Subterranean Science Blues
by John McGroarty
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: Lots of strong ones.
Description: A tirade against the way young people in Barcelona are being left without a future and at the mercy of flag-waving time-servers masquerading as leaders.
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I often suspect that I’m not real. A real person, that is. You know? Just a thing. Nothing, really. What about you? Do you think you’re real? A human being. A homo sapiens. Oh fuck, that cunt’s looking at me. Looking right at me. At me. I’m not real. Doesn’t he know? What does he want? What the fuck does he want? Some kind of assistance. From me. Fuck, that’s funny. From me? Blend into the wall. Quick. Disappear. Think white. Think wall. Think a white fuckin’ wall. Think a thing. Think I am a thing. Think I am not real. He thinks I know something about all of this shit. About how things work. That I care. About viruses, green cheese, blue cheese, penicillin, spores, cosmic moonbeams. I just want to fuck Meritxell. The only reason I’m still here. He’s beckoning. Jesus fuck. No, I don’t know how the touch screen works. Strange look. Weird fuckin’ look. Three euros an hour. Clock watching. I have no idea. I have no future. No, no in-house training. No. I’m an unreal thing, not a fuckin’ biologist. Not a fuckin’ mechanic. Though there’s no work even for mechanics. Just this shit. And the fuckin’ tourists. That’s right. It doesn’t work. Have to call the maintenance guys. They never come. Just read about it in a book for fuck’s sake. Why the fuck are you interested anyway? I mean so really interested. Not just wandering around like everybody else. Killing a rainy sunless day. I mean why do we even need a fuckin’ science museum? Child friendly, idiot friendly, all easy, all peasy. I mean even my fuckin’ cat knows the standard science history of the world by now. And he’s always fuckin’ asleep. The universe big fuckin’ banging (what I want to do to Mertixell by the way), the matter swirling about for a while, shaping up, chilling out, bacteria, breathing in, breathing out, trilobite city, the Precambrian, explosions, out of the sea, into the air, onto the land, out of Africa, war and hate, boom boom, bang bang, atomic bomb, I have created death, who cares, no God the father, the son, the holy ghost, go to the moon, read the papers, love the machine, get a loan, buy a car, blah fuckin’ blah. Okay. Easy. Feign an emergency. Sorry, got to go. Something squeaking in the crypt. I know. I’m sorry. I know, good public money, nothing works, sorry. Bye. It’s all a big joke, yeah, you’re right. There’s Richard. Fuckin’ glad-handing little creep. With his deep fried stucco smile and his bonzo degree in public relations, or human resources, or whatever makes and keeps the rich, rich. Ah fuck it, he’s been watching. He’s always watching me. I think he knows about Meritxell. He wants to fuck her too. Horrible muscle starched cunt. Goes to the gym every day. Goes jogging with weights in his underpants. Loves the flag. He told me how he all wells up looking at the flag. How it makes his muscles stiff. How he gets off on Schopenhauer. Yeah, he’s a fuckin’ intellectual into the bargain. How we’ll soon be free. Oh yeah, him, his underpants, Schopenhauer and me. Free. I know it’s not rational, he says, not fashionable, he says, but I love my country. Was there a problem? He addresses me. Over there, by the touch screen. With that customer? He calls those in out of the rain customers. Just brush past. Pure disdain. It’s three o’clock. I’m finished. It’s over for another rainy sunless day in the science centre. I hear his muscles ripple in the air behind me. Feel his contempt wash over me. I keep for the exit. Out in the air. Breathe. Pathetic prick. The rain’s off. Breathe in. Meritxell has just gone into the underground. Down into the belly of the city. Catch her up. Quick. This is my chance. Tell her about the fantasy. Her and me in the wagon. Sitting opposite each other. We take out porno mags and start reading. Nobody knows where to look. They avert their eyes. I know where to look. Meritxell in crotchless knickers and mini-skirt. Slowly she turns the pages. Opens her legs. Hitches her skirt some more. Smiles. Yes, I know where to look. No, no. Think different, this is your chance. Think higher. Think Yeats, how can I, that girl standing there, my attention fix on Roman, or on Russian or on Spanish politics, think Beefheart, steal softly through sunlight. No, too much, too much. Steal softly down the Metro stairs. Ticket in the machine. The platform. Hi, Meritxell. Oh, hi. Too much, too much silence. Not enough sunlight. I work with you in the centre. She giggles. So you do, points at my uniform. Points at hers. And you know my name. And what’s yours? Oh, I don’t have a name. Giggles again. Everybody has a name. I don’t. Not yet. I don’t think I’m real. I think I might be a thing. Sometimes. You’re strange. Shall I tell her? This has happened to infinity. But I’m not far enough along to know what happens next. To know what you will call me. To know if I get to fuck you or not. No, not that, higher. You know, when we steal silently through the stars. She’s nodding but she doesn’t get it. Fuck, she doesn’t get it. She thinks I’m mad. She thinks that what I think is true. I am a thing. Not real. I’ll just tell her about the fantasy and move on. She’s hushing me. Her mobile. Speaking on her mobile. Richard. When? Now? She’s getting up to get off. Going to lunch with the weighted underpants and the starched quadriceps. I am not real. I am a thing. Think the seat. Think the plastic black seat. Think black. I am a thing in the science museum. How does the screen work? I am not real, a thing, nothing, really.
Swearwords: Lots of strong ones.
