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the attic

Lack of Attack of the Battery Hoarders













The Lounge | The Techie Bible | Other Stories | Six




















Lack of Attack of the Battery Hoarders

The mobile glass box left the parking lot later than it had intended to but it didn’t matter much. The bus had left with plenty of time to get halfway to its destination, realize it had left a chaperone dazed in the snow, retrieve the person and reach the playhouse before the heavy black curtain stationed an inch above the stage had even concocted the aspiration of rising any further. It had slowly chugged down the winding driveway and stopped at the ugly red light before the unthinkable happened; my batteries died.  

                I tried to fool the CD player into thinking I had new batteries by reversing the cylinders but the player was smarter than it looked. It was a seasoned war veteran; had gone through four years of my nonsense and wasn’t about to put up with my antics for another second. Sighing deeply, I spun around on my knees to search the rest of the bus for a willing power donor. I grimaced slightly at the unintelligent lot that spawned from the rear and grew less dense as it ran up the aisle toward me. “Just use small words,” I whispered to myself, annoyed though resolved to try to communicate with the lesser beings to satiate my boredom. I swiftly expressed my plight and desire for a pair of batteries from anyone who would be so kind. If I got any response at all, it was one of disbelief or irritation. “Brainless battery hoarders,” I spat venomously but not more than three decibels below the noise of the din. Wrapping the headphones around my fallen comrade, I threw him unceremoniously into the depths of my black bag.

                I looked out at the dreary scenery, considering my options. Could I take a nap? Impossible; motion sickness prevented that. I could do my homework but I was at a lack of writing implements. Was it possible to converse with the slightly hung over cheerleader next to me? It was an idea that I pushed aside for a rainy day. I looked out of the window again. The sky was grey with the threat of releasing its dandruff. I frowned. I hated the snow, the cold, and the fifty or so imbeciles on my bus for that matter. There was a fight daily about who would get stuck sitting next to me. It’s not that they all wanted to sit next to their best friends, it was that my intellect was intimidating to them, making me unapproachable.

                A primitive grunt and a sudden pressure on my legs made me awake from whatever daze I had accidentally fallen into; a pack of double A’s sat precariously on my lap. I looked to my seat mate and smiled a thank you. She returned a smile and resumed her drunken stupor. I glanced briefly at the monotonous landscape and corrected myself, “Forty-nine imbeciles.”
















The Scariest Thing About Memories is Believing You Will Forget Them