Incident #1: The Minotaur

To be fair, the first time it happened, with the Minotaur, there was really no way Misha could have known what was going to happen. He had been doing special-effects make up for a long time, and nothing remotely bad had ever happened before. Yes, recently, almost over night it might seem, his work had started to get much better, and well, more realistic, so that (seemingly over night) he started to get much more high-profile, and higher paying jobs—like the Sprite commercial with the Minotaur.

It was only after the actor had been in full make-up for over an hour that anyone noticed that he was acting strangely, and even then it was assumed that his overly aggressive, almost bull-like attitude towards the director and crew was just him getting into character. They just thought it was method acting, ya know? It really wasn’t possible for anyone to know that something was wrong, including Misha himself, until after the Minotaur ate that poor girl who worked for crafts services. Even then, everyone assumed (although Misha had to admit that he started to feel slightly uneasy and maybe even partially responsible for the whole thing, even though he did not yet understand why) that the actor playing the minotaur was having some sort of psychotic episode, maybe one in a long history of other psychotic episodes that no one had known about. Of course the fact that the Minotaur bolted from the set almost before anyone could fully process what had happened, frankly made it impossible for this hypothesis to be confirmed or refuted.

Incident #2: 1/2 Woman, 1/2 Bunny

When Misha got the job at Playboy (doing their special edition Furry issue) he was super excited! He was living every man’s fantasy and accomplishing one of his own personal goals: working for Playboy was on the bucket list he made when he was 15!

Misha honestly felt that the bunny was some of his best work ever. He covered the model head to toe in a downy white fur that looked almost natural. He managed to combine the facial features of bunny and woman so perfectly that they were not disturbing as often happens with human/animal make-up hybrids, but instead cute and alluring.

And things really didn’t go as badly as they did with the minotaur, there was no bloodshed or cannibalism this time, bunnies are gentle plant-eating creatures. The only person who was really hurt was the young woman herself, whose promising career as a nude model would likely be cut short now that she was permanently covered in fur and insisted on hopping on all fours instead of walking.

Yes Misha felt guilty about ruining the poor girl’s life, he knew she would be branded a freak for the rest of her days, that she would have to adjust to the life of a misfit and outcast, when she had always been a beautiful, well-liked, and desirable young woman. Misha felt bad about this, very very bad… but this was his career, he couldn’t just stop because of a couple unfortunate accidents.

Incident #3: Merman

Then there was the ad for Chicken of the Sea. Yes that one was pretty bloody. Who knew that a plastic trident could do so much damage? It was too blunt to completely skewer the director, but the doctors in the ICU where he now lies aren’t making any promises about his recovery.

Misha was a bit worried about the make-up holding up under water (it’s often a precarious and messy situation), but WOO BOY it looked fantastic! The greenish tint of the merman’s torso remained even and the silicone flaps that he had glued to his stomach to form gills stayed attached, and the tail with its perfectly formed iridescent scales was a thing of beauty.

If only they hadn’t drained the tank, mermen can only breath under water.

Incident #4: Zombies (AHHHH!)

Now this is where things really got out of hand, and Misha started to regret not stopping a career which inarguably had become deathly hazardous to himself and others.

Misha had often dreamt, in his darkest most horrifying nightmares, that a Zombie plague would hit greater Los Angeles, but he never suspected that he himself would be the cause of this pestilence.

He really had considered turning down the job on the latest re-make of Night of The Living Dead, but it would be his best paying gig yet. Plus, he loved the original, but it had terrible make-up and he really thought he could improve on it. It was too tempting an offer. Even though he now feared that some sort of curse had befallen him, he hoped that the other incidents were just strange flukes.

Misha had such high hopes for this film! He knew his work would elevate the zombie film to a work of art, that he would one day be lauded as the greatest special effects make-up artist who ever lived! But alas, the film would never make it past the first day of principle photography, when a horde of extras in zombie make-up attacked and ate most of the crew.

Epilogue

Misha managed to survive the zombie attack by hiding in one of the light cases (he is small and surprisingly flexible), but it will not be long until they come for him again. Their numbers are growing everyday, and police action has been slow and disorganized. Misha lives out his last days in fear and regret, watching the news coverage of his destructive handy work.

The Minotaur too has not been captured. Rumours claim that the strange creature has been terrorizing teenagers in the Valley, but these reports have not been substantiated.

