Bart vs. My Hopes & Dreams by goodolvic
It’s live! The first book about every Simpsons game ever is now available on itch.io. It’s pay-what-you-want so I appreciate any support you can send my way, but feel free to just grab it if you’re curious. The games are a real doozy.
In which I sheepishly remind you that I wrote a book and it would be ever so wonderful if you read it. It’s ostensibly about Simpsons video games but turned into a memoir as happens ‘round these parts.
Bart vs. My Hopes & Dreams by goodolvic
It’s live! The first book about every Simpsons game ever is now available on itch.io. It’s pay-what-you-want so I appreciate any support you can send my way, but feel free to just grab it if you’re curious. The games are a real doozy.
In which I sheepishly remind you that I wrote a book and it would be ever so wonderful if you read it. It’s ostensibly about Simpsons video games but turned into a memoir as happens ‘round these parts.
The mouse was the size of my thumb. It appeared as a Southward dart while I faced West, toward the San Carlos suburbs. A fast little dust ball. I looked in the general direction and considered that it was nothing. Some figment.
I’d gone too far South on one train and waited for another that would carry me North to Belmont. No book to read. Late summer dusklight behind the clouds. I don’t know what was in my head then, though it was something. I know it because I was pacing and wild-eyed. Searching everywhere. It was standing around at the station that had me noticing things, like that mouse.
It appeared again a few minutes before my train and paused in the open space between rain gutter grates. Right in front of a stucco wall. No discernible movement. Little brown shape, a furry lump.
“Howdy,” I said. I stood several feet away, in front of a bench. One of those wrought iron and wood slat deals.
The little mouse remained in place. I sat down and turned away when it seemed appropriate. I smiled at my absurdity.
I listened for the track rattle and hiss of an oncoming train. My ear has to point toward a thing if I expect to hear it. It means turning away to look at roofs and hills, missing everything in front of me. There was no hint of a train.
The little mouse sidled up while I listened. It was there on the concrete a couple of feet from the bench when I stopped listening for the train that wouldn’t come.
“Hello,” said the mouse.
We waited minutes and I wasn’t sure that I’d heard anything. Nobody uses that word anymore.
I was scared, so I began to hum. Something sad to bring that up to the surface. I hoped my clever sadness would scare away the mouse without the need for shoos and foot stamping.
Instead, the mouse crept closer, and it sat beside me on the wood slats. Its little ears moved. They were dangly flaps of skin and fur about the size of pupils.
“Are we going to sit here?” it asked.
“Yeap.”
“Your train’s going to be here in no time.”
I looked at the station LED sign. My train to Belmont was 5 minutes late.
“Just a few more minutes.”
We remained quiet for a while. I scanned the roofs ahead, looking for crows. They were usually good for some head tracking, though not that evening. They tend to cluster around acorns in late summer.
“I think this is a rare opportunity for you,” said the mouse. I finally turned toward it. It must have been a baby, small as it was. I couldn’t possibly take it seriously.
“I made a mistake,” I said. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
The mouse brought its front paws together and rubbed its nose. “You are missing out on something that may never come again. I’m a thing far different from you, and you have nothing to discuss? You greeted me after all.”
“Impulse, that’s all.” Then I hummed the sad song again and waited.
The mouse looked ahead, as I did. “I’ll leave you to it,” said the mouse. It stepped back toward the grate on the North side of the platform. It blinked into one of the small holes. Back into its hole.
The train arrived. I was at my destination in two minutes.
Weeks later, I searched for a particular taco truck on the streets of Oakland. I skulked along an empty street and encountered a huge rat crossing from one sidewalk to the other. No Hello, no acknowledgement whatsoever.
The mouse was the size of my thumb. It appeared as a Southward dart while I faced West, toward the San Carlos suburbs. A fast little dust ball. I looked in the general direction and considered that it was nothing. Some figment.
I’d gone too far South on one train and waited for another that would carry me North to Belmont. No book to read. Late summer dusklight behind the clouds. I don’t know what was in my head then, though it was something. I know it because I was pacing and wild-eyed. Searching everywhere. It was standing around at the station that had me noticing things, like that mouse.
