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Bouvre

By Bouvre
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Bouvre Superstar

Bouvre

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Once there was a man who was tired of breathing.

         It’s just such a drag, he said.

         So he decided to stop, but found that he couldn’t—the air just kept going in and out.

 

         Hmm, said the man.

         He went to see a doctor.

         How do I stop breathing? he said.

         You don’t, said the doctor, looking at him strangely. If you stopped breathing, you’d be dead.

 

         Dead? said the man.

         He went home and thought. He sat in the kitchen for a while.

         Well, he said, I guess I’ll have to be dead.

         And he went and took the necessary steps.

 

         When he woke up in heaven, the man looked around.

         How’d I get here? he said.

         He looked down and saw that his lungs were still pumping.

         This is exactly what I didn’t want! he said.

 

         At that very moment, an angel came by.

         Excuse me—who’s in charge here? the man said.

         God, said the angel, and pointed to a hill.

         He lives right up there, the angel said.

         Oh? said the man. And what’s this God like?

         The angel frowned. He scratched his halo a bit.

         Well, he said, he is definitely benevolent, but some might say he’s a little strict.

 

         Strict, said the man.

         He walked up the hill. He knocked on the door of God’s house.

         Coming, said a voice.

         The door opened—it was God.

         Yeah, what’s the problem? God said.

 

         The problem, said the man, is that I’m still breathing!

         You don’t like breathing? God said.

         And he reached out and grabbed the man in his hand, and squeezed him.

         Is that better? he said.

 

         No! said the man—or at least tried to say.  The problem was, he couldn’t say a word. He couldn’t do anything—he couldn’t even breathe—God’s hand was so incredibly strong.

         Uh-oh, thought the man, inside of his head, as everything started to go black.

         And the consciousness of the man faded away to a point, and then the point flickered, and went out.

 

         And God looked down at the man’s body in his hand.

         Ugh, he said, and tossed it away.  Then he wiped his hands on the front of his pants and went back to watching TV.

 

         And meanwhile, outside, the man’s body fell—down it fell, lifelessly, through the clouds. And the wind whipped on past him—great gusts of wind.

         Then the wind went into his mouth.

 

         Oh! said the man, as he came alive again.

         And suddenly, it felt great to breathe!

         Wow! said the man. It’s so great to be alive!

         Then he saw the ground rising up beneath.

 

         Oh! said the man. Oh God, no no no!

         He squirmed and tried to grab hold of something. But of course, there was nothing—he was plummeting through the air.

         And eventually, he started to laugh.

 

         Well, said the man. I guess that is that.

         He watched as the world came rushing up.

         And he thought of his life—now coming to an end.

         Well, this is unfortunate, he thought.

 

         Because suddenly the man’s mind was crammed full of things—all the things that he had never done. He’d never climbed a mountain, never been to the Bronx. He’d never even learned how to sing.

 

         Well, thought the man, I guess mountains are out. And the Bronx—can’t get there from here.

         And so, somewhat shyly, the man cleared his throat.

         And then he started to sing.

        

         He sang a little song he made up on the spot, just some lines about things he remembered.  The people and places he’d known, dreams he’d had, different stories that people had told him.

         He sang about thoughts he’d had while driving in his car, about his best games down at the bowling alley. He sang about the girl he’d asked out in high school, and also about the guy she’d married. He sang about his cat who’d got run over by a car; he sang about the shows on TV. He sang about ice cream and tapioca pudding; he sang about a hundred million things.

         The man sang arias and carols and hymns. He sang ballads and lullabies and rounds.  The man sang pop songs, then country and blues. He found jazz and began to improvise.

 

         The man sang and sang and sang as he fell.

         And up in heaven, God watched it on TV.

         And after a while, God picked up the phone.

         He dialed a number and then let it ring.

 

         Yeah, God said, when someone finally answered.  You watching this? Channel 40,000,012? I wanna renew this guy for another season.

         Of course I’m sure, he said, and hung up.

 

         And immediately, down below, the man’s descent slowed—he was at that point about to slam into the ground—and instead of barreling into it at top speed and dying, he landed daintily with both feet on the ground.

        

         Oh! said the man.

         He stood there wobbling a bit.

         Then his knees buckled and he sat down.

         He was sitting in a field. He put a hand to his chest.

         He was breathing quite rapidly in and out.

 

         It’s okay, said the man, and gave a little laugh.

         That was an adventure, he said.

         And when he finally caught his breath, he stood and walked on home.

         And he started singing again as he did.

 

- Ben Loory

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tsar4 Monster Mutant

tsar4

Posted
Posted
1 minute ago, Doom Metal Alchemist said:

"Once there was a man" is not a great way to start any piece of writing unless it's going to be along the lines of "Once there was a man from Nantucket..."

It actually goes, "There once was a man from Nantucket".  

You're thinking of, "Once upon a time there was a tavern...".

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Bouvre Superstar

Bouvre

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Posted (edited)
7 hours ago, Doom Metal Alchemist said:

"Once there was a man" is not a great way to start any piece of writing unless it's going to be along the lines of "Once there was a man from Nantucket..."

Given this piece plays with convention by mixing common tropes with contemporary familiarity (renewing the man for a new season), I love the beginning, and think it works incredibly.

 

Even beyond the whole piece: a fable about a man tired of breathing? I know I'm fascinated, especially now.

Edited by Bouvre
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