Over the tongue turned, three chews, then over once more. Effluent saliva sloshed against the staircase of molars, threatening slow dissolution of the starchy mush sliding slowly off the ridge of the tongue.

Life had been good on the cornstalk in Western Kansas, surrounded by family, basking in a quiet but friendly sun.

Later still, after the sacred rite of reaping, on the conveyor belt, pressed, baked, and seasoned into a perfect oval, replete with strengthening ridges. Never had the starchy mush felt such purpose, such power, as on that day.

And here it was, about to dissolve or be forced into darkness by the spasms of the larger tunnel ahead.

But low, another tunnel appeared, blocked by a giant, gyrating fleshdrop. A strong warm wind came from within – a way out – and the starchy mush leapt for it.

He perused the pages reverently, like a priest reading the bible, or a sixteen year old studying a driver’s manual on the day of the test.

Blanketing each page, the bony CMYK limbs of lithe girls spread before him, mostly arms akimbo, mostly smiling at someone off the page, mostly brunette, mostly flat-chested, mostly wearing jeans and v-neck sweaters.

Charlie kept a careful mental count, noting which girl he would take to the movies, which one he would see in another carol at the library and pass a secret note of affection, and which one he might sleep next to – clothes on – in her parent’s bed, while they were away for the weekend.

Windowless rooms always frightened him, the thought that this room could be anywhere, at the center of the earth, floating alone in space, inside the cellular automata of a small dung beetle.

Can’t this operation happen somewhere else?

He had a hernia. Surely the operation could be done in a room with windows. Sunlight wouldn’t ruin anything. They were asking him to count backwards.

He felt the tug of a razor as it stripped away the hair on his belly.

I know you. I know you, she screamed, voice already hoarse, pounding on the McDonald’s window. ‘You killed kids in the 80’s.

The puffy jacket man inside, obviously the target of her outrage, turned his back to her and fixed his eyes on the menu.

Minutes later when he emerged, bag in one hand, coffee in the other, she accosted him again. “I know you. I know you. You killed an Asian woman. You – killed – an – Asian – woman. I’m not stupid. I know you.”

He didn’t meet her gaze. He just shuffled past, muttering, “Shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up,” the puffy coat enveloping her, for a moment, in its Seussian shadow.

Then another volley of “I know you’s” as the snow erased his passing. She did not follow.

Instead, she came to wait with us at the bus stop, giving us the eye as she picked her way to the back of enclosure.

I know him. He killed an Asian woman and spilled his coffee on me.

We stood there, being buried slowly by the snow and wondered, who would be accused next.

The television was friendly and told you things other people didn’t know.

The television was frank, but polite, convivial, prone to laughter, but not without a serious side. It never asked any favors. It never wanted you to pass the salt. It just sat. You could push its buttons and it didn’t care. Even when the numbers wore off and the remote was so slick with finger grease you could barely hold the thing. You wanted to blame it on your brother, but everyone has finger grease. It could have been you. It could have been anyone. But it certainly wasn’t the television.

It’s easy to talk about geniuses.

That’s what exempts the rest of us from having to do anything at all. They were the ones figured it out. It’s cause they’re geniuses.

We’re not. We don’t have to figure anything out. Just have to sit back and enjoy the fruits of their labor. Responsible to no one.

But there is one nice thing about getting into the school books. They clean it up for you. Remove the stray hairs growing in your ears. Keep it real simple. They make you into ideas – Planck’s constant and other nonesuch.

I never had such an opportunity as to be in books. Haven’t read many of them either. That’s ok by me. Didn’t get born to spend my time that way. Some people are called to it. Other people just die, having read hardly anything at all. That’s me. Dead. Read hardly nothing.