It appeared again a few minutes before my train and paused in the open space between rain gutter grates. Right in front of a stucco wall. No discernible movement. Little brown shape, a furry lump.
“Howdy,” I said. I stood several feet away, in front of a bench. One of those wrought iron and wood slat deals.
The little mouse remained in place. I sat down and turned away when it seemed appropriate. I smiled at my absurdity.
I listened for the track rattle and hiss of an oncoming train. My ear has to point toward a thing if I expect to hear it. It means turning away to look at roofs and hills, missing everything in front of me. There was no hint of a train.
The little mouse sidled up while I listened. It was there on the concrete a couple of feet from the bench when I stopped listening for the train that wouldn’t come.
“Hello,” said the mouse.
We waited minutes and I wasn’t sure that I’d heard anything. Nobody uses that word anymore.
I was scared, so I began to hum. Something sad to bring that up to the surface. I hoped my clever sadness would scare away the mouse without the need for shoos and foot stamping.
Instead, the mouse crept closer, and it sat beside me on the wood slats. Its little ears moved. They were dangly flaps of skin and fur about the size of pupils.
“Are we going to sit here?” it asked.
“Yeap.”
“Your train’s going to be here in no time.”
I looked at the station LED sign. My train to Belmont was 5 minutes late.
“Just a few more minutes.”
We remained quiet for a while. I scanned the roofs ahead, looking for crows. They were usually good for some head tracking, though not that evening. They tend to cluster around acorns in late summer.
“I think this is a rare opportunity for you,” said the mouse. I finally turned toward it. It must have been a baby, small as it was. I couldn’t possibly take it seriously.
“I made a mistake,” I said. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
The mouse brought its front paws together and rubbed its nose. “You are missing out on something that may never come again. I’m a thing far different from you, and you have nothing to discuss? You greeted me after all.”
“Impulse, that’s all.” Then I hummed the sad song again and waited.
The mouse looked ahead, as I did. “I’ll leave you to it,” said the mouse. It stepped back toward the grate on the North side of the platform. It blinked into one of the small holes. Back into its hole.
The train arrived. I was at my destination in two minutes.
Weeks later, I searched for a particular taco truck on the streets of Oakland. I skulked along an empty street and encountered a huge rat crossing from one sidewalk to the other. No Hello, no acknowledgement whatsoever.
I didn’t think to check my phone. I was angry, dealing with emotions I rarely experience; perceiving a story that I’d imagined in my head and taken to heart. It might’ve been the God’s honest truth or simply convincing. It was a reason to harden. And that phone. I was leaning against that condiment counter when I finally checked it. It isn’t instinct, it’s not in me to do that. I should’ve thought to do that.
You think that way, after.
I should’ve known, I should’ve called, I should’ve been relentless.
It must’ve been early. Earlier than I needed to leave. I saw the innkeeper on my way out. He emerged from his office at the back of the house with half a shirt on and blotchy red skin. I hadn’t seen any sunshine during my entire time in town, so I concluded I’d simply missed the ferry.
“I’m heading out,” I said.
He pulled down the remainder of his shirt and gawked. He hadn’t seen me since I showed up around midnight on Friday.
“Oh, well, alright. We’ll just print your bill out for you.”
I dropped my single bag and approached the desk they’d positioned in the center of the foyer. I could see the names of all the guests they’d signed in that weekend. They might’ve all been John and Mary.
“We’re sorry about disturing you, yesterday. Just wanted to make sure you were alright.”
“Nothing to worry about,” I told him.
“Didn’t see your guest, did we?”
“No. The plans didn’t work out.”
“Oh, well sorry to hear that. Can we fix you breakfast?”
“No. I need to catch a flight in Chicago.”
“Way out there?”
“Yup.”
“How about we fix you something to go.”
“No, thanks.”
You try to just go. You try to remain polite, and go. You pick up your bag and go.
