7-takes-on-the-man | A short story

7-takes-on-the-Man

Written by many, inspired by music.

Chapter 1 by Dhaval Mehta

"I can't do that right now, I gotta go see Peter Cincotti," said 7.

"Peter who? You should be searching the newspapers for a decent summer job, son. Always be able to afford your expenses or else ...."

"The concert is free, Dad"

"Or else you aren't you going to have much choice and end up being a lowlife just like all your cousins."

"Dad, you just don't understand me. Our society is so messed up, the only job I'll be able to get won't satisfy my hunger for artistic freedom. I mean I have no problem in working, but why should I work for something that will make another man richer and leave me stranded."

"Look at me, 7, I'm your father and I know what's best for you. Society is fine, it's you who needs to know how to fight it.The world is too large for just one person to take it on. Now, I respect and appreciate your creative urges, but first, you must make money. We're just too insignificant a portion and what we think won't matter, but what we have will. When you make money, that's when you will be able to influence others, not before then."

"Daddy, just let me go watch this man play some music and we can discuss your nonsense another time."

"Just because I can't walk behind you doesn't mean my eyes will not follow you around tonight, son. You enjoy yourself on tonight's march."

LATER on in the night...

7 is sitting on some dry grass. Peter Cincotti's jazz is the perfect accompaniment to a mildly cool summer evening. Alone, with his eyes closed, 7 unwinds to the music. As he lies there, a wind approaches him, it gently enters his nose and mouth and guides itself to 7's thoughts.

A hollow and echo like sound is now layered over the jazz in 7's mind. "7, it's me Pops, I know you have never called me Pops and honestly it is a silly thing to be called, but here I am, Pops. I have a thought for you, son. A vision. An artistic epiphany as you passionate souls like to call it. Are you ready to hear it? I hope this wind reaches you before this boring music drowses you out ... here it is: You should write about something that will make you happy! Isn't that fabulous? Write about something that makes you happy and submit it to different magazines all around the country. One of them will love your idea and you will soon be on your way. Now, let me allow you to fall asleep but make sure you close your mouth first."

7 closes his mouth and now forces himself to think of happy things, as the concert is about to end.

To be continued next week by ...

Below are the songs that Dhaval listened to while writing the first segment of this short story. Surprisingly, Peter Cincotti was not an influence, but he did have a concert on the evening June 24th in New York City.

"Rock Island" from a cast recording of Meredith Wilson's The Music Man

"Don't Let me Be Misunderstood" Santa Esmeralda

"Crimson and Clover" Tommy James & The Shondells

"99 Problems" Jay-Z

"The Longing" Karsh Kale

[ $%&@ ]

Chapter 2 by Mariely Hernandez

Happy things, I want to think of happy things, thought 7. Then his conscience came into play and his dad's voice shattered his daydream for that evening. Seated between a doughy middle aged beluga lady and a thin old man dressed in what is known to the working world as "business casual." The fuzziness before his eyes cleared up, the grass was gone, he was sitting in Carnegie Hall. Peter Cincotti began to sing, "A Girl I Knew." I like girls, thought 7. No, scratch that. I don't like girls. They're a headache. I like breasts. And ass. I like ass a lot. 7 smiled at the revelation, shifting his legs. The music had enveloped him completely. Peter Cincotti was making finger love to the piano keys. And that man on the sax, whew!

The real event was Dianne Reeves, who was doing a tribute to Sarah Vaughn for the Jazz Festival. 7 knew he couldn't tell his Dad. He'd want to come! "A tribute to Sarah Vaughn?! Well, son, I'm coming! And free, too, I can't believe it, I hope she's good." Well, Dad, thought 7, she's not only good, she's excellent. But Dianne Reeves began to "beepity bop doo bop bippity bop" a little too much and 7 contemplated making an escape.

The beluga fell asleep towards the end. Her arms looked like those Pillsbury biscuits that come packaged in cylinders. The way you open them is that you twist the cylinder in one direction. And the white, creamy dough comes oozing through. Not drippy, but firm and malleable. 7 was disgusted. The girls that paid him to photograph them would squirm at the sight of this woman. Maybe when they had to recover from their eating disorders, when they got pregnant, when they just stopped caring, there will be a beluga in their futures. But to look at a woman like this now, they would hiss insults during their breaks from the intense gossiping. 7 shuddered. His dad was telling him to write about something that makes him happy. But what does he have to write that he can't photograph or film?

