Microstory 1865: True Security

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This is the dumbest story from my life. Maybe that’s not the right word for it. Silly, I suppose. It’s certainly not the kind of thing a person should be thinking about as they’re on the brink of death. A normal person wouldn’t, anyway. I was known in my day as someone with an excellent memory. I didn’t have any supernatural ability, or even a diagnosable condition, like hyperthymesia or an eidetic memory, but I was good. In particular, I never forgot a name, and I never forgot a face. So it was a little jarring when a random woman came up to me in the bread aisle of the grocery store, acting like we were old pals. As she started talking, I was thinking that maybe she was mistaking me for someone else. I hear that sort of thing happens to other people. But while the things she was talking about didn’t make any sense, she used enough keywords for me to think that maybe we did know each other somehow, and I started questioning my confidence in my amazing mental faculties. Maybe I forgot people and things all the time, but they never came up again, so I never had the chance to even realize it. Perhaps this woman was tapping into a weakness that I was too blind to see I had at all. Was she a witch? A god? Was she still talking? I couldn’t understand most of what she was saying, her lips were moving so fast. She didn’t have an accent from my perspective, and she wasn’t mumbling, it was just too fast. I wished I had a little remote that would let me slow her down. But the more I thought about it, the more I thought I would probably just mute her, or turn her off. I didn’t need to talk to this person, except maybe I did, because she knew me, and I needed to know how! Yes, I had a cat when I was a child. No, his name wasn’t Mittens, it was Buttons. My first car? I made one up, because I don’t drive.

I keep trying to listen to her, but then I really did get bored of the “conversation” and wished that I could simply walk away. If I were anywhere else, I might have been able to, but I had this cart full of food. She would probably follow me, and skip the milk this week just so she wouldn’t have to end our little one-sided chat. Of course, I could have left my cart, and proceeded right to the exit, but that would have looked so weird, and again, what if she really did know me, and she tracked me down, and tried to spark a friendship? What was that about my mother’s maiden name? I still couldn’t—oh my God, she’s a scam artist. This woman was trying to get my bank information to steal my identity. Keep in mind that this was in the early days of the internet, so people were still mining for information in the real world. It was still bizarre. Joke’s on her, because of my great memory, all of my security answers were fake. I don’t find it any more difficult to recall a food that isn’t my favorite than one that is. It’s tomatoes, by the way, but I told her pizza, because that’s a normal answer. Then I just keep leading her on with her stupid little questions. I met my spouse in a city I had never been too, and also, I’m not married. The name of my first celebrity crush is an actor that I hate. My astrological sign? Really? I’ve never even seen that question before, and I would never use it, because it’s too easy to find out. I don’t even bother lying to her about that one. She went through so many questions, finding clever ways to sprinkle them in, I was almost impressed. Once she was satisfied, she claimed she had to get going, and we parted ways. It wasn’t until I tried to pay that I discovered my wallet missing. I realized that she wasn’t only probing for security answers. She was also distracting me from a pickpocket.

The Odds: Eighty-Three (Part V)

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I’ve already talked to you how I came up with Eighty-Three. I don’t understand why you’re asking me about it again. It just that the thing is that a four part story sounds weird, and I’ve already scheduled out one more week for this, and I’m not yet ready with the premise of my next story anyway. I had an idea for this final part, though. What was it? Dammit, I completely forgot what random thing I was going to talk about. I blame you. Oh yeah...no forgot it again. My sister’s chatting with me online. Give me a second. The lottery! Yes, that was it! Do you remember how this story started out with me claiming that I won the lottery? Well, I’ll explain that to you. Just to make sure you know, I make $11.95 in a job I don’t hate, but with very low weekly hours. I absolutely did not win the lottery, which makes sense, because I only played it once. And when I did so, it gave me the idea for what eventually transmogrified into this story you’re reading right now.

