trap.

Around her ankle, there were bite marks from her own teeth. But as she gnawed on her own flesh to free herself, her face also became stuck in the glue.

She must have struggled. The glue had torn the fur from her cheek. She might have wiggled free except her open eyeball was also stuck to the trap. When she tried to pull her head away, her eye stayed behind. He looked at her right eye, dislocated from the socket, and he lamented not being there to help her.

He slowly stepped into the glue, like he was stepping into a hot bath. He rested on his belly and faced her. He felt the glue take hold of his paws, his fur, his tail, and his lower jaw.

The female, made a wild, panic-stricken, despairing fight that soon exhausted her, and all the time the male had stayed with her...Then, while the old man was clearing the lines and preparing the harpoon, the male fish jumped high into the air beside the boat to see where the female was and then went down deep...That was the saddest thing I ever saw...and we begged her pardon and butchered her promptly. (Hemingway 49-50)

Works Cited:
Hemingway, Ernest. The Old Man and the Sea. 1952. New York: Scribner, 2003.

Kiss

A Conversation Overheard at Denny's
Of all the stupid things to do. I kissed
her. She's my only girl friend, and I fucked
it up. Now she knows. She knows about this.
We were friends. Now it's weird. We can't go back.

Dude, Jake, you haven't even talked to her.
Relax. She mighta dug the kiss. That's not
the point. The point is that she knows for sure.
She knows I dream of her, and that cannot

be wiped away. So what? You two are great
together. Everyone else thinks so too.
But she didn't get accepted to Yale.
I think the world of her, and can I move

away and leave the love of my life here?
I wonder what all this means for next year.


Dear Diary,
Jacob kissed me today. It happened just outside the photography room after fourth period. It wasn't like I imagined it would be. After dreaming of him for two years, after fabricating a meeting between us, after all my failed plans—he finally kisses me in the most unromantic manner.

We were laughing about how crazy Mr. Williams looked in class today, and before I knew it, Jacob leaned in so fast that our front teeth hit each other. It might have been more romantic if we had the chance to sink into the kiss, but as fast as he kissed me, he pulled away. It was the same length of kiss that I give my dad on the cheek. Just a peck. It wasn't at all like I imagined it. His spit was all around my mouth. It felt like I had just eaten ribs. I guess a hasty kiss is hard to aim correctly.

It wasn't slow or sensitive. He didn't run his hands through my hair. He just plowed into my face and pulled away. I think he was more shocked than me. After the kiss he said, "Sorry," and scampered away. I haven't seen him since.

I don't know why he was so embarrassed. Even though it wasn't perfect, I'm glad it happened. After so long a time, I had resigned myself to being his "friend."

But I wonder what all this means for next year.

Memories Lost in Waynoka, Oklahoma

The clothes line ran between the broad side of the tool shed and the Leyland Cypress 20 feet away. I sat in my metal folding chair watching 10 shirts dry, and I sipped on Country Time lemonade. Every time I pull the chair out of the shed, it has a layer of dust on it. It's gritty to the touch. After I wipe it down with my bare hands, it feels like I sanded some pine with 220 grit sand paper.

I love my bad posture. I slouched in my metal folding chair, my right leg extended farther than my left. My back curved with the pressure from the seat and the back rest. I rested my sweaty Country Time on my pant leg, on a coaster of dampness. I rubbed my thumb over the condensation, and I slowly tasted the liquid on my fingers half expecting to taste like salt sweat or lemonade itself. But it was clean water, gently spiked with Oklahoma air.

My shirts waved in the Oklahoma wind. Each shirt is a flag, a symbol of pride. The orange, collared shirt would be the flag for some ostentatious country full of artists and poets high on heroin or drunk on alcohol. The gray polo would be the flag for a drab country of architects and statisticians slowly calculating figures. And the white, ribbed undershirt, would certainly be the emblem of the romantic country, where unconditional love needs no colors or imported fabrics. I almost felt like saluting them, but I didn't want to stand up.

And the clouds darkened. The sirens blared down the street. This is one of the dangers of living in Tornado Alley. I almost felt like running, but I didn't want to stand up. This one would be small. I could feel it.

The "finger of God" touched down south of my house. An EF0 on the Fujita scale. I was right. My house was fine. My tool shed was fine. But a branch from the Leyland broke loose and snapped the clothes line. My United Nations fell to the ground. Disgruntled, I stood up and started collecting my shirts. But I only had 9 now. I couldn't remember which shirt was missing. Memorizing the laundry load is low on the priority list.