7's hobby was women. And "word on the street" (meaning the 420 traffic report in the drug scene, the quarterly report in the not so legal business scene, the six o'clock news with the population of degenerates and drop outs) was that he was a "sick" photographer. The women he photographed were all prostitutes wanting to become Adult film stars. He helped them with their portfolios. The pictures were all very risque, so to speak. But he made them look like sculptures with flesh. His role models Bob Guccione & Helmut Newton were permanently embedded in 7's mind. His dream was to get away from all the whores and degenerates. He wanted to photograph real models. But he did not have a British accent, connections, or funding.

Even though the women he photographed often wanted to pay with non-traditional methods, 7 wanted to keep things "professional."

Yup, thought 7, Dad will never understand. 7 wasn't sure if he was principled but he knew he was talented. More than anything he wanted to show the world world how a naked woman looked through his eyes. Something in his pants twitched, pleasantly startled, 7 realized it was his phone. He flipped open his cell phone and a look of surprise immediately overtook his features.

Songs Mariely listened to while writing chapter two of 7-takes-on-the-Man.

"Riders on the Storm" The Doors
"Did I fool ya?" Jason Mraz Live at Java Joes
"little you and I" Jason Mraz Live at Java Joes
"good night moon" shivaree
"About Her" Malcom McLaren
"La Primavera" Manu Chao
"Me gustas tu" Manu Chao
"Trapped by Love" Manu Chao
"Le Rendez Vous" Manu Chao
"Homens" Manu chao

Chapter 3 by "Jesus"

"May I speak to Hitler?" questioned 7, squinting his ears to improve the crappy reception. "Oh ... Miller. No, you have the wrong number, but we can talk if you like" said 7 doing his best Barry White impression as he leaned back. The woman on the other line responded with a chatty click of the phone. "Alright, take care, sweetie" shouted 7 to the dial tone.

"Just a Dreamer without a plan…wonder if Jesus had a plan…" he mumbled to himself as he placed the phone in his pant pocket. Lingering notes gently brushed his hair away from his face, as he kicked a can down the pavement; and surprised himself with the unexpectedly loud clang of tin shattering the silence of the deserted street.

Humming to himself, he enjoyed watching the street lights elongate the shadow of his squat frame. Who is he kidding? He is no Picasso, or an
impassioned revolutionary genius. He probably had a tag somewhere clearly displayed to everyone but himself:

"SIZE, INTELLECT, AND VISION: STUNTED."

The thought was gratefully interrupted by the whirr of a taxi rushing by, advertising a blonde with perfect teeth, who strategically sported
a cigarette by her cleavage. "I should just go home", he thought, as he hugged himself . He stopped walking, and looked up: where the hell am I. The intersection looked alien. "Yo, Pops, you messing with my head again?"

The stench the wind axed his sinuses with could only emanate from a man long pronounced dead to society. A foot was protruding from a heap of rags and paper. Repulsed, he turned away and instinctively walked faster. But as he approached the man's head, he couldn't help but stop. It was Doonesburry. He needed a "harty-har how witty thou art" laugh that was devoid of merriment. He took a deep breath before stepping closer. 7 wasn't too worried about being caught observing people anymore.

He tilted his head to read better, when he inadvertently looked at the man's face. It was beautiful. Beneath the yellow moon light, the wrinkles creasing the man's face looked like the aged rings on mahogany. The shadow he cast caressed the wart beneath the man's right nostril. "I wanted to photograph those plastic, molded models?" thought aloud 7.

Dude, I could redefine art by redefining what is beautiful! He quickly pulled out his camera, snapped a picture, and nervously stepped back; although he was certain that even the sound of a bull dozer would probably not wake the man. A pigeon flew by like a kamikaze pilot, pooping on the Doonesbury column. The man stirred, and 7 ran.

