Story of 45 Minutes

Hello and welcome to “Story of 45 Minutes.” Exits for this tale are to the rear of the story, at the last sentence, after the exhale that comes from reading the last word and surviving the final punctuation mark. The other exit is to the front of the story, before the first sentence and right about at the title. If you choose to leave at this location be prepared to be labeled a mean person. But, the funny thing is, you see, is that you are already near the end of the first paragraph, so you can’t exit at the title. Oh well, I win.

So please sit back and don’t say too much as we dive into today’s entertainment. It will be featuring an author, who from now on will be known only as Artha. Be prepared for random interjections from this absolutely random name. Why an interjecting Artha? This is an unconventional war we’re waging against convention. Understand?

Now, for the people we care about. Behind metaphorical curtain number one is Myrtle, or as the safety patrol from her educational facility used to call her, “Myrtle the Turtle. She’s too slow to live fast.”

Myrtle is a girl. She’s the shuttle driver at the airport for Avis Rent-a-Car in Charleston, South Carolina. Myrtle was named after her mother’s favorite lesbian, Ethyl Merman. As a young lady Myrtle’s mother believed the big winded broad’s last name was Myrtle. Funny, huh? Well, no, and anyway, maybe Artha is wrong and Myrtle was named after her father’s favorite memory, Myrtle Beach, S.C.

Myrtle’s father was a master of the East Coast Shag in the early sixties. He danced at the Pavilion every weekend. He actually got the old fuzzy eye when they (the Man, the golfers) turned the Pavilion into a mini amusement park that was a novel memento to all non-shaggers. Myrtle Turtle’s father was a champion, winning prizes for shagging to songs like “Jittergug Boogie” by the Fantastic Shakers, “What Kind of Fool (Do You Think I Am)” by Bill Deal and the Rhondels, but the big prize came when he shagged for four minutes and twenty-eight seconds to “Wella Wiggy” by the Breeze.

Now, Myrtle’s mother did not shag. She did not dance. She did not prance. She did not eat green eggs and ham, but she did fry up the tastiest Spam, which she fed to her husband, increasing his gut size and causing him to lose sight of his feet. He no longer shags. He does remember how, though, and he’d one day like to teach it to his only daughter, Myrtle.

Behind curtain number two is Myrtle’s imaginary friend. Yes, it’s a little weird for Artha to reveal this because, well, Myrtle is twenty years old and beyond the age to acquire non-existent friends. It could be worse; she could just have about thirty gerbils. Let’s just say that Myrtle isn’t crazy, but just too in-touch with the actual unbalancing of our “balanced” world.

The role of this friend will be played by the Mexican actor, Diego Luna. Artha was going to cast her boyfriend for this, but he’s got band practice ¾ as always. No one, not even Artha, knows who Myrtle Turtle’s actual imaginary friend is, so Artha chose Diego because here at Inexperienced and Uncouth Authors Incorporated, we believe that imaginary friends should be foreign and somewhat not fake. We usually choose movie stars because they’re more beautiful than, well, nothing actually. We were so busy trying to be hip that we ran out of time to decide what constitutes beauty. Sorry for the slip up.

To get a good idea of Diego Luna, run to your local independent movie rental store and pick up a copy of Frida with Selma Hayek or Y Tu Mama Tambien with lots of sex. 

As aforementioned Diego is a Mexican (possibly a dirty one) but none of his dialogue will be flowered with weird ways to make his accent clear. Artha has been informed that this isn’t effective unless one is well trained in the art of effectiveness. Since Artha hasn’t been trained for this she will leave it up to the readers to add in the accent.

Hey! Since we’re adding things to the story that won’t be told bluntly, let us just assume that Diego sneezes every six minutes and poots every six minutes and 2 seconds. It’s not really the smell; it’s the noise that he loves.

Warning! Warning!

Do not be afraid of that last sentence. Vulgarity without function adds form to our spontaneous ability to be moved.

The day is Friday and Myrtle had to work from twelve p.m. till eight p.m. This installment of the story features the first hour on the clock, but for times sake, we’ll begin at twelve fifteen p.m. when she is already in the Avis van and shuttling Avis workers from the airport to the car lot a half mile down the road. 

See, Diego always rides shotgun. Artha guesses Myrtle’s world was almost going to change when a large sixty-seven year old man sat on Diego causing his clockwork sneezes and farts to occur every two minutes and two seconds.

Hold up! Okay, wait. That morning when Myrtle woke up she decided her personal mission at work was to practice Taoism (if you are reading this aloud please pronounce this as “dow-ism”. Thanks). More specific? She was going to practice the wu wei. Wu wei means “nothing” You can do things in your life, but never do anything to cause an outcome that may change one’s life. Don’t put in those winning lottery numbers, but if your friend does one for you and yours wins, then your life has changed for the better without you personally doing it (Please note that that was a very superficial interpretation, but it works well for the story). Myrtle decided she was going to do nothing so something would happen to her, theoretically, for lack of a better term.