I liked it. There’s always something to like about a place if I look around. There were fields, of course. Fields and trees everywhere. A lot of young folks, oddly enough. Perhaps youth stands out to me more than it once did. Walking along one of the main streets, Market or something, I’d seen a girl who looked too young walk into a bar in the middle of the night. I wondered, noticing this and talking to the odd gas station attendant, if it was any different. I’d been many places. People always seemed like people.
You think about what you missed and what you remembered. The logistics: the car, the four post bed, the giant mirror, the bed ‘n breakfast built of aging, creaky wood. You think of the smell of the midnight light and the library just outside the corner room filled top-to-bottom with decorative spines. The condoms become a symbol. You think of a decade ago, of awkward fuck-ups that are never past. You feel, using the word in your head like it means anything more than general malaise.
On the drive out of town you pass the hospital and wonder if they take care of her there. If they are expedient, efficient, and caring. You think of the white walls, the sickly feeling of overcompensating for bodily failure with straight lines and pastel decor. You quickly pass into empty roads and fields.
I listened to NPR. I’d found the local station on the radio and set it to preset 1. I only remember news of the weather and following the directions east, then north, then west, then north, then west, passing through towns which I don’t recall. For every five miles I passed half a car. I looked for animals and saw many lonely dogs. I don’t remember cows.
Then you’re at the McDonalds and you check the phone.
Wait, no. Before that, you arrive at the toll booth from Indiana to Illinois.
“Do you have coins?”
“Just a credit card. Nothin’ else.” I might’ve smiled. I do.
“Well, it’s alright. You can go.”
“You won’t get in trouble? Come up short?”
“No one’ll notice.”
“Alright.” I nodded and smiled again. “Thank you.”
“Oh, you’re welcome.”
That’s right. She said I’m welcome, then I drove up onto another highway. I drove up and across the state line, now two hours closer to home instead of three. That’s right. It was still cloudy, and still expansive, surrounded by rurality and industry I couldn’t tell you anything about. I could see as far as Lake Michigan, I bet.
But that’s not what you think about. Places like those, that stretch between Gary and Chicago—it’s all been shown before. Gray skies, metal yards, empty grass. It leads to that last toll crossing and the McDonalds restaurant stationed right there in the middle, straddling both sides of the highway and open to all. Waiting for a bagel sandwich of some sort, you think you ought to check your phone. You do, you finally check it, and when you hear her voice it’s about as much as you can do not to blow off the flight and drive back. You realize that you have quite plainly fucked up, having missed one opportunity, and another, and another, and another, until you’re no longer a reality and thousands of miles in the red.
I didn’t think to check my phone. I was angry, dealing with emotions I rarely experience; perceiving a story that I’d imagined in my head and taken to heart. It might’ve been the God’s honest truth or simply convincing. It was a reason to harden. And that phone. I was leaning against that condiment counter when I finally checked it. It isn’t instinct, it’s not in me to do that. I should’ve thought to do that.
You think that way, after.
I should’ve known, I should’ve called, I should’ve been relentless.
It must’ve been early. Earlier than I needed to leave. I saw the innkeeper on my way out. He emerged from his office at the back of the house with half a shirt on and blotchy red skin. I hadn’t seen any sunshine during my entire time in town, so I concluded I’d simply missed the ferry.
“I’m heading out,” I said.
He pulled down the remainder of his shirt and gawked. He hadn’t seen me since I showed up around midnight on Friday.
“Oh, well, alright. We’ll just print your bill out for you.”
I dropped my single bag and approached the desk they’d positioned in the center of the foyer. I could see the names of all the guests they’d signed in that weekend. They might’ve all been John and Mary.
“We’re sorry about disturing you, yesterday. Just wanted to make sure you were alright.”
“Nothing to worry about,” I told him.
“Didn’t see your guest, did we?”
“No. The plans didn’t work out.”
“Oh, well sorry to hear that. Can we fix you breakfast?”
“No. I need to catch a flight in Chicago.”
“Way out there?”
“Yup.”
“How about we fix you something to go.”
“No, thanks.”
You try to just go. You try to remain polite, and go. You pick up your bag and go.