Rain falls down in paltry drips on my windshield, little enough that I contemplate whether or not to bother turning on the windshield wipers as I idle at a stop sign on the corner of Jefferson and Columbia. I glance out the passenger side window of my car and see a girl standing on the side of the road in front of the stop sign. She pulls my thoughts away from the rain to her like a magnet. She holds a green skateboard in one of her hands and uses the other to sweep a strand of hair out of her face. Her round cheeks are flushed so that they almost match the pink of her mouth. We make eye contact, she has hazel eyes, and there is something about her stare and the way she furrows her brow that looks so… lost. There is a blaring HONK and I realize that there is a car waiting behind me and the intersection in front of me is clear. I turn my eyes back to the windshield and press my foot to the gas peddle, moving myself and my car onward and away from the girl with the skateboard.

The day drags on. The rain persists in a drizzle, everything looks greyer than usual, colors dampened by the overcast sky. I stare out the large front windows of the auto parts store where I work, outside there are two stray cats traipsing through the parking lot. Our town has been overrun by stray cats in recent weeks, it’s as if they are gathering for something. Soon they may outnumber us, take over our homes and businesses to create their own cat society. Then they will no longer have to worry about scrounging for scraps in knocked over trash cans, or escaping capture and extermination by animal control. They will be free to do as they please, and we will be the ones wandering around, wondering where our next meal will come from.

“Hey Zac, earth to spaceman. This is no time to zone out, you’re on the clock, and we have customers who need your assistance in selecting the correct products for their auto maintenance needs.” Tom, the assistant manager, slaps me on the back and pulls me from my reverie. Tom is an idiot and a douche bag, and he makes my day hell when the GM puts him in charge.

“I was watching those cats. It seems like they’re everywhere these days.” I respond.

“Yeah, my cousin works at McDonalds over on Cedar, they leave out leftover burgers sprinkled with rat poison for them, teach the fuckers a lesson.” He says.

“That’s Disgusting.”

“It’s population control. Get back to work.”

I think about the skateboard girl, almost like a stray cat with her hazel eyes and her lost look. And somehow the thought of her gets me through the day.

I get out of work at 7, stuck there for an extra hour doing stock, but it’s still light out and the rain has stopped. I drive to the Bond skate park with a small hope that I will find her there. I park my car in the lot and get out to look around the concrete skate ramps. I havn’t been to the skate park for a couple years, since high school, when I went there more for the easy access to weed than for the pleasure of skating. Most of the kids there look pretty young, no older than 14 or 15, but there are a few guys who look to be about my age. For a second I worry that my girl might be jail bait, but I disregard this thought because it really doesn’t matter if I can’t even find her. A guy with long greasy hair and 3 days growth of beard comes up to me, and I recognize him as Keith, we went to high school together. I’m less surprised to see him here, than I am that I don’t see anyone else I know, that the park hasn’t preserved my memories like a time capsule and my old friends haven’t been waiting here all this time for me to come back.

“Hey Zac! Where have you been man? I haven’t seen you in a dog’s age,” Keith says.

“Hey man. I know it’s been forever. How have you been?” I reply.

“Same old, same old,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. Keith was a burn out in high school, he didn’t even graduate. I have a feeling that the ‘same old’ that Keith is talking about is selling weed, cigarettes, and beer to underage kids. ”What have you been doing? Working?” I’m still wearing my work shirt, Keith points to the Advance Auto Parts logo embroidered on the right side of my chest.

“Yeah, gotta make a living.” I say.

“You should come by more often man! You and I are practically the only ones left from the old group, everyone has gone off to college or moved away. Most of them don’t even come back for the summers anymore, everyone’s parents are moving who can afford it, they say the whole town’s going to shit.” And then I realize I’ve been seeing an increasing number of ’For Sale’ and ‘For Rent’ signs outside of houses through out town, it’s been happening for a year now, I just haven’t been paying attention. The cats will own the town soon enough.

I want to ask Keith if he’s seen the girl with the green skateboard, but I suddenly feel uncomfortable. “Yeah I was just driving by and I thought I’d take a look at the old stomping ground, I have to run some errands, but I’ll come by soon.” And the lie creates a sick weight in my stomach.

“Ok, I’m here almost every day. It will be just like old times.”

We say good bye, and he gives me a hug, which just makes me feel sicker.

For a week I go back to the skate park every day before and after work, hoping to at least get a glimpse of a green skateboard. I mostly just sit in my car and wait. A few times I see Keith and we share a cigarette or a joint, we reminisce about old times and it feels surprisingly good. I don’t see her, she’s not there.