 Silly Myrtle, knowledge is the worst punishment for a Turtle seeking knowledge. When will we learn that learning means we’ll have to one day buy the farm at a pricier cost?

With this idea playing in her head she didn’t do anything to help Diego. Just let him slowly explode beneath the girth of curdling old man flesh.

“Hey, What’s that smell? Smells like one of those Mexicans that do the gardening by the terminal entrance just farted.” Said the fat old man.

The six other old-man Avis workers laughed. Mexicans are funny. Artha would like to note, though, that being politically incorrect is not funny, it’s freedom.

“Did you slice the biscuit, Myrtle?” said the horrible old man. Myrtle sat there for a second thinking intensely on what to say.

Warning! Warning!

There is going to be a break in convention. For a brief moment we’re going to zoom into Myrtle’s head. Usually this isn’t allowed without permission or prior notice of a door leading into a brain’s personal business. But what the heck? Artha believes that if we follow someone else’s ideas and visions of what ideas and visions should be, than what’s the point in not being invisible?

So lets see…old man asks something to the effect of, “Did you fart?” and Myrtle’s mind explodes in a thousand different directions. I’ll try to make it easier, like what English 101 students do in a “brainstorm.”

Warning! Warning!

Please do not read the cool section until you’ve read the warning previous to this one. You won’t understand it and I don’t want to take anymore time than I have to explaining this.

Slice the biscuit, what is that?                           

  If I answer, he’ll laugh at me.

                                                                                                      I didn’t fart.                                        

  My mom calls farts butt burps

                                                           That’s stupid

My friend did it, no, Diego did it.                                   Are we near a duck pond?

 What should I say?

                                                         I must have sat on a barking spider

   How could you be so inarticulate, your mind isn’t?

                                                Diego must fess up

“I don’t smell anything,” Myrtle the Turtle whispered. Afraid of her herself for saying anything out loud.

“Did you speak? Hey, Myrtle speaks. [pause for suspense and sympathy] It’s okay little bit.” Sometimes the old men were nice after making fun of people. Sometimes.

“Has anyone seen my Baby Ruth bar? I left it on the back seat last round?” said another old man.

Myrtle knew where the Baby Ruth was. Diego ate it. He loved to anger the old men. Myrtle rustled up her best Australian accent and said, “A Diego ate your baby.” She laughed as she said it. No one else laughed, though. Poor Myrtle. What’s so damn sad is that Myrtle forgot to think before she spoke, thus releasing her actual personality. That will get you every time.

“She’s so odd.” An old man whispered just loud enough for Myrtle to purposely hear it. Poor, poor Myrtle. I guess no one saw that movie.

Myrtle parked the car in the Avis lot, let out the old men and ran to he car to get a cd she and Diego had burned the night before. She climbed back in the van and pulled out of the lot to head back to the airport.

“Diego, I got that cd. Which song do you want to listen to?”

“How could you let that old bastard sit on me like that?” Diego looked a little “pruney” like he had just taken a two-hour bath; except for the bath water was old man sweat.

“I’m sorry, but it took everything I had not to laugh my ass off at you.”

“Whatever. I’ll get you back.”

“Why would you get me back for doing nothing? I’m spiritually enlightened.”

“Kiss my ass you are. You’ll get yours.” Diego opened the car window to get a little air to dry the sweat off his shirt, “Is that the cd we burned last night?”

“Yup.”

“Put it on number six.”

The time is 12:25

Warning! Warning!

 Artha wants to note a break in convention. Please do not be alarmed, its here for the sake of art and Artha’s sanity. Next paragraph there will be music printed in italics above the actual lines of the story. Focus on the bigger picture please. If you look at the two lines at the same time, one can see songs as Myrtle and Diego hear them. This may not seem important to the reader, but one’s trash is another’s treasure. Now its hard to focus on two things at once ¾ convention and morals only allow us one thing at a time, but, like Christopher Columbus, the great and powerful Artha does not believe the world is flat. With this in mind, feel free to take two sentences at once. You don’t have to have an affair, just ask both sentences to bed and have a literary ménage tois!  

How many times have you heard someone say, if I only had money I would do    

                      “Oh, good choice Diego.”-Myrtle                                          “If I had   

things my way. But my life is over and my time has run out. My friends and my lovers, I money I would be able to speak in public, I’d paint murals, I’d buy you a house boat.” 

will leave them no doubt. That one thing’s for certain when it comes my time. I’m gonna “Myrtle, lets go out tonight. As soon as you get off work.”                                            

leave this old world with a satisfied mind.                                                                                                            “Okay”                                                    “Are you satisfied Diego? Are you ready to die?”