I liked it. There’s always something to like about a place if I look around. There were fields, of course. Fields and trees everywhere. A lot of young folks, oddly enough. Perhaps youth stands out to me more than it once did. Walking along one of the main streets, Market or something, I’d seen a girl who looked too young walk into a bar in the middle of the night. I wondered, noticing this and talking to the odd gas station attendant, if it was any different. I’d been many places. People always seemed like people.
You think about what you missed and what you remembered. The logistics: the car, the four post bed, the giant mirror, the bed ‘n breakfast built of aging, creaky wood. You think of the smell of the midnight light and the library just outside the corner room filled top-to-bottom with decorative spines. The condoms become a symbol. You think of a decade ago, of awkward fuck-ups that are never past. You feel, using the word in your head like it means anything more than general malaise.
On the drive out of town you pass the hospital and wonder if they take care of her there. If they are expedient, efficient, and caring. You think of the white walls, the sickly feeling of overcompensating for bodily failure with straight lines and pastel decor. You quickly pass into empty roads and fields.
I listened to NPR. I’d found the local station on the radio and set it to preset 1. I only remember news of the weather and following the directions east, then north, then west, then north, then west, passing through towns which I don’t recall. For every five miles I passed half a car. I looked for animals and saw many lonely dogs. I don’t remember cows.
Then you’re at the McDonalds and you check the phone.
Wait, no. Before that, you arrive at the toll booth from Indiana to Illinois.
“Do you have coins?”
“Just a credit card. Nothin’ else.” I might’ve smiled. I do.
“Well, it’s alright. You can go.”
“You won’t get in trouble? Come up short?”
“No one’ll notice.”
“Alright.” I nodded and smiled again. “Thank you.”
“Oh, you’re welcome.”
That’s right. She said I’m welcome, then I drove up onto another highway. I drove up and across the state line, now two hours closer to home instead of three. That’s right. It was still cloudy, and still expansive, surrounded by rurality and industry I couldn’t tell you anything about. I could see as far as Lake Michigan, I bet.
But that’s not what you think about. Places like those, that stretch between Gary and Chicago—it’s all been shown before. Gray skies, metal yards, empty grass. It leads to that last toll crossing and the McDonalds restaurant stationed right there in the middle, straddling both sides of the highway and open to all. Waiting for a bagel sandwich of some sort, you think you ought to check your phone. You do, you finally check it, and when you hear her voice it’s about as much as you can do not to blow off the flight and drive back. You realize that you have quite plainly fucked up, having missed one opportunity, and another, and another, and another, until you’re no longer a reality and thousands of miles in the red.
We were seated at a white plastic table. It had a big green umbrella posted right in the center and hovering over us, keeping moonlight out. It had begun to cool down after yet another unexpectedly warm day. I undoubtedly had a fine sheen to my forehead. There’d been too many glasses of beer (one passed around like a joint at some point). We discussed Obama’s forthcoming win as the lesser of two evils, or rather one evil and one fucking insane possibility of regressing to the most ridiculous rhetoric and policies I’ve heard in my lifetime. There was talk of period sex versus anal sex, and even those who were grossed out by talk of blood or shit had to admit one might be better than the other. We discussed fetishes and my lengthy monologue about the dangers of always going one step further, one rung higher, and why sexual satisfaction is the cornerstone of healthy adult relations, regardless of the extremity of said satisfaction. We discussed everything because I encourage it. No one wants to go too far, so I do.
Then we discussed love as it pertains to selecting a mate. It jumped back and forth across the table while I sat quietly and stared at the cars driving along the nearby street. It annoyed me that we’d selected that bar and that table, in a place less intimate than I like. We could see young couples pushing strollers just a dozen feet away.
I took a moment.
Someone encouraged me, finally. “You had a lot to say about girls who get off on violence. Nothing on love?”
I had a foolishly sophomoric thought just then: they wouldn’t understand. But, in the spirit of open communication, I spoke up.
