“God damn it,” I mumbled softly under my breath as a tiny orb of scarlet grew from the tip of my left index finger for what felt like the thousandth time, placing the needle and thread on the table. It’s been years since I last sewed, and it showed. Sucking the tip of my finger to stop the flow of blood, I flipped the two crudely stitched pieces of anti-pill fleece inside-out with my right hand and flopped the abstract figure down onto the table next to the needle and thread. The stitches tacking together the edges of the ivory fleece are jagged and sloppy, but the shape resting on the rough wooden surface was unmistakable. A faceless and legless and spineless little man lay amid a mess that would soon define him, and, oh! what a beautiful mess it is. White styrofoam balls roll by black feather boas. Yellow hunks of foam rubber hide beneath sheets of red and black felt. Brown squares of cardboard hold orange pom-poms. Purple markers cross paths with dull gold wire clothes-hangers. A blue hot glue gun sits faintly smoking beside a spool of white thread.
I had just filled my prescription for Percocet due to a slight re-fracturing of my knuckles, popped the hard white cap off the translucent orange bottle, then tossed a couple of those little blue suckers in my mouth. I plopped down on the couch and browsed through the Netflix movie selections, waiting for the inevitable narcotics-induced euphoria to kick in. As the familiar warm and fuzzy feeling of oxycodone and paracetemol washed over my consciousness, a furry little red creature with excited eyes, a bulbous orange nose, and an endless grin plastered on his face caught my eye, directing me to the title above him. Being Elmo: A Puppeteer’s Journey was splayed in thin white and orange lettering across the top of the page, and I curiously focused my attention to the description.
“Narrated by Whoopi Goldberg, this documentary follows the career of puppeteer Kevin Clash, the soft-spoken man behind the furry red monster, Elmo.”
Alright, I’m sold. I clicked play faster than you can say, “TICKLE ME ELMO!” and spent the next hour and sixteen minutes with my eyes glued to the computer screen.
Nothing could have torn my undivided attention away from the fascinating documentary. My roommate needs me to move my car so he can get out of the driveway? He can wait. That same, pissed off roommate sets my car on fire in anger over his not being able to get out of the driveway? Eh, I’ll take care of it later. Raging vehicular flames take hold of the dry, wooden siding of our house? Someone will call 911, I guess. Fire completely engulfs the house and all of its inhabitants, including myself? Well, at least I’ll die happy.
The credits rolled (after what was quite possibly the greatest seventy-six minutes of my life) I slammed my laptop shut and closed my eyes. Then it hit me, like a damn freight train. My eyes snapped open, and as I stared blankly at the striped silver top of the closed laptop resting on my lap and quietly muttered, “That’s it. I’m gonna make a Muppet. Yeah, I’m gonna make a Muppet!”
I slid my hand into the opening at the bottom of his torso, and cautiously made my way up to his foam rubber head. I pivoted my hand from the wrist and he cocked his little dome to the side, and as I opened that same hand u
Eli -
ReplyDeleteSo far not a lot to go on here. I am curious especially about the ways that you are thinking about structuring the piece - at the moment, the snippets you've given me are tantalizing, but not really indicative of any sort of written strategy, or anything that can offer me a venue for fuller comments. Good luck.