“Are you ready Myrtle?”

“I’m not settled with life yet.” She pulled into the airport parking deck and stopped the car in the Avis return aisle.

“Myrtle, you’ve been settled… You’re so complacent with life… You settled long before the dust around you did.” Diego said. The van door opened and he moved to the seat behind Myrtle. Betty was going to sit next to Myrtle. She loved to be near our beloved Turtle and torture her with silence.

“Hey Myrtle.” Betty’s tan legs and perky breast exuded the radiance of a thousand moons and then some. Myrtle found Betty attractive and wanted to be as beautiful.

Betty hadn’t been working at Avis as long as Myrtle, but now she has. Ooh, okay, ok, lets play a game. If you could only choose one word to describe Betty, what would you choose? Artha says…Baptist. I would of gone for Southern Baptist if I could’ve gotten an extra word, but I couldn’t, so whatever.

 “Hi, Betty. Man, I can’t wait to get off tonight. I’m going out.” Myrtle said.

“Wow.” Betty said as she bit her nails.

“I made this cd, but you can change it if you want to.” Myrtle said.

“I’d rather just turn off noise all together, thank you.”

Myrtle turned off the volume. She sat there driving and listening to Diego sneeze.
            “Hey Myrtle. Touch Betty’s hand, she won’t notice.” said Diego.

Warning! Warning!

Another note from Artha. Here’s the best way to understand our Mexican muse. Keroauc’s Japhy Ryder = Zen Buddhism as Artha’s Diego Luna = Don Quixote’s Jiminy Cricket’s moral perspective on a lawless universe.

 He loved to see Myrtle dig holes she couldn’t get out of for weeks, years, her entire life. Myrtle always dug holes because she did what Diego thought was best. He was her best friend. So Myrtle reached her hand across the van aisle, pushing through the sunrays that were there simply to shield her from the inevitable.

Warning! Warning!

Please prepare yourself for sexual content. Since there are no ratings for classroom assignments, Artha feels the need to let the reader know there will be a strong, strong sexual act in the next line. Artha will put an asterisk beside the sure-to-be controversial description, so it’s easy to recognize its obvious wrongness. If you are not allowed to read or visualize all-things-not-kosher please skip the next sentence.

 *Myrtle stroked the golden skin of Betty’s hand.

“Did you just touch my hand?” Betty said rather calmly.

“No.”

“I meant, why did you just touch my hand?”

“I didn’t.” Myrtle said.

Betty leaned forward, ducking beneath the “nothing” tension that Myrtle released into the GMC Safari van plush atmosphere. Later, worlds will rise and fall in this sheltered, sweltering carpeted quad-cycle machine, like the Old and the New Testament on a seesaw working through a Burger King cup of Dr. Pepper.

Betty pulled her dark brown locks in a ponytail, sighed, and than let it fall to her shoulders in that sexy Little Mermaid way. Diego grabbed the headrest of Myrtle’s seat and said, “Run your fingers through her hair. She won’t notice.” So Myrtle did.

The time is 12:37. Betty turned on the radio and it was tuned to the eighties station. Hall and Oates was on. The song? “I Can’t Go For That (NO Can Do).”

I’ll do anything that you want me to. I’ll, I’ll, I’ll do anything that you want me to. But I

                “Did you just touch my hair?”-Betty                 “I didn’t do anything. I live for

can’t go for that no o o. No. No can do. But I can’t go for that. Can’t go for that. Can’t

wu wei.”-Myrtle  “Shut up. You sound stupid”-Diego                       “Touch my hair again

go for that.   (Musical saxophone break)

that felt good.”-Betty      “I’m sorry”-Myrtle 

                                         “You’re not so stupid”-Diego

Warning! Warning!

Again, there is about to be an over-the-top, shock value sentence. Although the noose of convention is quite tight, some may feel the need to hang this next line out. Hahaha.

Note from Artha: Okay that may have been a literary orgy.

Myrtle pulled into the Avis lot and parked the van in front of some clean cars.

Warning! Warning!

          In 1964 Henry Ford II may have approved the prettiest car ever to be invented, and we cannot blame him for naming it after a smelly horse. I can blame the reader for wondering what kinds of cars Avis has in their lot and what car Betty may pick to drive. Leave your curiosities here. Particular cars no longer matter in this story from this word on.  

 “You better get out. We’re real busy today.” Poor Myrtle, she barely got the last sentence out of her mouth. She was terrified.