The story was originally not about me at all, and was planned as a standard novel. Think Slumdog Millionaire meets 2007’s The Winner. What’s that second one, you ask? It’s a Rob Corddry show about a guy from the present telling the story about how he was once a loser, but eventually grew to be successful. He..might have won the lottery, or he might not have. It was pretty bad, so I didn’t exactly give it much thought. The point is that my story, originally entitled simply Lottery, was about a guy who uses a special set of numbers for the lottery, and ends up winning. And the book goes over what each number means to him; why he needed to use them. Upon decided to start my website, the idea was truncated to weekly series form that I was intending to write sometime in the beginning of my second year. That ended up being what happened, but not everything went as planned, obviously. I sat down on my computer a few weeks ago, knowing what story I was about to start, but not having any clue how to actually follow through. This was the Saturday of, literally a few hours from deadline. So what was I going to do? I did what every bad writer does: I wove myself into the story. I created a fictional version of myself and laced him with exaggerations, straight up lies, and warped perspective. I just had to get something out. And this isn’t the first time its happened. Nearly any continuous series I’ve tried to write that doesn’t take place in a canon I’ve already created ends in disaster. Siftens Landing, Mr. Muxley Meets Mediocrity, and this weeklong group of microstories about a bunch of vehicular collisions. They were all bad, or worse, and those first two have been stripped from the book version I’m releasing later this year, along with this. Really, the only series I like that doesn’t belong to salmonverse or recursiverse is my Perspectives microstory series. And even that is hit or miss, depending on my mood, how much sleep I’ve had, and what I have yet to do that day.

This series was supposed to be a couple more installments long, but I’ve had to truncate it because of how little interest I have in continuing it. It’s no longer a story at all; more of just a collection of random thoughts. So the next two weeks are going to be a fairly short story, supposedly told in second person perspective. If you recall, back before I even had a short fiction website, I posted a little thing in second person on Facebook. It’s also told backwards. I considered it to be my first microstory, and reposted it here, so you can read it. If you want, whatever, no big deal *shrugs and blushes*.

I just went through thirteen years of photos, and thirteen years of calendar events. I was hoping to find an interesting story I could tell you about myself, even a fictional one inspired by my life. But the truth is that I desperately hope that no one is reading this at all. I’m just going to quit while I’m behind and end it here. I’m sorry to have wasted your time. It’s just as well seeing as I need to focus on The Advancement of Mateo Matic. I made some major arc breakthroughs yesterday and today. Eighty-Three more installments to go until we can get to August 5, 2151. What’s the significance of that one? Dunno, that’s too far in the future. Do I seem like the kind of guy who plans well? I just wanted to mention the numbers one last time. Speaking of non-sequiturs, here’s a picture of the time I jumped into the air in the basement and plugged the shop-vac into the ceiling socket. Not impressed? Let’s see you do it. But the ceiling we use has to have two and a half feet on you.

The Odds: Twenty-Four (Part II)

On Saturday, February 24, 2007, I went off to the movies to see five films in a row. I saw Music and Lyrics, The Number 23, Rush Hour 3, The Astronaut Farmer, and Reno 911!: Miami. In that order. Now don’t worry, I don’t have an eidetic memory. I wrote it down on my calendar. That’s about as many as I could see at the theatre (yes, that’s how you spell that word) in the town where I went to college before they closed for the night. Trust me, I timed it out many times. That second movie was terrible; just the worst. It’s about a guy who is obsessed with the number 23 (obviously) and seems to think that it’s controlling every facet of his life, or something like that. He turns out to be a serial killer, or something. I don’t really remember, and it was really confusing because...eeso baaad. The plot was evidently lifted from a preexisting theory known as the 23 Enigma. It is probably one of the most famous examples of apophenia, which is the assumption of patterns that do not exist. 23 only seems like it appears all over the place because you’ve had the notion that it does, and every time it does show up, it confirms your suspicions. This psychological phenomena, and related conditions, are some of my favorite that do not involve language.

