FICTION
"In the Blink of an All Seeing Eye"
/ Ben Bush
10.16.06
As was typical of these flea market sales booths, operations were run out of the back of a vehicle parked behind the kiosk, this time with the DVD overstock filling the bed of the pickup truck. For ease of unloading, the tailgate hung open and the glass flap of the camper shell yawned upwards. Because merchandise obscured its rear license plate I walked around to the front of the truck to jot down the number. Crouched and scribbling the final digits, I looked up to see Graburn pull the dagger from his shopping bag and stab the truck’s rear tire.
He withdrew the blade from the black rubber and I jogged up, slapped him on the shoulder and, fearing police or paparazzi, forced him to dash off through the maze of vendors. Graburn was giddy from his stunt and I realized the discrepancy in our responses: my sense of urgency compared to his. Mildly illegal behavior was potentially an asset to the public persona of a creative venture capitalist like Graburn perpetually on the periphery of the public eye, whereas it could be a serious impediment to the career of a legal professional such as myself.
As we ran, the rattling of the Similac cans inside Graburn’s shopping bag resounded even amidst the noisy flea market. The steel-belted radial had been quietly hemorrhaging PSIs and the bed of the pickup truck began to sag. We had sprinted a good block and a half before it drooped to such an angle that, like some epic dam bursting in one of Graburn’s movies, bootleg DVDs began to slide down its incline, loudly clattering into the gutter.
Glancing over my shoulder, I extracted my car from its tiny parallel parked crevice. Graburn unlatched his laptop, barcalounged the screen into position, and inserted the disc with his film's title Sharpie'd across it. Without headphones, the MGM lion roared silently in a tiny pop-up window, but, as a low resolution version of his film appeared, Graburn growled and punched my dashboard. "Never have I been so upset to get what I actually paid for." Albeit for different reasons, Graburn for once watched one of his own films with the same level of disgust and horror as his critics.
He withdrew the blade from the black rubber and I jogged up, slapped him on the shoulder and, fearing police or paparazzi, forced him to dash off through the maze of vendors. Graburn was giddy from his stunt and I realized the discrepancy in our responses: my sense of urgency compared to his. Mildly illegal behavior was potentially an asset to the public persona of a creative venture capitalist like Graburn perpetually on the periphery of the public eye, whereas it could be a serious impediment to the career of a legal professional such as myself.
As we ran, the rattling of the Similac cans inside Graburn’s shopping bag resounded even amidst the noisy flea market. The steel-belted radial had been quietly hemorrhaging PSIs and the bed of the pickup truck began to sag. We had sprinted a good block and a half before it drooped to such an angle that, like some epic dam bursting in one of Graburn’s movies, bootleg DVDs began to slide down its incline, loudly clattering into the gutter.
Glancing over my shoulder, I extracted my car from its tiny parallel parked crevice. Graburn unlatched his laptop, barcalounged the screen into position, and inserted the disc with his film's title Sharpie'd across it. Without headphones, the MGM lion roared silently in a tiny pop-up window, but, as a low resolution version of his film appeared, Graburn growled and punched my dashboard. "Never have I been so upset to get what I actually paid for." Albeit for different reasons, Graburn for once watched one of his own films with the same level of disgust and horror as his critics.