In each stride, 7 could feel the tiredness of prolonged sobriety leaving his body. He ran past the street where he was supposed to meet his "client."
He stopped running at the sight of a vending machine that reminded him he has been thirsty since leaving for the concert.

Seven engaged in the pre-requisite suspension of rationale as he prepared himself to be ripped off and pay the 2 dollars for a bottle of coke. Finally, feeding the machine the 2 dollars, 7 stepped back to survey the options when he felt a hard object pressing against his back and realized that he was stepping on something. Someone was behind him, but preferring to prolong his state of uncertainty, 7 slowly made a selection and
grabbed the bottle of soda before removing his foot from whatever he was stepping on.

Music
Silence of the health science library courtesy of Stony Brook University
Stomach churning from eating vegetables for lunch Jesus hates lettuce

Chapter 4 by Dhaval Mehta

grab-thud-ouch-black. a few hours later...

Birds flying high, you know how I feel. The words floating in my mind, I know how I feel, a moment of drain; the weakness is here but it is passing slowly, I think; but I could freeze this instant and lose all my senses, thought 7 as he could not even blink his eyes without effort. He was powerless during this particular interval in time. A brainfreeze of the ugliest kind; the kind you get without consuming any frozen concoctions; the kind of brain freeze that results in loss of all physical control of your body.

7 lay face first on some grass, he noticed his mouth was open and he was drooling; 'did I swallow any earthworms?' he asked aloud spitting out some sweet grass and eating some too, out of curiosity and hunger. No one answered. His eyes were still blurred and the world tonight was out of focus. He didn't understand why the leaves on the tree in front of him were emitting such a bright glow. I must not be in New York anymore, he thought to himself quietly, trees in New York never shine like this, he was aware of the ridiculous nature of his thoughts, but this was one of the most common side-effects of ugly brainfreezes.

A loud palpable bass vibration caused everything around 7 to shake and the blurriness shattered and set the world in sharp focus to 7's eyes. The lights were Chinese lanterns; as 7 looked around he saw nothing but darkness and the tree was the only source of light. A silhouette slowly dropped lower from a rather strong branch of this wonderfully lit tree; the figure swung front and back, like a monkey but replacing the cuteness with a daunting blind gaze. The figure swung, laughing in a sinister manner, which was completely unnecessary, thought 7.

"Who are you?" yelled 7. The figure jumped back up into the tree. A loud pop startled 7 and the figure, which was really a man grabbed 7 by the back of his neck in as gentle of a way as such a thing can be done.

"Do you think you own me now, jackal. Are you the keeper? Who told you to come upon me at all? It wasn't me, or at least I don't recall telling you to come and look at me. But here you are, curious cat. The branches of this tree will be sawed off and made into a bat. Tick tock. Tick tock. Let's rock," said the man as his arm turned into a saw and he went to work on a particularly smooth and strong branch.

This man was just an ordinary looking man, nothing super about him. Yet, this short, stubble having man had just transformed his arm into a saw. He must be 21, thought 7. "I don't want to be hit with the bat, 21."

"I'm not 21, you moron. I'm 49."

"Whoa. You ... you can't be, you're too agile for that," said 7. "What do you imagine 49 being, young me. Do you want me to have white hair, a couple more wrinkles and admit to you that if I could do it all over again, I'd change everything? Well, that's obviously not happening friend, you know that better than me," replied 49 as he had mutated the saw into a sander and was now making quite a fine bat.

"What ar3 y0u d01n6 h3r3" a5k3d Seven.,.in a numb state of being.

"Is that all it took? Your fear is ridiculous. Your power is surprisignly non-existent. I don't want to hurt you, but I do want your dignity, your talent, and your youth. Friend, all I want is your life," stated 49.

"1118 7833 000" 92-11 7.

49: There's no need to be afraid. This deed will secure you a place in my warm and loving heart. Your strength will be restored through me.

The tree started to shake uncontrollably, some lights flew off and shattered around the two men. A strong gust of wind brought comfort to 7, but 49 was now on the ground, weeping suffering excruciating pain, from the same wind that had a calming effect on 7.

