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08-17-03, for Generic Joe
A Plain Brown Wrapper
A bar.
People in the bar.
People in the bar drinking alcoholic drinks.
A small woman with wings.
A small woman with wings standing on the stage.
A small woman with wings, standing on the stage, holding a folded piece of paper.
A small woman with wings, standing on the stage, reading from the folded piece of paper.
She clears her throat.
“Raise your bottle, please. Yes, the ones with the white labels and black print. The ones that read, ‘beer.'”
Bemused patrons look at their bottles. Sure enough, gone are the fancy individual labels. “Beer” is what they're drinking. In fact, gone is almost everything. No paintings on the wall, no rugs on the floor. We have white walls and a black floor and plain windows. Waitresses look like, well, every other waitress or waiter in the world. Black pants, white shirts, black bow tie. Each table has a sticker on its surface. “Table.” Ditto for the “chairs” and “stools”. Hm.
The winged woman, just a nymph, continues.
“Joe. You are hereby issued one each birthday greeting. No brand name or insignia.”
She closes her eyes and sighs in apparent resignation.
“Yes, it's Generic, Joe.”
