The Writing Machine

Stories by Christian Cloud Abraham

The Dark Tale of Telepaphany

It happened in Beloit that a boy was born without emotions. This boy with no emotions was born to a family with emotions so he must have been simply a freak of nature. How do I know he had parents who had emotions? The boy had a name: Telepaphany. Or at least this is what they, his family called him. Of course, I can’t say his family did much more to show these emotions, but I invite you to be the judge. They sat all day on the couch compelled by some force of will that is an un-will, an anti-emotion, day in and day out. I can’t even say that they were ever overcome by great moments of passion either except when a commercial would suddenly appear from out of nowhere, irritating everyone in the family—except Telepaphany—as it interrupted their entertainment and almost inspired them with the urge to get up and off their butts and maybe do something else besides get the soothing mind rub all day long. But they never did. Instead it inspired them to search for better reasons to stay seated.

This required a display of emotion from Telepaphany’s father. The arm lifted on the body of his dad, and with the push of a button, the channel changed. But this usually did not stop here, this display of passion, it would geyser into an eruption of channel changing. And if the urge to get up and out of his recliner could not be soothed quick enough with the clicking of the channels, the other hand reached over to the coffee table and shook a pack of smokes until a filter peeped it’s head out of the pack. The old man would put the filter between his lips and pull the stick of tobacco out far enough to clear the foil, then light the smoke, looking at the flickering images on the television before him.

Oh an itch. That spot just barely out of reach, right beneath the neck. This could be one of the finest displays of aggression in the house of Telepaphany’s. It would attack Telepaphany’s father, this blistering nuisance beneath the neck, and his father would whip into almost a complete circle in his armchair—trying to catch his own tail so to speak—his arms scratching and scratching at his back. It was uproarious moment for the whole family if they could have looked away from the television for only a moment, they would have been able to enjoy the sight of their father falling out of his chair flailing at a flea bite or a dry skin itch.

The couch. The lazy boy. There seemed to be no end to the days spent in these contraptions of comfort. Life’s most precious moments took place in the soft cushions and plush velour of the couch and armchairs in the household of Telepaphany’s existence. What do you ask could be done so precious in these of furniture? Why dinner—the socially bonding event all families enjoy together. Yes, with the use of a nifty item like a fold-out tray, the family enjoyed a fine cuisine of macaroni and cheese (sometimes with little chunks of hotdog added for special flavor). On the side, a tasty bologna sandwich, piled high with cheese slices, a tomato, lettuce, all on delicious white bread. The event of dinner was extravagant. The whole family—-mom, dad, sister and Telepaphany—sitting around the living room with instant cuisine covering all corners of their fold—out tables (all except Telepaphany’s, who ate his blended and through a bag with a long hose, but it digested just the same) while dad cruised the channels for suitable family entertainment during this dinner hour, or half-hour, depending on the choice of transmission. Oh, and I almost forgot, beverages were of the most select choice and exotic flavor: cherry, orange, lime, purple and cola. So it should be clear to you by now just how much of a freak of nature Telepaphany was to be born emotionless to a family with, which now appears to be, such diversity and spontaneity or emotions.

And what of poor Telepaphany? Yes, poor Telepaphany is right. Because of his “condition,” Telepaphany never really reaped the full benefits of his surroundings. Without emotions, he was “will—less” and could do nothing but sit on the couch with his eyes closed and—er—well—just sit there. He had no drive to get up and leave. No drive to sing out and laugh. No drive to play the banjo or join a tuba band for that matter. Just sit in his place on the couch day in and day out with his family, as dad used his hyper trigger finger to rapid-fire the television stations, stopping at wildlife films and pretty women. And poor Telepaphany just sat there while mom ladled out the yellow macaroni slop and sister drew pictures with crayons on a scratch pad when an image on the screen took her fancy. Telepaphany, because of his “will—less—ness,” didn’t even open his eyes during these carnivalesque days of fun. Poor Telepaphany. Every day the same for Telepaphany. Wake up, get lifted out of bed to the bathroom to be plopped into lukewarm water. Then, after the usual ritual of teeth brushing, hair combing, clothes primping, and the “cleaning of the brown bag,” Telepaphany was dragged to the couch where he would spend the entire day until night time when arms would grab his legs and another set around his chest through the armpits, lugging him to his bed where he would sleep alone in the dark until morning.

END
© 2007 Christian Cloud Abraham

Posted on April 29, 2007 in
Emotion: Indifference, Type: Fiction