"Thanks Dad!" exclaimed 7, bursting as he regained energy, he watched 49 scream in pain. The sound of the scream was almost as loud as the howls of Dad coming through the wind.

"Goddamnit 7. What the hell is wrong with you. I told you to stay home and find a job, instead you went out into the world without your senses. Do you know how close you were to dying? Answer me when I speak to you young man."

7 stood there still thankful to his Dad. "I'm sorry man. I just need to explore the world on my own, I don't need your constant bickering. I could have taken on 49 myself, you didn't need to come in with your voice of reason to empower me."

"Well, I'm sorry for being a sensible goddamned man, 7, but I'd rather get whipped by a goddamn flock of sheep before I let you wander these streets in your young age. Now, shut your nonsense at this hour. Make sure you have your camera and your notepad and an open mind.

7 grabbed the lanterns which were all connected to each other and the wind carried 7 with it in the air. As 7 floated above the water a warm geyser gently lifted to form a bed underneath him and he fell fast asleep. As 7 slept the lights flew behind him, dancing in the cool starry night.

The landing was rough, awakening 7 onto a pebble filled shore.

7 got up and walked towards a broken down barn, there was a sign on the door.

Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.

Songs of Chapter 4

A phone conversation *not a song, an actual phone conversation - The Deemster
Feeling Good - Nina Simone
Vande Mataram - AR Rahaman
Prototype - Outkast
Traveler (Jungle Remix) - Karsh Kale
Lover I don't have to Love - Bright Eyes
get low - Lil Jon
My Way - Frank Sinatra
These Boots are Made for Walking - Nancy Sinatra
It's my Life - New Wave
You don't know my name - Alicia Keys
Save me, You Can't Save me - Kalpana
If I can't have you - Yvonne Elliman
Jailhouse Rock - Elvis Presley

Chapter 5 by Dhaval Mehta

The sound of the clock grew louder and more palpable in 7's heart. It was 5 am. He tore off the help wanted sign and turned to see one of the most picturesque views he had ever seen. Each strand of hair on his body tingled and his eyes shifted focus continuously, they could not possibly absorb the beauty that lay in front of him.

Three moons graced the sky, one in the east, one in the north and one in the south. They were each a yellowish white, with craters as if they'd been painted in with careful detail. The river in front of him was gently approaching land and life was thriving within it. A breeze that could have cooled off an army of soldiers after their latest battle passed through the palm and coconut trees. 7 was so joyous that he couldn't cry nor could he smile. Words could not have helped at a moment like this.

He took out his camera and began recording the vista. He captured it from all angles, zoomed in as far as he could towards each of the moons and he swore he saw an alive world within each of them. He must have went through 3 tapes before he started taking pictures of the area. He ran behind the barn, not a sign of people, but he felt an innocence about the place; there was something very nascient in the air, and there was a simple sadness that existed within the air. It was remorse and it was joy; but it was invisible.

He walked to the old barn, carrying his cameras on his shoulder now. The barn had a wide window on each side. They must frame the scenery perfectly, thought 7 to himself. The grass was like seaweed, as 7 stepped on it, it would sway in different directions and not be pressured against his foot; it was a floating feeling.

7 knocked on the door . The anticipation was driving 7 insane.

No one answered, so he opened the door himself. Four white screen-like windows graced the walls of this empty shack. It was immaculate. Not a spot on the floor, not a grain of dust in the corners; no signs of life, no signs of cobwebs, nothing at all was present in this room. It was a dead room. The screens blocked out the beautiful view outside. It was dark with the exception of the four projectors shedding white empty light onto each of the screens. 7 walked towards the middle of the room where a swell burgundy couch was set, it had four backs and a space in the middle, so that people could sit to view any one of the screens.

With his jaw dropped open at this curiosity, 7 sat in the chair closest to him and looked towards all the screens until finally concentrating on the one in front of him. A sound of film being inserted into a projector startled 7 as his movie began.

Quick flashes of the women he had met before on his late night travels, a picture of music, sounds of his Dad manifested themselves as bright yellow and hallucinogenic shapes on the screen. He actually felt the memories being created in his mind, were they really his?

