Foxavier and Plinka
Author
Scott Evans
Author Bio
After many years struggle with OCD and depression, and with the help of The Mental Health Association, Mr. Evans has found his sweetheart, written a novel, and currently facilitates the Writing Workshop at The Creative Wellness Center,
Description
Foxavier Jostleplume struggles with his weight, mental illness, poverty, and loneliness. He lives on the ragged edge of society where broken people subsist on the crumbs left by the whole and affluent, while a billion-dollar corporate food conglomerate has accidentally dumped an overdose of an additive to a batch of their best-selling cookies that will trigger schizophrenia in anyone who eats them. In the midst of all this Foxavier meets Plinka Goose, a beautiful woman who is as broken as he is; their on-again, off-again romance forms a unstable star around which Foxavier’s life describes a skewed orbit as he finds his place in the world as an artist, writer, and social activist as he and Plinka take on the evil food conglomerate and their toxic cookies.
Book excerpt
My life is not so much a life, as a series of awkwardnesses.
“I’m The Pretty Pie Girl. I’m The Pretty Pie Girl,” the TV blares her chipmunk voice as she waltzes with a chocolate cookie. Her adorable face sirens, “You’re my Ookie Ookie Cookie.” Computer generated smile happier than human. She’s a pie with tiny gloved arms, and booted legs. She twirls. “You’re my Ookie Ookie Cookie.”
Her dark partner croons in lowest bass, “I’m your Ookie Ookie Cookie.”
I select a box from the cupboard, The Hexachocolator, a six sided cake with six kinds of chocolate. In bright yellow letters it proclaims, “Zero Grams Trans Fat.”
The giggling pie slides down the side of the bowl, and shouts to the world, “Kooky Cookies are part of a nutritious breakfast,” and splashes into the milk.
Crack two eggs. Use olive oil not grease. The box says one cup, but use half. One cup, that’s crazy. Beat the mix with wooden spoon.
The “real” children, one fifth as cartoonish, bang their silver to the musical and chant, “Ookie Ookie Cookie!”
How many impressionable minds watch this whorescrappening? “Ookie ookie cookie!”
A woman’s voice says, “Capsulsgrave Confections are made by mothers, for mothers.”
The Pie Girl squeaks the last word, “For the love of food.” The commercial is over. The volume drops to inaudible. We now continue with our regular programming.
Pour batter into stainless steel bowl. Bake at 375.
Go upstairs. Barry is on his bed, so fat he struggles not to roll off. I feel skinny by comparison, lithe and fierce, like a tiger.
Lie on my bed. Open the logic puzzle magazine. Draw chart in bent spiral pad, low on blue ink, which makes solving puzzle too easy. Bored. Get up.
What can I say to Barry? Good luck with your operation? He’s so fat, they have to cut his legs off at the knees. He’s going to be in a wheelchair. I will not end up like him. I will eat normal portions. It’s not that hard. Work out an hour a day. No seconds.
Get off bed. “Good luck with your operation.”
He says “Thank you,” between breaths, oxygen hose in nostril.
Look down at my coat at the bottom of the winding banister. Burt is in my pocket stealing a cigarette.
Go to office and tell Diane, perfect face and body, no chance she would ever want me. Staff can’t date residents, but even if they could, she wouldn’t. Her baby doll eyes, button nose, and puckering lips tell me, “Official West House policy is not to leave things out.”
Sit on couch in TV-room to fill out an application for the Office of Disabled Services, so I can go to school.
Pat sits on the other couch with blond French poodle hair, and smokes, every so often turning her head to the side and back, like a chicken.
Oh boy, here we go: ETHNIC GROUP. They don’t even ask name first.
Author Website
http://FoxavierAndPlinka.blogspot.com