The tornado took away one of my shirts. I can imagine it floating like a plastic bag escaped from the garbage can. I thought about searching for the shirt, but it could anywhere in the county. It happens every year, losing my clothes to the tornadoes. I just folded up my chair and took my damp shirts back inside the house to wash them again.

Why Superman Isn't My Soul Mate

Superman and I used to date back in the late 1980s. All my boyfriends after Superman felt incredibly insecure, and who could blame them? Superman's rock-hard physique and his Kryptonian-on-Earth powers made him unbelievably sexual. I had pictures of him in my room, and, even though I was dating him, I would dream about him in bed with the lights off.

Sometimes, before I left for work, I'd stare at his square jaw and remember our perfect embraces while flying over Metropolis. My Man of Steel had perfectly supple hair. I'd run my fingers through it whenever he chivalrously kissed me. There was something so pure, so powerful, and so invulnerable about him. I loved him like someone loves their high school sweetheart: complete surrender.

After about 2 years though, I began to see his flaws. Yes, the Last Son of Krypton is perfectly moral and practically immortal, but I began to see past his invincibility. I couldn't love a Kryptonian--at least not a Kryptonian on Earth. The only thing that could hurt him was Kryptonite, and that bothered me.

Superman would simply put his one true weakness in a lead box and hide it. With the Kryptonite safely stored away, my dear Superman was forever invulnerable. But who wants to fuck perfection? I felt like he was always judging me while I was naked. I put on a few pounds, and I'm sure his vision saw everything.

I gave him my love. I gave him my intimacy. He knew all my secrets. And that is dangerous because I'm simply a regular woman. For humans, romantic intimacy is giving your partner your true self. Your partner with whom you are intimate, will know all the ways to hurt you because they know all about you. True intimacy is giving your personal version of "Kryptonite" to your partner and trusting that they will not use it against you. Superman had my Kryptonite. He knew how to make me cry. He knew how to make me angry. He knew how to make me vulnerable. Superman had my Kryptonite, but he never gave me his. "It's too dangerous to give it to you. I'll keep it safe in my Fortress of Solitude. Don't worry."

Maybe he didn't trust me. Maybe he didn't want to risk his life. But being a soul mate is about reciprocity. I couldn't stay with a man, even a super man, if we weren't equal partners risking equal amounts of ourselves. I would never, ever, use the green rock against him, but I wanted him to trust me enough to give me a piece. Even a small shard.

I see him every now and then. He's tried to make himself more human with Superman For All Seasons and Red Son, but I know that stupid "S" on his chest is as impenetrable as ever. I need a human. I need someone who knows what it's like to have mortal, ephemeral blood pumping through their veins. The woman in me might concede some meaningless sex; after all, he is the man of steel. But I will never again give him my heart.

Sir Toby

“Ma'am, can you please open the door?” Get the fuck out of that ghetto shit hole. Subway is just 6 blocks from here.

Supporting his weight and forearm against the door jam, Rob leaned forward resting his face and hiding his eyes in his right-angle elbow cubby. "Ma'am, can you please open the door, so we can see what that smell is?" Rob and his partner Cliff responded to the complaint that a "stench like a dying man was a'coming from apartment 4B." The two officers had been on the scene for 35 minutes now, and they were stuck on the same pickup line.

“Ma'am, can you please open the door?”
“No.”

The sound of the woman's voice was close to the door and two feet off the ground. The quality of her words were muffled. She must have been sitting against the door facing away from the hallway. So much for kicking the door in. HEADLINE: Bruiser Cop Crushes Crazy Whore.

Rob drummed on the door with the butt of his hand. His knuckles were turning bright red, and the fleshy part of his hand allowed him to pound just a bit louder. I can't believe this bitch won't open the door. Plus it smells like ass in the hallway. "Radio the fire department. We might need to force our way in," said Rob.

Cliff walked toward the end of the hallway near the open window talking into his radio.

“Ma'am, can you please open the door?”
“Why?"
“We just want to see what that smell is. We got some complaints from others in the building.” Just silence. Damn. It’s like talking to a fucking child.

"Ma'am, can you please open the door and let us just take a look inside?" Crazy fucking shut-in. I bet she just shit her grandma undies and likes the lubricant.