I decided to call this story The Odds because it’s kind of about the lottery, but perhaps I should have instead called in Tangent, because there is no way you have any clue just what the hell is happening here. There’s this psychological phenomenon involving language called logorrhea where you basically can’t stop goddamn talking. And so I’m using this story as a mean of spitting out my thoughts as they come, mashing up my personal experience with this bullshit story about winning the lottery. I don’t really think it through that much, and I believe that it shows. Just remember that you don’t have to read it, and I fully expect this to be my least popular stories, besides that godawful Siftens Landing; Jesus Christ. What am I doing right now? I mean there’s meta...and then there’s this. This thing. It’s freaking me out. Are you freaking out?

Moving on. The 23 Enigma is important, because that’s what this lottery story all comes down to. For the most part, numbers only hold relevance as you expect them to. Twenty-three doesn’t appear any more often than any other number, but someone arbitrarily settled on it once, and now people can’t get away from it. For me, however, Twenty-Four is one of the numbers. Twenty-three actually is too, because it’s one of the LOST numbers (4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42). But Twenty-Four was the very first number I chose, long before I had any aim to play the lottery. Are you ready for another tangent story about my childhood? No? Good. Here we go. When I was thirteen years old (don’t worry, that’s not one of “the numbers) I was...crap, I need to go back further. When I was a little baby child baby, I fell in love with science. I had a laboratory in our basement that was really just a microscope, a book on genetics, and some graphing paper. Dexter would be disappoint. At some point I was going to be a Quantum Physicist, a Biochemist, and a Meteorologist. Respectively, I chose these from Quantum Leap, a science field trip I took in fourth grade, and doing well in meteorology in seventh grade. Tell me please that I’m not still such a basic bitch.

Come eighth grade, I start failing science class. And wouldn’t you know it, it’s all because of balancing chemical equations. Damn. I remember standing in the hallway where the grades were posted for a couple minutes, rapidly resigning myself to the fact that science was absolutely, positively, inarguably not my thing. But writing was. I was always good with language, and don’t remember having to learn the alphabet. I had intended to write science textbooks, but now I needed to shift my paradigm over to writing full time. I experienced two years of experimentation; Quantum Leap and Harry Potter fanfiction, mostly. Following a trip to the Florida Keys in the summer of aught-two (yeah, I’m using that word wrong, but I don’t even care cuz I’m a rebel), I found inspiration for my first novel, and things really got started. But one thing I determined during that experimentation period was that I would always write in terms of Twenty-Four. My novels would each have twenty-four chapters, my anthologies would be published in collections of twenty-four, and—after I started writing television—my TV series would contain twenty-four episodes per season.

Despite all of the rules I’ve set up, broken down, rearranged, and twisted throughout years of honing my skills, the Rule of Twenty-Four has held strong. In fact, I believe that it is the only early thing to survive my tenure thus far (save for the Anti-magic clause of 2003), and I see no reason to change it now. There isn’t really any specific reason why I chose it, however. Sure there are twenty-four timezones and hours in a day, but can you think of anything else? I just now looked it up on Wikipedia and found there to be very few uses of the number significant enough to publish online. It’s a nice enough number that’s easy to utilize in everyday life, so it’s not outcast like Eleven is, but I dunno. I like it despite how great it is, and I don’t think there’s anything more I can say on the matter. I have to get ready for class, but I may write more tomorrow after reading it with a fresh...perspective. Heyo, perspective reference. I can’t be stopped! If you read this in published form, independent from my website, then that doesn’t mean anything to you. But I’m currently running a series of microstories that each belong to a different character’s perspective. Now does it make sense? Crap, I’m gonna be late. Hey guys, I’m back. It’s tomorrow and I’ve added very little to this story. I guess I’ll just have to settle with what’s here. I know you won’t like it, so I just hope that you’re at least okay with it.

Do you see that? I think Forty-Two is on his way.

The Odds: Eleven (Part I)

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I’ve always wanted to play and win the lottery, but I never have. I was convinced that the chances of winning were so infinitesimally small that the perfect set of circumstances had to be in place for a win. You can’t win by playing over and over again, because each time you play, your chances revert back. Playing more than once increases your chances of winning one of them, but not of winning any of them. And so I waited. I continued on with my life without giving it too much thought, but it was still always in the back of my mind. I was not born with nothing, but could not simply have anything I wanted. I know how important money is. When I was nearly fifteen years old, my parents suggested I get a job. I’m not quite clear on the specifics of the law, but I know that I could have started working at least a year earlier, and I’m not sure why I didn’t. Looking back, I feel selfish for that. My father suggested I become a lifeguard but I don’t know what gave him that idea, but it would explain why he waited until I was older.