As a last ditch effort I post an ad in the Missed Connections section of craig’s list:

I don’t know if you saw me, but I was driving by and you were by the side of the road on a green skateboard…

We caught eye contact for just a second,

you seemed lost.

I’m Lost.

I hope you see this,

Zac

I don’t get any responses, but I’d already given up hope. Every day I stop at the same stop sign where I saw her, just like I always have, and all I see are stray cats, it seems like there are more everyday.

Although she knew it was unlikely, Tina feared that her lungs would collapse from her recent illness. Like most colds it had started in the throat, then spread to the sinuses, and now she could feel it slowly spreading downward into her lungs, and this was making it increasingly difficult to breath. Suffocation was one of Tina’s worst fears, right behind plane crashes, and cockroaches. In her nightmares, these fears were often connected, as in one scenario where cockroaches crawled into her nose and mouth as she slept, in effect blocking off all respiratory passages and making it impossible to breath, and in another where she was on a plane and there was an engine malfunction, which caused the plane to go down prematurely, oxygen masks dropped from the ceiling, and Tina put hers on as instructed but it was a faulty and did not provide any oxygen at all, and in yet another where mischievous cockroaches were actually responsible for the plane crash. But this current feeling of suffocation was not a nightmare, it was very real. 

I am in love with the baristas at the coffee shop that is located one and three-quarter blocks from the store where I work. The main object of my affection rotates from week to week. This week I am in love with the barista who has a reddish beard and wears a backwards baseball cap (in adherence with health code regulation: article 28, subsection C). I fell in love with his smile, because it is genuine but flawed.  One of his front teeth is shorter than the other, like it was broken in half in some sort of unfortunate accident, or as if it just didn’t grow in all the way.

I go to this coffee shop almost every day that I work. I believe that coffee is one of the only things that makes life worth living, especially since I quit smoking. There are other coffee shops in the area that I sometimes go to that have better prices or better coffee, but when I go anywhere other than my regular coffee shop, I feel like I have betrayed my lover.

I do not know any of the baristas names, I am too shy to ask them, I have not told any of them my name, but it is possible that they know it since I often pay with a credit card that has my full name printed on it in raised letters. Regardless, most of them know who I am and what my order is. Sometimes I engage in small talk with them, but my answers to their questions often come out mumbled and awkward.

I know almost nothing about any of the baristas, so I accept the possibility that I am not truly in love with any of them, but only love them because of their relation to coffee, which as I already mentioned, I love quite a lot. However, I really think that my feelings for the barista with the broken tooth and backwards baseball cap transcend that. The evidence I have for this was a short conversation we had shortly before I fell in love with him:

Him: Are you on your lunch break?

Me: Yeah, I work down the street. (I point in the direction of the store where I work)

Him: Where do you work?

Me: In a boutique.

Him: There are a lot of those around here.

Me: Yep.

Him: What did you have for lunch?

Me: A tofurky and cheese sandwich.

Him: You had a tofu turkey sandwich? Was it good?

Me: Yeah, I mean I don’t really remember what real turkey tastes like anymore.

Him: I like tofu. It’s good in soup.

In my AP English class in high school we learned that when characters in a book share food, it is not really about food. Sharing a meal is one of the most intimate acts human beings can experience. Food in literature therefore takes on a very intimate and often sexual meaning. If you’ve been paying attention, you’ll realize that people very rarely ask each other about what they’ve been eating and whether they enjoyed it, even though food is one of the few truly universal subjects. Is it because food is inherently intimate that we are reluctant to talk about it too casually? Maybe I’m over-analyzing, but I think this conversation means something.

My crush on this particular barista has continued into a second week. Everyday I try to get up the courage to ask him his name, but every day I freeze and put it off till tomorrow. I feel disappointment when I go to the coffee shop and he isn’t there. I think about him in the shower every morning before work. I’ve fantasized about kissing him, running my tounge along the broken line of his teeth.

I am afraid to ask him his name because approximately one year ago I went to see a psychic who told me that I should look out for a man with an M name: Mitch, Mark, Matt, Etc. I am not superstitious, I do not believe in psychics, but once someone puts a thought like that in your head you cannot get it out, even if you know it’s bullshit. I have not thought about it much since then, but my growing anxiety about the barista, has unearthed this memory from the recesses of my mind. A name might provide either disappointment or more pressure and anxiety, so I leave it at this perfect stalemate, where reality has not yet ruined the possibilities.