The Disillusionists. cont'd...

"Have you seen, The Short Legs of Dog Nine?" asked Mike, sitting now - uncomfortably close on the same arm of the couch that I had been sitting on earlier. I looked over at May who shook her head slightly, it wasn't the one she had been describing in the car.

"Uh, no..." I said. Mike suddenly stood and looked at the arm of the couch. I could see him check the back of his pants as he tried to hide it by walking behind my chair, "Perhaps you've seen some of my other work?"

"Mmm, can't says if I have."

"The commercial where the kid gets a haircut at the mall, his friends see him, make fun, he buys some jeans and everything's okay?"

"Nope."

"Or the one where the car picks up the family, they go to dinner, see a flick, drive back, all in the safety of the product but nobody's driving the whole time?"

"I uh, think I know... you made that?"

"I made commercials," confessed Mike solemnly, "many commercials... Paid for this house, my car." He gazed vacantly at the television.

"Nice."

"No! Not nice. Bad. Very Bad. It was," he paused dramatically, "like having my brain sucked out of my eyes."

"Oh."

"Every waking moment."

"Sorry to hear that."

Mike waved an arm in the air and walked over towards the prints at the end of the room, he looked deep into the eyes of the man on the left. "The moment I knew it was wrong was when I read a quote from a contemporary that, given the total amount of air time his commercials have been granted, he has had the greatest influence on American life than anyone before or since!" He paused again. "Of anyone! It offends me to the very core and in as many ways as you would care to think! But in the final count, it's probably true..."

May stood up, "Do you want me to explain what's going on?"

Mike clenched his jaw, nodded and looked away in shame. May walked over between the coffee table and the television and spoke in a rehearsed and slightly cultish manner, "We are a collective. An arts collective. Together we have made and continue to make and distribute subversive material for mass consumption."

Once, in a pub over some shops on Yonge St I sat with a buddy and watched someone being brainwashed in a flourescent lit classroom at the Church of Scientology across the street. This poor bastard was walking from one wall to the other, pressing his hands against it, turning and walking back. On and on, back and forth - all the while some asshole was yelling in his ear. You couldn't hear it but you could see this guy's spirit breaking. We watched for what seemed like hours and planned elaborate rescue missions and ended up just getting really drunk. I wondered now how I could rescue May from the clutches of these sick fucks.