“I don’t know. Love is fucked up and I feel I need it too much sometimes, so I never give it. Love is like a hunger. It’s like I want to eat every part of you, the feet and the eyes and the hair, and even the organs, even though I don’t like them. I want everything. Once I’m there, I don’t hesitate. I don’t understand how it builds up. For me, it starts here, when it seems like it should start down here, when it starts at all. It’s no different from fucking. I want and I take. Then, sometimes, I’m a stone.”
There was an awkward silence, typical after some of the things I say. Awkward for them, anyway. I was watching the neon lights of the plumbing store across the street. A wrench smiled at me.
“Anyway, I’m a fucked up case. What’re you gonna do?”
Someone laughed, finally, and said something. I made note of their reactions. I thought I might someday write about something like this. It would have been nice to remember the end of it.
We were seated at a white plastic table. It had a big green umbrella posted right in the center and hovering over us, keeping moonlight out. It had begun to cool down after yet another unexpectedly warm day. I undoubtedly had a fine sheen to my forehead. There’d been too many glasses of beer (one passed around like a joint at some point). We discussed Obama’s forthcoming win as the lesser of two evils, or rather one evil and one fucking insane possibility of regressing to the most ridiculous rhetoric and policies I’ve heard in my lifetime. There was talk of period sex versus anal sex, and even those who were grossed out by talk of blood or shit had to admit one might be better than the other. We discussed fetishes and my lengthy monologue about the dangers of always going one step further, one rung higher, and why sexual satisfaction is the cornerstone of healthy adult relations, regardless of the extremity of said satisfaction. We discussed everything because I encourage it. No one wants to go too far, so I do.
Then we discussed love as it pertains to selecting a mate. It jumped back and forth across the table while I sat quietly and stared at the cars driving along the nearby street. It annoyed me that we’d selected that bar and that table, in a place less intimate than I like. We could see young couples pushing strollers just a dozen feet away.
I took a moment.
Someone encouraged me, finally. “You had a lot to say about girls who get off on violence. Nothing on love?”
I had a foolishly sophomoric thought just then: they wouldn’t understand. But, in the spirit of open communication, I spoke up.
“I don’t know. Love is fucked up and I feel I need it too much sometimes, so I never give it. Love is like a hunger. It’s like I want to eat every part of you, the feet and the eyes and the hair, and even the organs, even though I don’t like them. I want everything. Once I’m there, I don’t hesitate. I don’t understand how it builds up. For me, it starts here, when it seems like it should start down here, when it starts at all. It’s no different from fucking. I want and I take. Then, sometimes, I’m a stone.”
There was an awkward silence, typical after some of the things I say. Awkward for them, anyway. I was watching the neon lights of the plumbing store across the street. A wrench smiled at me.
“Anyway, I’m a fucked up case. What’re you gonna do?”
Someone laughed, finally, and said something. I made note of their reactions. I thought I might someday write about something like this. It would have been nice to remember the end of it.
Stillborn and never to be, I awoke in a silence, not alone. The bones in the ends of my fingers vibrated, eager to begin their lives independent of me. I rose my eyes. The room, green in complexion, smiled, and invited me to stand. My hands guided me up and pulled me toward the corner leg of the long dining table beside me.
“Hello,” as quietly as possible, as if to no one but the backs of my teeth, tongue, and roof of my mouth. The walls, green as velvet, absorbed it all. I lay and felt the desire to sob, but resisted, urged on by reality. This was not this place. I was not here. Grumbling, I stood.
The light from the outside broke through the seams along the edges of the thick curtains. I feared what I might find and left them to their task. My fingers rose and moved the hair from my face, over my forehead, left to lie along the crest of my skull where it gathered, waiting for the time to fall and lie over my face again. It was not cold nor hot. My skin felt dry. I remembered a rain I never felt but once considered in my rush to fate. My fingers urged me forward, to the small table beside the door.
“I know,” I said. They ceased to vibrate in acknowledgement.