"I don't remember seeing any of this, who is here? Where is all of this coming from?" he thought to himself as the movie continued, despite the extreme nausea it was inducing within 7.

The film started projecting pictures that 7 had just taken outside, except, it was filled with people, people all around him. He had not seen any of these people before, there was an entire group of women wearing red fedoras and doing a kickline number to hip hop sounds. There were several children with their teeth grinning, posing for 7, wanting to please him and wanting to have 7 display their pictures on the covers of magazines. There were even kids pulling at his shirt in these pictures; he had not seen any of them while he was taking the pictures.

Tears filled 7's eyes as he saw the next piece of poignant yet senseless film. A dozen men, dressed in black, all wearing stylish top hats and tweed coats lifted an open coffin. The camera zoomed above the coffin and inside of it was a boy, he was too young to die. 7 remembered zooming, but he had not seen any of this, he had only seen the water being welcoming. The men entered water and set the coffin to float along with the gentle waves. 7 cried as he saw the sympathetic river giving a resting place to this unfortunate child.

But, another picture entered 7's mind as the funeral progressed. He saw his father; at a younger age, he must have been about 30, sobbing on the bedroom floor of their old house. It was 7's room; 7 felt a strong sensation of violence present in the house at that time. His father's hands were trembling, there was broken glass in the house and soon, despite 7's unwillingness to watch anymore, the camera shifted outside of the window to reveal a child was drowning in the swimming pool below, the father had done this a few minutes ago.

As suddenly the tears disappeared from 7's eyes, he saw his mother facing the ceiling, her eyes wide open, right next to the father on the floor. She was not breathing, 7 could feel her suffocation.

He did not know from where it arose, but he sensed that the mother had been dying for a long while. The child she had bourne had slowly taken life from her; the baby was surviving on its mother's breath. She had no more left to give to the child and so had passed onto the next world where she could receive the blood and life rather than have to give it. She had been freed from her responsibility to the child. 7 knew that he was the child.

7 knew that he was the one drowning in the water. 7 also knew that his father had thrown him out the window. His father had done this because he was not ready to make the same sacrifice his wife had for their child.

Father: You have asked too much from those around you son. I need you to become self-reliant and fight the good fight. I have not abandoned you in your time of need. I have given you freedom. I have taught you the secret to life. So, live if you will and die if you want, I am just not ready to give my life to you, not now, not ever.

7 realized that the room he was in was to be his final resting place; the movie stopped playing. 7 saw around him a plethora of women, he was using them too, just as he had used his mother. He was showing them promises of fame while using them to make his life better. He was using the children to prove himself a kinder man than he actually was. The children smiled out of fear. They were smiling because they did not want 7 to take their innocence away from them. The women were deformed because that was 7's image of them. He wanted them to suffer so he could be self-righteous, he thought he was helping them by doing this, being a good human being, but what he didn't know was that they did not need him. No one needed him. He realized this and he was no longer in the room, he was in the coffin and he saw behind him, the 12 men standing there; relieved that this burden had left them.

7 came out of the coffin and began swimming faster and faster, towards the horizon, away from the land, away from the job, away from what he had seen and realized. He had received his freedom and he had abandoned his cameras. He had given up the art, he realized he was using these things as crutches to make his life meaningful. Now he was on his own, alone in the water, which swallowed his tears and fed him strength. He was going to swim until he found his mother, he needed to apologize and he needed to show his gratitude. So 7 swam away and his Father's voice came to him as he swam.

My child, you were my hope, you were my beam of light, but you turned out to seek all of these things from me. You need to learn that you are your own man. With this freedom I have given you, you will succeed in your goals. I will stop talking to you now and give you a strong wind to swim to the end of your existence, to be free from all of us and to recognize yourself as your own savior. Thank you 7. Have a good journey.

Music for Chapter 5 (the final chapter)

Crickets chirping on a wet Sunday morning

My own voice reciting the lines.

The End.

If you have questions, comments, qualms, annoyances about 7 and the inconsistency of his story, please e-mail the creative team and we will be sure to tell you how it all makes sense and fits into a cohesive piece of novella, which is soon to be a graphic novel. Thank you for reading and continue to fight the good fight.

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