Monday, November 12, 2012

Rain Coming in the Life of Muldoon

Rain coming and going. Hours and seconds passing. Sun rising and setting. Muldoon sees all these things and records them meticulously using his computational machine. But the gadget relies on electricity, so when current fails thus goes Muldoon's avocation. His acolytes, if acolytes there be, miss out on one opus after another. Never will they know of Muldoon's epics: My Incomplete Haircut, Memorializing My Middle School Experience, Names of People I No Longer Remember,  How I Lost My Parents at Disneyland and Why I Never Went Back to Look for Them, Is This the Best I Can Do with Cleaning Products? Bereft of computation, Muldoon scrawls these titles in pink chalk on the sidewalk in front of the orphanage where his original parents left the one-month old in a cardboard liquor box lined with shredded copies of The National Review. Affixed to the stolen Holiday Inn towel, in which the baby boy was wrapped, was a handwritten note: "Muldoon must now fend for himself." And so he does.

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