On top of a tall building under a windy grey sky, someone is scheduled to jump off the roof at four o'clock. I lurk around the edge pensively, wondering if it's me who is to jump. All those ants below, none of them are concerned on just another workday. I even start crawling over the edge, clinging to the underside of a stony outcrop, feet dangling in space, fascinated by the thought of impact.
Aboard a bus, grainy archival footage of the Rolling Stones playing "Under My Thumb" is shown on an overhead monitor. But something's wrong with the bus - mechanical failure? All very vague. The twerp in charge of the excursion goes up front & turns off the video before the song ends, then announces that the bus will be pulling over soon for repair. And warns us not to use the bathroom. A haughty middleaged woman in jewelry & strategic makeup, clearly used to getting her way, comes back to use the bathroom anyhow, goes past the twerp dismissively. Through the bathroom door we hear her complain, "hey, the water is coming over the sides of the bowl." The twerp snickers. I notice a puddle forming at my feet too, oozing up from beneath the carpet. And the water is a very artificial red. Tainted by some chemical. Maybe this situation is serious after all. I'm still sore about him shutting off the music midsong though.
Sitting in the passenger seat of an old jalopy, staked out overlooking a railroad track on an arid Texas road. I'm trying to explain to the driver why I disliked a particular scene in a movie which went on much too long. The driver shakes his head & defends the scene, saying it's an effective use of climax. "What climax?" I protest, "it takes place at the beginning of the film." The old bloated transvestite beside me sympathizes. She can't hear too well & I find myself talking into her ear, which is gnarled & misshapen, maybe even partially chewed off. "What? I can't hear you," she keeps saying.
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