Cliff came back down the hallway rebuttoning his radio to his uniform. “Firetruck's on the way.”
“The 26?”
“Yeah.”
“Sweet. I haven't seen Jim in weeks.”
“Said it'll be about 45. They’re finishing up a fire over on Chestnut.” Things were silent for a moment. “I hope she doesn't have a dead body in there. She sounds nice. I don't want to arrest her." Cliff looked at the door and scratched his chin like a father waiting for her daughter to return from her first date.

“Yeah,” Rob replied. I hope she does have a dead body in there. That’s the only way this bullshit waste of time would be worth it. It’s lunch, and I should be eating a cold cut combo.

"It's not a dead body" emanated from the door.

Cliff moved closer to the door and took a knee. “What is it then?” Cliff asked just above a whisper.

“It’s Toby.”
“Who the hell is Toby?”

Cliff turned to Rob and shook his head. “Be quiet.”

What the hell? Why’s he giving me the look? Some crack-pot bitch barricaded herself in her dank apartment and I’m the asshole? Let’s just chop the door open when Jim gets here with the ax.

“Who’s Toby?” Cliff asked through the door.
“He’s my cat.”
“Oh.” Cliff quickly got off his knee and whispered to Rob. “I think I get it. Where’s the pamphlet we got last week?”
“Which what now?”
“That pamphlet that lady brought to the last debriefing?”
“I have no idea. Check in the trunk of the car.”
“Okay. Wait here. Try to keep her talking.”
“Fine.” What the hell are you looking for now? Just wait for the fucking ax. Maybe Jim will let me bring down the pain. I’ll splash that fucker right through the “4B” on the door.

Cliff ran down the stairs and out of the patrol car parked outside the building. Rob walked over to the open window to watch Cliff shuffle through the trunk of the car. Rob lit a cigarette and blew the smoke slowly out the window. Below, Cliff pulled out his phone and started making a call. Who the hell he’s calling now? Jim’s on his way with the ax. Cliff ran back upstairs.

“What’d she say?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you try talking to her? Or were you just smoking?”
“Hey, man. She’s crazy. What’s my talking to her gonna do?”
“Don’t call her that.” Cliff walked back over 4B. “I’ve got someone coming to talk to you. Maybe she can help with Toby.” There was no response.
“So who’d you call?”

Cliff passed Rob a black and white pamphlet. “The Centre for Living with Dying.” Holy fuck. Are you fucking kidding me? Rob opened the pamphlet. There were phone numbers and some bullshit quotations about living with loss and grief.

“How’s this place going to help her?”
“I got some woman named Carolyn on the phone. Said she could come right over.”
“What for?”
“Maybe she can help us out.” Rob was visibly annoyed. “Look. If this Carolyn lady can’t talk her out, then we can bust in with Jim when he gets here. Cool?”
“Fine.” This shit is getting old. I can’t believe how many tax dollars are going into this one holed-up freak.

Carolyn arrived 15 minutes later in a casual maroon pant suit from Marshall’s. She wore a red scarf and her hair was up in a bun.

“Hey. I’m Cliff, and this is my partner Rob.”
“Nice to meet both of you. So where is she?”
“Right over there in 4B.” I can’t believe this dyke has a fucking job talking to insane people. What a waste of money. If this were jungle law, I’d have chased both of them down and fucking eaten them for being so soft.

“Hi. I’m Carolyn. Officer Cliff called me. Can you tell me more about Toby?”
“He’s my cat.”
“What color is he?”
“He’s brown and white with a black tail.”
“So how’s he doing?”
“He’s dead.”

Can you fucking believe this? This lady has a rotting cat sitting on her lap. All that shit and decaying organs leaking out the asshole. No wonder this hallway smells like fucking death.

“I’m sorry.”
“It’s just that David died six years ago, and we didn’t have any kids. David and I picked out Toby from the SPCA together.”
“When was that?”
“About 8 years ago.”
“You and Toby are good friends?”
“Yeah, we were friends.” The words were quiet and muffled by sadness and the door.
“How would you feel if we had a small ceremony for Toby out in the yard?”

What? This is insane. She’s going to freak. I bet this cat-lady is gonna be insulted by that. I better get my gun ready when she opens the door with a butcher knife.

In the smallest words of the day: “That’d be nice.”

Jim and his team of firemen arrived as Cliff was just finishing the hole. The woman from inside the apartment, despite having nursed Toby for several days, was in pretty good shape. Her cotton night gown was slightly stained from sweat. Her hair was matted in the front from her own oils and poofed in the back where her head rested against the front door.