I have an extreme and overpowering instinct to protect people. When pedestrians are crossing the street, I slow down, not so that I won’t hit them, but so that I can keep an eye on them and make sure that no one else does. If I were to hear a bang, I don’t think I would hit the floor, I think I would look for people who needed help. Now, how effective I would be in a crisis is a different story, but my main concern is always others. Months ago, I was diagnosed with autism, and I’ve spoken briefly on this, but I didn’t really get too much into it. The word autism is from the Greek autos, meaning “self”. It is generally characterized by self-absorption, and a sometimes debilitating fear of interaction with others. Autistic people are all different—there are as many types of autism as there are people with autism—but one thing that seems to bind us all is social anxiety. This has led experts to believe that we spend too much time in our own heads, and that we are not concerned with others. But this is an insulting and ridiculous description that I take offense to.

The truth is that I don’t process information the same way neurotypical people do. I don’t ask questions, I don’t try to discuss, and I don’t even read as much as you would think. I learn best by seeing a problem and finding the answer through logic. Historical figure John Doe did this and this and this. Why? What was his motivation? Well, tell me the time period, his economic station, and his location, and I might be able to figure it out. That was not only an example of my thought process, but also of my expertise in tangent. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this is actually a tangent of a tangent. Mind blown?

When I’m in my own head, I’m not thinking about myself; I’m thinking about you. I’m thinking about what you want out of me; how I should respond to you. I’m thinking about the kinds of things you like and hate. I’m looking at how you dress, how you stand, how you look at me, how you look at others, whether you’re attractive, if you understand the value of a dollar, what movies you like, what you ate for breakfast, what your problems are, if you really hate me as much as I think you do, who you’re going to vote for, and if you’ve noticed how long I’ve taken to respond to you. And when we’re not in a conversation, but you’re in proximity, I’m thinking about whether you’re going to say something to me, what you’re going to say, and what I should say to you. I’m calculating every single possible scenario that could possibly come out of this, consolidated so they’re easier to manage. You might be mad at me, or you might be planning to give me a compliment. Or the world could end. It’s all possible, and I don’t really worry about which ones are the most plausible. I just throw them all in there.

All of what I’ve said is relevant because, since you didn’t know what I was thinking when you were around me, I’m not sure how my father could have known that I would excel at being a lifeguard. Even though I have this urge to help and protect people, I sure as hell don’t seem like I do. I would imagine that a great deal of people would think of me as kind of a dick. I don’t try to be rude, but I def come off as that, and it’s because my facial expressions don’t match my feelings. But that’s just me, that’s what my face looks like. You call it ugly, but it’s better known as bitchy resting face. Look it up.

I did well as a lifeguard, but it ended when I graduated from high school and went on to other things. I’ve had many jobs since then; more than I wish I had needed. And I’ve hated all of them, for varying reasons. I sometimes hated the people I worked with, and sometimes hated the work itself. But for the most part, I hated them because they ended. Looking for work has been the most stressful neverending experience of my life. I thought school was bad, but at least they let me in the door.

Both fortunately and unfortunately for me, I’m a writer. D’uh. And I’ve always had this idea that one day, I’ll publish a book, become rich and famous, and I’ll never have to work again. That’s not worked out so far, and so I’ve had to continue my search for work. But the fact that it may still happen—and I can never prove that it won’t—has always held me back. I’ve never been able to pursue a job search at full force, because it’s always seemed like a stepping stone. I didn’t think I would ever need to worry about a career, and I’ve just learned that I didn’t. But not for the reason I thought. I found money in a different, mostly unexpected, way.