Description: A tirade against the way young people in Barcelona are being left without a future and at the mercy of flag-waving time-servers masquerading as leaders.
_____________________________________________________________________
I often suspect that I’m not real. A real person, that is. You know? Just a thing. Nothing, really. What about you? Do you think you’re real? A human being. A homo sapiens. Oh fuck, that cunt’s looking at me. Looking right at me. At me. I’m not real. Doesn’t he know? What does he want? What the fuck does he want? Some kind of assistance. From me. Fuck, that’s funny. From me? Blend into the wall. Quick. Disappear. Think white. Think wall. Think a white fuckin’ wall. Think a thing. Think I am a thing. Think I am not real. He thinks I know something about all of this shit. About how things work. That I care. About viruses, green cheese, blue cheese, penicillin, spores, cosmic moonbeams. I just want to fuck Meritxell. The only reason I’m still here. He’s beckoning. Jesus fuck. No, I don’t know how the touch screen works. Strange look. Weird fuckin’ look. Three euros an hour. Clock watching. I have no idea. I have no future. No, no in-house training. No. I’m an unreal thing, not a fuckin’ biologist. Not a fuckin’ mechanic. Though there’s no work even for mechanics. Just this shit. And the fuckin’ tourists. That’s right. It doesn’t work. Have to call the maintenance guys. They never come. Just read about it in a book for fuck’s sake. Why the fuck are you interested anyway? I mean so really interested. Not just wandering around like everybody else. Killing a rainy sunless day. I mean why do we even need a fuckin’ science museum? Child friendly, idiot friendly, all easy, all peasy. I mean even my fuckin’ cat knows the standard science history of the world by now. And he’s always fuckin’ asleep. The universe big fuckin’ banging (what I want to do to Mertixell by the way), the matter swirling about for a while, shaping up, chilling out, bacteria, breathing in, breathing out, trilobite city, the Precambrian, explosions, out of the sea, into the air, onto the land, out of Africa, war and hate, boom boom, bang bang, atomic bomb, I have created death, who cares, no God the father, the son, the holy ghost, go to the moon, read the papers, love the machine, get a loan, buy a car, blah fuckin’ blah. Okay. Easy. Feign an emergency. Sorry, got to go. Something squeaking in the crypt. I know. I’m sorry. I know, good public money, nothing works, sorry. Bye. It’s all a big joke, yeah, you’re right. There’s Richard. Fuckin’ glad-handing little creep. With his deep fried stucco smile and his bonzo degree in public relations, or human resources, or whatever makes and keeps the rich, rich. Ah fuck it, he’s been watching. He’s always watching me. I think he knows about Meritxell. He wants to fuck her too. Horrible muscle starched cunt. Goes to the gym every day. Goes jogging with weights in his underpants. Loves the flag. He told me how he all wells up looking at the flag. How it makes his muscles stiff. How he gets off on Schopenhauer. Yeah, he’s a fuckin’ intellectual into the bargain. How we’ll soon be free. Oh yeah, him, his underpants, Schopenhauer and me. Free. I know it’s not rational, he says, not fashionable, he says, but I love my country. Was there a problem? He addresses me. Over there, by the touch screen. With that customer? He calls those in out of the rain customers. Just brush past. Pure disdain. It’s three o’clock. I’m finished. It’s over for another rainy sunless day in the science centre. I hear his muscles ripple in the air behind me. Feel his contempt wash over me. I keep for the exit. Out in the air. Breathe. Pathetic prick. The rain’s off. Breathe in. Meritxell has just gone into the underground. Down into the belly of the city. Catch her up. Quick. This is my chance. Tell her about the fantasy. Her and me in the wagon. Sitting opposite each other. We take out porno mags and start reading. Nobody knows where to look. They avert their eyes. I know where to look. Meritxell in crotchless knickers and mini-skirt. Slowly she turns the pages. Opens her legs. Hitches her skirt some more. Smiles. Yes, I know where to look. No, no. Think different, this is your chance. Think higher. Think Yeats, how can I, that girl standing there, my attention fix on Roman, or on Russian or on Spanish politics, think Beefheart, steal softly through sunlight. No, too much, too much. Steal softly down the Metro stairs. Ticket in the machine. The platform. Hi, Meritxell. Oh, hi. Too much, too much silence. Not enough sunlight. I work with you in the centre. She giggles. So you do, points at my uniform. Points at hers. And you know my name. And what’s yours? Oh, I don’t have a name. Giggles again. Everybody has a name. I don’t. Not yet. I don’t think I’m real. I think I might be a thing. Sometimes. You’re strange. Shall I tell her? This has happened to infinity. But I’m not far enough along to know what happens next. To know what you will call me. To know if I get to fuck you or not. No, not that, higher. You know, when we steal silently through the stars. She’s nodding but she doesn’t get it. Fuck, she doesn’t get it. She thinks I’m mad. She thinks that what I think is true. I am a thing. Not real. I’ll just tell her about the fantasy and move on. She’s hushing me. Her mobile. Speaking on her mobile. Richard. When? Now? She’s getting up to get off. Going to lunch with the weighted underpants and the starched quadriceps. I am not real. I am a thing. Think the seat. Think the plastic black seat. Think black. I am a thing in the science museum. How does the screen work? I am not real, a thing, nothing, really.
About the Author
John McGroarty was born in Glasgow and now lives in Barcelona, where he works as an English teacher. He has been writing short stories for many years. His acclaimed long short story Rainbow is a McStorytellers publication.