Washington Parallelogram

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The iconic cover of the novel.

Washington Parallelogram is a short story penned by legendary bore Henry James during his final years. James, being senile and incontinent at the time of his writing, parted the world with, instead of a timeless classic as he originally intended, a pile of mindless drivel that reeked of urine. Luckily, we managed to transpose whatever words were visibly undiluted with said urine, and put them here for your own masochistic pleasures. Read at your own discretion:

Washington Parallelogram: A five act play in fifteen paragraphs and counting, stage left

I remember it like it was yesterday, that one day at my old home in New York, when the postman left that package outside my door, the package not really being important, probably just some catalogs, but rather, the importance lies in the postman's visit himself, as opposed to the reason of his visit, which was, of course, the unimportant package. This postman would have a profound, lasting effect on my life, and I had been viewing him through my peephole for several months now, from inside my little New York town house, a terribly fine little house that resided perfectly parallel to Washington Parallelogram Park.

This postman was rather cute, or so I believed at the time, that is, the opinion that I had formed of him was one of beauty, not only in image, but character as well. Lord knew if I actually knew his character myself! I had nary even passed through my own doorway, not on my own accord, of course. It was my father's fault that I never ventured outside of this perfectly parallel flat much often, as he was often too busy tormenting me sexually or pointing out my and his own psychological flaws in long and flowery run-on sentences, as he so often did, such was one psychological flaw that he contained, actually, and possibly passed onto me.

But I digress.

My father had two brothers who were into leather and two fathers that found him in a river when they were vacationing in the south of France. Vacationing, persay, or rather, fleeing the homophobic villages of their old town. Anyways, they took my father out of the river and came here to New York. Then they died. So it goes. This may explain for my own personal sexual, er, deviancies, as the local Parish likes to call it, though Father O'Kinnerty, as I know from personal experience (and a pair of my uncle's velour pants) that he is quite the hypocrite.

But I continue to digress. I could swear the digression would never end. But at long last, it did!

I decided to act against instinct and finally punch my way through the door and meet the postman head on, apply directly to the forehead. Head on, apply directly to the forehead. Head on, apply but I digress. I barged my way through the doorway, after opening the door first, of course, and chased after the slowly fleeing postman in a flurry of anachronisms. No, that's not the operative word, it was more like conjugations. A smattering of injunctions later, I caught up to the postman, but alas! I realized I was at a total loss for words!

"Uh um err uh, well, I don't know, Tuesday?

"What, sir?"

"Erm. Yeah. Uh. Hi."

"Hello to you too, sir."

"Having a nice... mail?"

"Well... yes, yes I am! Today is the release date of the finest new Sears, Roebuck! I must say, it sure is deli-"

"Have you ever noticed how Washington Parallelogram Park is perfectly parallel to this house?"

"Uh... yes? Wait, sir, why are you not wearing clothes?"

I suppose I should have mentioned by now that I was not wearing clothes. I had darted out of my house, onto my front lawn, into the bustling city of New York, perfectly parallel from the park, to catch up with the postman, in nothing but my birthday suit. My embarrassment was tremendous, but I masked it with clever wordplay.

"Why, yes, it appears I am not wearing clothes at all! How about that, mister postman? May I inquire your name?"

"My name is Eugene, naked but also good sir."

"Such a splendid name! My uncle was Eugene, may he rest in peace."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear about your uncle. How did he die?"

"Poor fellow was raped and murdered by my father."

"Oh."

"So I'll see you Tuesday?"

"Fuck no, you're weird."

The postman walked away, never to return again, except but in my dreams. I spent the rest of the month brooding in the park, pondering my existence and parallelity, and perhaps, in addition, my overabundant use of commas and clauses. Note to the editor: get rid of them. I cannot command control of my comma consistencies.

End Transmission.