Eleven. I was born with an extra finger on my right hand, which meant that I had eleven manual digits. It was surgically removed when I was eleven days old. Either because of the surgery, or just because, the rest of my fingers and jacked up. Goddamn ten. Eleven is a weird number, and I’ve always admired it for that. One is the loneliest number. It takes two to tango. Three’s a crowd. There are four elements. Five is a spiritual number. Hexagons are some of the most useful shapes. Seven is...never mind, that one doesn’t count. Eight ball. A cat’s nine lives. Ten is so perfect that everybody loves ten and fuck ten! And people like things that come in dozens—heh, gross. Nobody cares about eleven save musicians and physicists, and so I care about it. Nobody bases things in eleven. No one uses the undecimal system. No one organizes things in groups of eleven. Nobody likes it. It’s either more than you need or less than you think you deserve. It’s in the middle, it’s outcast, it’s dismissed, it’s teased and underestimated and thrown away. It’s me. I’m Eleven, and so that’s why I chose it as my first number.

Actual size.

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Microstory 7: True Story II

When I was very young, no older than five years old, I saw someone on television doing gymnastics. I would later learn that the trick they performed was a round-off back handspring, backflip. I turned to my mother and said, "I want to do that." She said, "okay." Sometime later, I started gymnastics. And I did it for eleven years. I also played baseball for several years. When I entered high school, my parents made me join the dive team. I ended up doing some swimming events as well. But I never liked it. There was too much competition. And I would prefer a world where everyone wins. Plus, I'm afraid of heights! But that's all another story. The point is that I was physically active for my entire life. It was second nature. I didn't realize that it was keeping me healthy. Then I went to college. All of it stopped. I spent so much time in a different city that I didn't even walk my dog very much. The meal plan allowed me to eat as much as I wanted, and only kept track of the number of meals. I was used to eating as much as I wanted and burning it off regularly. But not anymore. I gained a lot of weight. I won't get into specifics. It wasn't entirely noticeable to others if I wore the right clothes. Which meant it wasn't entirely noticeable to me. So, it just kept getting worse. I tried some diets. I tried becoming more active. But I am SOO busy. I spend every second of every day thinking about my stories, even when I'm asleep. Even when I'm doing something else. But I can only multitask so much and working out was, well...too much work.

The other day, I decided that I needed to push myself. I needed to force myself into a workout situation that I couldn't get out of. So, I started walking the 5.8 miles (42 blocks) from my house to my parents' house. At a certain point, there was no turning back. I could have called someone to pick me up. But that would have made me a failure. And, being Japanese, that's not really an option. My fingers swelled up, worsened by the fact that I didn't think to take off my ring. My feet blistered and suffered from poor circulation. But since my fingers were swollen, I couldn't loosen my shoelaces. But I made it. I had enough water. I had some good music. And I even made a few minor breakthroughs in my stories. There is no point, or really even an end, to this story. I'm telling it, though, because it keeps me accountable. And maybe if I know that others know I did this once, it will make it that much harder to excuse myself from doing something like it again. Thank you for your time. Microfiction resumes tomorrow on my official Tavis Highfill Page.

Microstory 6: True Story (so...NOT microfiction)

So, I have this sleeping disorder that causes me to sleepwalk, but it's really intense. I never think I'm in a different place, or anything. I always think that I've woken up. But the truth is that the dream I was just having bleeds into reality. I will spend a minute or two compelled to do whatever while gradually realizing what's going on. Last time, whatever I was dreaming about gave me the impression that there was something painful on my face. I don't know what it was, but it caused a burning sensation. I jumped out of bed, stumbled into the bathroom, and even turned on the light so that I could rub off the mysterious substance. Then I woke up and went back to bed.

Today, I drove a palette over from the warehouse to assembly. There is a gap between the truck and the dock, so we drop this dock plate to connect them. It's super heavy and cumbersome. Once I was done unloading, I lifted the dock plate by myself and ended up stepping right through that gap. I lost control of the plate and ended up smashing my face into it as I fell. But not just anywhere on my face. No. It was the exact same spot that I was trying to get the mysterious acid off of while I was sleepwalking the night before. Who says I can't tell the future?