2/16/12

Let’s Get Sad
By Tony Rauch


It’s finally a rainy day. So a bunch of us hit the basement. It’s totally gloomy out, oppressively gray and bleak, the perfect setting for getting sad.

“Finally a crummy day,” someone beams.

“Yeah, maybe this’ll finally impress the girls,” Johnny D shakes his head.

“Nothin’ else seems to be workin’,” Kenny shrugs.

So we set about getting sad. We watch the movies ‘Brain’s Song’ and ‘Bambi’, take turns reading the obituaries out loud (the illnesses, the accidents, the randomness, the unfairness of it all), and listen to really sad music (principally The Smiths, some glum classical [Samual Barber’s ‘Adagio for strings’ and ‘Angus Dei’ – the string and vocal versions], samplings of Lou Reed’s ‘Berlin’ album, and a smattering of alternative college stuff such as The Wild Colonial’s ‘Spark’ and The Violent Femme’s ‘Good Feelings’).

“Are you really sad yet?” I ask Benny as I stare blankly into my future.

“Yeah,” he mumbles.

“Just sad? Or really sad?” I inquire, still staring, as if I simply can’t bring myself to move.

“I wanna freakin’ off myself, man,” he whines.

“Good. Good,” I nod, “I think you’re there then. I think you’re ready.”

“I wanna freakin’ end it all, man,” he turns away to bury his face into the couch, “Why did Bambi’s mom have to die, man? Why? . . What’s the point of it all?”

“I think my heart has died,” Kenny gasps, “Man, I . . I really think I went too far on this one, I mean, I’m in way too deep . .”

“Great, man,” I moan encouragement, “Keep goin’ deeper.”

“My heart’s dead,” Kenny squeals, slithering on the rug, turning over, writhing in pain, “It’s gone, . . it’s gone,” he wheezes and gasps.

“Good,” I nod, “Go with that.” Then I look over to Pharoah, “How’s it workin’ for ya?”

“Why?” he quivers, sitting on an apple crate, his head in his hands in his lap, “Why?” he shudders, “Why?”

“I think we’re ready,” I utter.

Someone groans.

“We should’ve had a person monitoring our progress,” I sigh, “I think we’ve gone too deep. . . overplayed our hands,” I try to get up, but can’t. I try again, succeeding to stand this time. “Come on. Let’s go,” I whisper, “We’re ready. . . Let’s get to it,” I wave to the door but everyone’s scattered like limp blankets.

“Yeah,” Pharoah gulps, rising sloppily off the floor, “This is it.”

“This is our big chance,” I wheeze, “To finally impress those cool, sensitive, arty college chicks. Not the usual impressionable morons, but the thoughtful, literate types.”

“Nothin’ else has worked, so maybe this’ll do,” Pharoah gulps sadly.

“Yeah,” someone whispers sadly, “Now we’re ‘deep’.”

Kenny slowly rolls over, sits up, rises to his feet, collects himself, stares down, “Maybe this will help,” he nods.

“Oh, man,” someone on the floor groans, “Just leave me be. . .”

We step over and pull him up. It’s Johnny D. He flops down as he goes limp. We lug him to the door and out the basement steps. He wiggles in our arms, trying to get free.

“Yeah, let’s hit that tapestry exhibit by those refugees,” Kenny mumbles vacantly, “I’m sure they’ll be some bespectacled sensitive types there. . .”

“Let’s show ‘em how sensitive and in touch with our inner emotions we are. . .” I moan as we climb the steps, “There’s supposed to be a poetry reading on death and loss afterwards.”

“We can only hope,” Johnny D groans as we lug him out into the gloom.


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Tony Rauch has three books of short stories published – “I’m right here” (spout press), “Laredo” (Eraserhead Press), “Eyeballs growing all over me . . . again” (Eraserhead Press). He has additional titles forthcoming in the next few months.