Part Six
To the editors of Nonzine: I thank you for your continued interest in my little toilet paper superhero story, and for continuing to print it, if indeed you are. One of the techs here informed me that, although he cannot provide me a copy of your illustrious rag, he reads it faithfully and is happy to report that you do print each installment of my story and have even contracted an artist to provide some excellent illustrations. I would like to believe he is being honest with me. It’s when he winks and puts his finger vertically over his lips saying, “Your secrets are safe with me,” that I find I can no longer trust anything he says. Perhaps he never sees the magazine. Perhaps he does, but my story is not there. I would not venture to guess his motives in honesty or dishonesty.
In coming to the part of my story that describes the moment I tried to decide what should go on my postit tattoo, I am reminded of another blank space that I have yet to fill: my background. I sit here now, secret pen in hand, staring at the blank square of toilet paper – what to say about myself?
Nothing. Do not forget that I am become a superhero, and the identity of my former self, my hidden self, my day-to-day citizen self shall remain safely anonymous. I will tell you this only: I was a librarian, a cataloger and a book labeler in my past. And it was there, of course, that all this began. Every book had to be niched into a category, into a system, every book labeled according to its given code to identify its category. After thousands upon thousands of books, I could come to but one conclusion – that the world should be organized thus. And that is when I stood from my desk.
It took the young Nietzsche fan about thirty minutes to complete the first postit on my left shoulder, and about twenty for my right, etching my skin deftly with his bruise-black ink. He hummed a music that I did not recognize while he worked, the hum resonating from deep within his chest.
In that time I thought of a thousand labels for myself, none of which I liked enough to keep forever or believed would be applicable within a year or two, it being in my nature, as in most people’s, to change significantly over a short period of time.
The young Nietzsche fan put down his needle, dabbed at the fresh tattoo with a square of gauze and snapped the wrists of his rubber gloves impatiently. “Any ideas?” he said.
“None that I like,” I said, staring at the ceiling.
“Well, I’m done with the postits, so now’s a good time.”
I started to turn my head, crane my neck where I could see my left shoulder, and instantly cried out, having forgotten for the moment the spasmodic nature of my neck injury.
“Oh, sorry,” he said, looking around behind his stool. He grabbed a mirror and angled it for me to see my left shoulder.
“Very nice.” He had added a clever little detail to the basic design, a corner of the postit turning up as if someone were about to peel it off. This added a level of realism that I hadn’t even considered in my haste to draw this design out for him.
He pointed to the turned-up corner. “Otherwise it would look just like a square.”
“You know, I think they’re perfect just like this.”
“So what do you want to write in them?” he asked, misunderstanding me.
“Nothing.”
In coming to the part of my story that describes the moment I tried to decide what should go on my postit tattoo, I am reminded of another blank space that I have yet to fill: my background. I sit here now, secret pen in hand, staring at the blank square of toilet paper – what to say about myself?
Nothing. Do not forget that I am become a superhero, and the identity of my former self, my hidden self, my day-to-day citizen self shall remain safely anonymous. I will tell you this only: I was a librarian, a cataloger and a book labeler in my past. And it was there, of course, that all this began. Every book had to be niched into a category, into a system, every book labeled according to its given code to identify its category. After thousands upon thousands of books, I could come to but one conclusion – that the world should be organized thus. And that is when I stood from my desk.
It took the young Nietzsche fan about thirty minutes to complete the first postit on my left shoulder, and about twenty for my right, etching my skin deftly with his bruise-black ink. He hummed a music that I did not recognize while he worked, the hum resonating from deep within his chest.
In that time I thought of a thousand labels for myself, none of which I liked enough to keep forever or believed would be applicable within a year or two, it being in my nature, as in most people’s, to change significantly over a short period of time.
The young Nietzsche fan put down his needle, dabbed at the fresh tattoo with a square of gauze and snapped the wrists of his rubber gloves impatiently. “Any ideas?” he said.
“None that I like,” I said, staring at the ceiling.
“Well, I’m done with the postits, so now’s a good time.”
I started to turn my head, crane my neck where I could see my left shoulder, and instantly cried out, having forgotten for the moment the spasmodic nature of my neck injury.
“Oh, sorry,” he said, looking around behind his stool. He grabbed a mirror and angled it for me to see my left shoulder.
“Very nice.” He had added a clever little detail to the basic design, a corner of the postit turning up as if someone were about to peel it off. This added a level of realism that I hadn’t even considered in my haste to draw this design out for him.
He pointed to the turned-up corner. “Otherwise it would look just like a square.”
“You know, I think they’re perfect just like this.”
“So what do you want to write in them?” he asked, misunderstanding me.
“Nothing.”
© 2006Labelman
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