The woman walked to the hole and placed Toby in the ground. She was crying, but not as hard as one would expect. Toby’s legs were stiff, and Cliff had misjudged the size of the hole. But everything ended up working out. After some massaging and maneuvering, Toby fit snugly into the ground. Jim leaned on his ax as he watched Cliff fill the hole, patting down the extra dirt that always remains after burying a loved one. Rob sat on the back steps of the apartment building smoking.

In a moment mostly for herself, her words were barely audible over the wind. “I’m not crazy, am I Toby? We were friends. I only ever went out to buy you food, and while I was out, I would buy myself food. I'm sorry I couldn’t take better care of you, but you’ve spent the last 6 years with me. You can go see David now. Can you tell him that I miss him?”

Fucking ridiculous.

A pant suited social worker. A burly 28-year-old fireman. A police officer. And a woman who loved her cat. All standing in the run-down back yard of slum apartment building. Weeds tickling their ankles. The ground, hard and dry, now had one spot of tenderness.

Fucking ridiculous.

Jim put the ax down on the ground and walked over to the woman and gave her a hug. “When you’re ready, I’d love to take you to the pound and help you pick out another cat.”

They all helped the woman back up to 4B.

“You coming, Rob? We can get your precious cold cut combo now.”
“Yeah.” Fucking ridiculous waste of time. He flicked his cigarette onto the mound of freshly turned earth. Lunchtime, bitches.


The Centre for Living With Dying

Resume

Jafar
555 Oil Lamp
Desert Outside Agrabah, Arabia

RE: Bilingual Financial Analyst

Skills Profile:
· Can make up to three wishes for my master
· Bilingual in Arabic and Modern English
· Having a twisted beard
· Proficient in the Microsoft Office 2007 Suite
· Goal-Oriented
· Can violate the law of conservation of energy and other laws of Physics
· Can ride a horse at high speeds through a desert chasing a magic scarab
· Outsmarting “Street Rats”
· Works well in “itty-bitty” spaces
· Well-versed in searching for the Cave of Wonders

Employment History:
All-Powerful Genie: 1992-Present
As an All-Powerful Genie, I have learned to work with different kinds of clients/masters. I accommodate all different types of personalities, and I do not discriminate against my clients. I have a wonderful, red physique and a long black ponytail that portrays professionalism. My domicile is very small, and thus working late hours is not a problem.

Most Powerful Sorcerer in the World: 20-Minute Stint in 1992
As the Most Powerful Sorcerer in the World, I manipulated physical matter like turning an elephant in a monkey and a tiger into a baby tiger. I also used my magical staff like a golf club to launch a piece of my palace several hundred miles. I turned myself into giant cobra and used my snake-like abilities to further my career goals at the time.

Sultan of Agrabah: 5-Minute Stint in 1992
I wore white clothes during my reign as sultan. I unilaterally relocated the palace of Agrabah onto a mountaintop. I ruled on high as the sultan and tried to instill fear into my public.

Royal Vizier: 1989-1992
I advised the sultan in political affairs as well family affairs. I tried to marry into the royal family to help establish a healthy political future for Agrabah. I designed and developed a private workspace within the palace.

Reference:
Pre-The-Return-of-Jafar Iago

The Nine Deaths of Pooka

The enclosed room was not a playground but a proving ground. The desks, tables, and credenza were a gauntlet. A hop from the windowsill to the desk was the simplest of tasks. But only the strongest and most daring of the eight siblings attempted the leap of faith from the credenza to the bookcase. The drop: four feet down onto hardwood. Pooka, being the smallest, tried this jump only once. Her front paws never reached the top of the bookcase, her cheek slammed into the side of the case, and she landed on her head against the birch planks below.

...

Graduating to dry food symbolized something ominous. After being weaned off their mother’s milk, the siblings began to leave home. Families with children or couples in search of a pet came and adopted the eight one by one. Pooka was the third to go. The woman with shiny red fingernails lifted Pooka into the air. She held Pooka like a mother burping a child. Over the shoulder of the woman, Pooka caught the last glimpse of her mother, slowly patrolling the hallway. Her first night away from her home, Pooka chased her own shadow in room as if playing with her siblings.

...

Yarn balls and feathered cardboard mice from Petco were Pooka’s favorites, but recently sleep seemed more appealing than yarn balls. Naivety helped keep Pooka hunting the Petco mice, but curiosity and youthful vigor fade. The toys gathered in a basket in the laundry room. Pooka never learned how to take them out of the wicker basket, and she had no desire to learn.