I padded along the carpet. The legs I used led to this, and of this came my long ago realization. I would be in this room regardless of what I followed or who I became. Born to little and made to feel like less. This was where it led me. My fingers awoke, sensing loss of purpose. I continued to the table. Among the bills and catelogs I found a string, red as the sunset that witnessed me bare as the angels, on the eve of my time here. I sat in a field, felt the grasses lick at the invisible hair on my hips. I played with a thimble I had found on the road, where I had left my car. I ran it along my arm, felt its gritty surface lightly scrape my skin.
“It’s only growing pains. I know it’s nothing more. I tried, I think, I did. It was so trying. But, this is alright. I don’t want to stay here anymore.” I tied the string around the tip of each of my fingers, as tightly as I could. When I was finished, I they looked like berries held together by a crimson web.
I looked back at the room. It was noiser now. I could hear spiders hiding in the corners, spinning falsehoods that they used to catch a meal. There was heavy breathing. The velvet walls triggered a feeling of confinement. It felt like a basement a long time ago. It felt like a basement I should never have been inside of. It felt like fat, greedy fingers, and I stopped, just stopped, because it did not matter. This room was not a basement. No one else was here.
I approached the darkened door, outlined on all sides by a lightness, like the curtains. My hair began to fall again. Fearing little and knowing that it would all be gone, I opened the door and stepped outside. I was in the field again. Each step away from the room was a loss of another memory, one moment at a time. It was strange to lose what can seemingly never be lost. I walked further still. There was no guidance, nor encouraging come hither. I lumbered forward into the space that was not the room, wandering about, caught in the daze of some parhelic distraction.
Stillborn and never to be, I awoke in a silence, not alone. The bones in the ends of my fingers vibrated, eager to begin their lives independent of me. I rose my eyes. The room, green in complexion, smiled, and invited me to stand. My hands guided me up and pulled me toward the corner leg of the long dining table beside me.
“Hello,” as quietly as possible, as if to no one but the backs of my teeth, tongue, and roof of my mouth. The walls, green as velvet, absorbed it all. I lay and felt the desire to sob, but resisted, urged on by reality. This was not this place. I was not here. Grumbling, I stood.
The light from the outside broke through the seams along the edges of the thick curtains. I feared what I might find and left them to their task. My fingers rose and moved the hair from my face, over my forehead, left to lie along the crest of my skull where it gathered, waiting for the time to fall and lie over my face again. It was not cold nor hot. My skin felt dry. I remembered a rain I never felt but once considered in my rush to fate. My fingers urged me forward, to the small table beside the door.
“I know,” I said. They ceased to vibrate in acknowledgement.
I padded along the carpet. The legs I used led to this, and of this came my long ago realization. I would be in this room regardless of what I followed or who I became. Born to little and made to feel like less. This was where it led me. My fingers awoke, sensing loss of purpose. I continued to the table. Among the bills and catelogs I found a string, red as the sunset that witnessed me bare as the angels, on the eve of my time here. I sat in a field, felt the grasses lick at the invisible hair on my hips. I played with a thimble I had found on the road, where I had left my car. I ran it along my arm, felt its gritty surface lightly scrape my skin.
“It’s only growing pains. I know it’s nothing more. I tried, I think, I did. It was so trying. But, this is alright. I don’t want to stay here anymore.” I tied the string around the tip of each of my fingers, as tightly as I could. When I was finished, I they looked like berries held together by a crimson web.
I looked back at the room. It was noiser now. I could hear spiders hiding in the corners, spinning falsehoods that they used to catch a meal. There was heavy breathing. The velvet walls triggered a feeling of confinement. It felt like a basement a long time ago. It felt like a basement I should never have been inside of. It felt like fat, greedy fingers, and I stopped, just stopped, because it did not matter. This room was not a basement. No one else was here.
I approached the darkened door, outlined on all sides by a lightness, like the curtains. My hair began to fall again. Fearing little and knowing that it would all be gone, I opened the door and stepped outside. I was in the field again. Each step away from the room was a loss of another memory, one moment at a time. It was strange to lose what can seemingly never be lost. I walked further still. There was no guidance, nor encouraging come hither. I lumbered forward into the space that was not the room, wandering about, caught in the daze of some parhelic distraction.