Dustup
In a bizarre reenactment of a scene from a recent movie, Ben and Tim are
having a bullfight in the living room of the Zoo. Seven or eight of us
are gathered to watch movies, so space is at a premium and all the chairs,
good and bad, are filled. Ben is called to the phone, and Tim, in that
time-honored game of one-upmanship played by testosterone crazed youth,
takes his place in the papa-san chair. When Ben returns, Tim holds his
ground, claiming right of forfeiture and conquest, and citing possession
as nine tenths of the law. Ben, in one swift and startling motion, upends
the chair and Tim with it, sending him rolling and sputtering like a
half-dead firecracker across the room. Bounding to his feet, Tim shouts
that one of these days, Ben will have to kill him. Ben looks through him,
and walks away in disgust - dodging the hate Tim sends at him
effortlessly, not reflecting or deflecting but simply becoming an
emotional sieve, becoming holes in the aether, becoming nothing there,
making Tim nothing by association. The hurricane is not even a breeze.
Ben is made one with the air by his disdain, and Tim passes through and
dissipates, emptily, harmlessly, blustering.
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