...

Pooka was led inside by the warmth. She drifted away into a slumber amid the blouses, shirts, and socks. It was the perfect spot until Pooka was violently tumbled awake by a drying cycle set by the woman with red fingernails. Pooka spun around like she was in the first loop of a roller coaster. Tangled in clothing, she went limp and waited. Good thing the woman with red fingernails noticed the slightly arrhythmic thumping sound coming from her load of whites.

...

The neighborhood vagabond Charlie caught a hold of Pooka. She never understood why Charlie ran to her so determined or so vicious. Charlie smelled of the streets. He made sounds that seemed to be in time with his thighs. Pooka couldn’t get away, so she stayed with Charlie until he seemed to lose interest and jump back over the fence the way he came.

...

Two months inside of Pooka, six weeks at her nipples: Her eight children reminded Pooka of her mother and her siblings. But like before, the change to solid food was ominous. The woman with red fingernails gave Pooka’s children to families and couples who wanted a pet. As each child was taken, Pooka lost more and more will. And like her encounter with Charlie, she learned to stay still and let life roll over her. With the last child gone, the woman with red fingernails was the only other life in the home.

...

After a night on the town, Pooka couldn’t find her way home. With the fog of time dropping lower, obscuring her vision, Pooka felt more confused and blinded. All the streets looked the same. No amount of calling to the woman with red fingernails helped. Pooka tired to retrace her steps but eventually settled for the night in a doorway. Good thing the woman with red fingernails found her in the morning.

...

Just after coming home, Pooka realized there was nowhere left to go. Too lonely to run free in the wild, too old to start over. Her breath, thick as the humid air of Florida, enveloped her browning teeth. Her belly, growing large with the slowing of her metabolism, made it hard for her to clean herself. How long has it been? Where have all the lives gone? The balance has shifted—there is less to live than has been lived.

...

The right corner of the living room couch catches the sun perfectly in the afternoon. A thin film of hair covers the area where she curls up to absorb the sun. Today, her legs hurt just a little bit more, her head felt just a tad heavier. No birch floors or spin cycles. No fear or confusion. Pooka was not going to sleep; sleep is for those that have more lives to live. And she understood this.

Diamonds on a Desert Island

Even on a day like today, he's limping around the yard burying the rawhide bone. The backyard has become a minefield of sinkholes and upturned dirt.

He never eats the bones. As he's gotten older, his holes have become more shallow; with just a light flick of a foot, I found many a bone half decomposed by worms and bugs.

What a bewildering beast who gingerly takes the fresh rawhide bone and buries it in the ground. Poor fool! He never remembers where he buries them, or maybe he simply is waiting for the right day to unearth his bounty. Maybe, in his mind, the bones are like wine: better aged after a few years.

Even on a day like today, in his thirteenth year, his debilitated legs carried him out of the kitchen and into the yard to bury his bone. From the kitchen window, he excitedly hobbles as if he has a ten-pound sand bag hanging from one side. He is slower for sure, but when he receives the bone, his ears and eyes look as they did when he was younger. For once, I genuinely hoped he would eat the bone, but like always, he buried it somewhere on the side of house, saving it for an undetermined day worth celebrating.

It's 10:30. With a jingle of my keys, he moseys around side of the house to meet me in the front near the Jeep. Fresh from burying his bone, his paws track dirt from the backyard and leave little mounds of brown on the white driveway. After knocking some of the dirt from the webbing on his paws, I smelled my fingers, as I always do after I play with him—the smell of gardening and the smell of Fritos.

The step up into the car has been too high for years, so I lifted him up, sacredly feeling the lump near the border of white and black fur on his chest. Of course, it's still there.

On the way, we passed his park where we would meet other dogs in the neighborhood. We passed the clubhouse pool where I let him swim when no one is looking. We pass the Jack-in-the-Box parking lot where I picked him out from a breeder who drove down from Oregon. With him, life seems to be measured in events we've done together, not years.

On the cold metal table, she shaves a small acre of his fur away. She dabs the area with alcohol to prevent infection; she must have done this out of habit. It's 11:10. I put my nose and upper lip on his face, just between his eyes. I held his ears between the circles of my index fingers and thumbs. With my palms, I mashed his cheek skin over his eyes and whispered, “Don't look.”

As the cold chill coursed through his veins and blinded by his own skin, I imagine he saw his bones, stored for a tomorrow—all the time and potential in the world to unearth his life's work.