Chapter Two: A Watermelon in Easter Hay

Later on in the month I would realize that my upfront requests for sexual adventures would get me to Nowhere fast, but Lord knew I didn't want to stay in this crazy parallel house anymore, so I decided to continue with my upfront requests for sexual adventures so I could get to Nowhere even quicker. Nowhere, I figured, was always a better place than here, no matter how nice the ducks in the pond are, or the little girls in roller skates are, too, or even that kindly old grandmotherly type Negro woman from down the street who always used to give me those tootsie pops when I was young. I knew I was going to miss her when I finally boarded that five PM train going straight to nowhere, going nowhere. The tears are filling up their glasses. No expression, no expression.

But I'm Degrassi. I mean, digress. I'm beginning to think this mixture of ink fumes and stream of conciousness writing is starting to wear down on my brain function a little. At least I've toned down on the commas.

Anyway, here I am on this train to nowhere, leaving behind that tragic old land of Washington Parallelogram, ready to start my new life in the wastelands of New Jersey as a respectable, heterosexual homeless man. I carried with my a bindle of underwear and a novelty tee shirt, seventy five cents (Canadian), my old cat Rusty, and my gloves, which were not, in fact, in my hands, but, rather, on them, ironically.

There was a wide array of interesting people on this train, ranging from your average passed out hobo to your average passed out NYU student; I took careful notice of the odd doppelganger, though their presence was most likely related to the aforementioned fumes. Oh, those lovely fumes.

Also, among the ragtag riffraff and muckamuck on this train was the lifelong object of affection, Jane Austen. I had adored her works since my very earliest ages, in fact, I started reading Pride and Prejudice just as I crawled out of the cradle. I didn't understand much of it and Father gave me one hell of a raping afterwards, but it's the principle of the thing, and a nice story to tell in bars.

I walked over to my idol slowly and anxiously, what would I say to her? I planned to introduce myself a former way and ask her to sign my breasts, but as I drew nearer I became overcome with fright and just paused where I stood for a full six hours. The train reached all of its stops and everyone was let off except for me, who still just stood there, facing an Austen that was no longer there, the cuff of my shirt collar pulled all the way down by my knuckles, my nipples most nearly exposed, ready to be signed by her legendary fountain pen, the same fountain pen that penned her most prestigious pennings. Oh, how hopeless a person I was!

A gigantic tentacled monster crawled up from the depths of the empty train and gave me a consoling glance. A thin smile arched on my lips, and my head went down in a mad blush. I knew, right there, that I had found my future love in that horrendous creature from the oily depths of the New York subway system. It would eat my flesh after six hours of intense movie watching and book reading and dump my body at the base of Washing Parallelogram Park's iconic Rhombus Arc. I was discovered about two hours later by some sightseers and my quivering body of exposed muscle was rushed immediately to the nearest hospital clinic. Alas, yet another love lost. Would nothing ever turn my way?

Things turn my way (conclusion posthumously by M. Night Shamalamylayan following Henry James' untimely death)

I stayed in the hospital for about six months and had a complex series of complete skin grafts. When I came out, I had transformed into a black man.

Understandably, this caused some eyes to turn in my direction. At last, things were turning my way, if not in the way I expected.

The hospital had given me a brochure before it kicked me out its doors, entitled "So you decided to become a Negro." I read it over several times and saw that the situation didn't apply to me at all, I was thus left without any guidance, and what's even worse, I left my GPS and map back in the hospital room, so I was without physical guidance either, and additionally, my hand-eye coordination lobe was severely damaged in the whole maiming incident, so I was rather wobbly and unable to guide myself, even. I was in bad shape, and I knew it. I also locked my keys in my car. Also, the doctors put a strange green tracking device in my heart, but it turns out that it was actually a pacemaker from the future that would keep me alive long enough to find out my entire family was ghosts, too.

There was no one I could turn to except an inspirational speaker, so I hopped onto the town bus to the nearest community center and kept my eyes peeled for any self-help seminars. Unfortunately, due to my accident, I was forced to move to the back of the bus, which I was very unaccustomed to. My chest puffed up as the attendant went up to me, and I boldly refused to move from my seat. I forgot to mention that earlier that day, I traveled through time and became Rosa Parks.

The rest, they say, is history.

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