“God, you’re so stupid.” Betty opened the door and stepped out of the van and closed the door.

“You’re stupid. Stick that in your back pocket.” Myrtle said.

Diego was laughing and jumped shot gun. “Do you have a satisfied mind, Myrtle? Did you touch me? No. God, you’re so fucking sharp.” He grabbed a cigarette and laughed again, “That’s why I love you.”

But Myrtle wasn’t listening to his babble. She was watching Betty, who was walking back to the van. She reached Myrtle’s side and motioned for her to roll down her window. Myrtle did. Neither of them said anything, and then Betty, with those long, long legs got on her tiptoes and kissed Myrtle on her cheek. They stared at each other for a few moments, it was about as confusing as the Asians with those damn flashing cameras at six flags. She rolled up the window and headed towards the street leaving Betty to the emptiness of the car lot.

The time is 12:51. “Hungry Eyes” from the Dirty Dancing soundtrack is on.

“I’ve got hungry eyes.” Myrtle said

“If my eyes were that hungry I’d put them on a diet.”

Myrtle giggled, “What kind of diet?”

“A heterosexual one.”

Myrtle wasn’t listening, again. Why should she? “Did you see that? Did we kiss?” Myrtle said.

“I saw it and it was sick.” Diego said as he threw his cigarette out the window.

“Sick? No. She’s my friend now.”

“She’s probably going to make fun of you to the old men.”

Myrtle looked out the window and saw the manager running toward the van. She stopped. “Anyway, asshole, lets ask Betty to go out with us tonight. Dust doesn’t have time to catch me. I’m hot.”

“Whatever.” Diego said. He was too busy looking at Myrtle Turtle’s boss opening the van door and throwing himself in.

“Hey Myrtle. How are you?” The manager said. Myrtle started to drive.

“Whoa, don’t go yet, this will just take a second.”

“I’m doing real good. How about you?”

“What? Umm, good, good. Hey, could you do me a big favor and work till twelve tonight or later, depending on when the last flight comes in?”

Myrtle’s eyes widened and she glanced at her Mexican, as if she wanted Diego to throw her manager out. He would have, but Diego decided to practice the wu wei as well.

“No! No, I’m going out tonight.” Myrtle said without looking at her manager.

“Okay. Well, could you please be a buddy this once. I really need your help.”

            Myrtle was stuck. She didn’t want to stay at work, but if she did, well then she would be a master of wu wei. If she stayed at work something good must happen to her. Of course! Everyone knows that philosophy or religion always bring out the best in the world ¾ wars, death, movies, crosses, the peace sign…

            “Okay, I’ll stay.”

            “I knew I could count on you, Myrtle. You’re our star employee.”

They sat there in silence till her manager got out. Diego was leaning against the door sulking. Myrtle began to drive.

            “I thought we were going out?” Diego said (Please take a moment to look out of a window or study the tiny patch of skin between your toes. How does it feel to not be a part of something that’s a part of you? Now go back to Diego’s question and then to the end of this parenthesis and try to imagine how this applies to Diego as a whole).   Myrtle began to cry. It was strange. Nobody cries about not going out unless they’re like five and want to go with their parents. One would think it was the first time Myrtle ever agreed to go out with Diego. One would be right.

“Stop crying Myrtle. You remember what happened to Cathy’s imaginary friend. She started to cry when her parents were going through a divorce. She cried for days, no weeks. She cried and cried and cried. Tony [Danza], that was the fake friend, he said if she didn’t stop crying he would have to leave. He did. The day her mother left the house too. Stop crying.”

            Artha wants to note that Diego loved and loves Myrtle very much, but he hates it when people cry. It reminds him of when Ricky Martin was living la vida loca.

            “Stop crying?” She said, “ I can’t. I want to go out tonight.”

            “Why didn’t you say no?”

            “I have to do nothing. If I do something then nothing good will happen to me.”

            “Whatever.” Diego was irritated and leaned his head against the window again.

            Myrtle felt sad. How sad? Well, Artha asked her during the interview, but all Myrtle said was, “I felt sad.” I guess a person can simply feel sad when they do nothing to have creative sad feelings.

                        Warning! Warning! There is a slight change in the flow of the narration. Myrtle needs a soft ending.

Myrtle drove out of the airport and turned the radio on. She stared at the terminal roses the Mexicans planted. A rose for Myrtle. A rose for a Turtle who was slightly existing in a van. A girl who was casting herself away to a life of neutral colors and tinted vision. Myrtle, driving the shuttle van, circling the landing strips like a breeze too frequent to realize. Shuttling for comfort and consistency as Diego decomposes in the green light of a factory stereo. One would guess that in some lives, dust settles quicker than turtles.

Last update : 06-05-2007 17:18

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