The man with the electric head (7-9)

The man with the electric head has made some observations.
If he happens to lean too close to the monitor, he has to degausse it.
He can use his electric razor one, maybe two days before it needs to be recharged.
He can tell the time on a digital clock in the next room.
When he's bored he will ride the train, sitting there flipping the pages of a book while mentally scanning the phone or PDA of whoever is nearby. He has noticed that people predominantly use their camera phones in bars. If he concentrates he can change the ringtone. Sometimes he considers memorizing the numbers of the women he finds attractive, but he knows that he would never call them anyway. If only he could use his particular skill to meet people. He has searched on-line, wondering if perhaps there was a subculture of people like him, but so far, nothing.


The man with the electric head is single again.
He told her, and thought she was okay with it. She seemed to be at first. But then the other night they were bored and sitting around watching TV; she had the remote and was flipping channels and he kept flipping them back. And just like that she stood up, announced that it was all just too weird and she didn't think she would ever learn how to deal with it, and left.
He didn't even react. For a split second she may have hesitated, waiting for him to protest, but he had already sunk into the familiar numbness, the scene playing out in his mind the way it had several times before then. The first time he was angry, the second time he was bitter, and after that it was just part of the routine.

Later, trying to get the experience out of his system, he will sit in front of the computer, start up a blank page in Word, and watch as torrents of letters flood the screen, digital screams and self-recrimination filling the space. After a while he will save the file, with her name, and the date.


The man with the electric head dreams in split-screen.
He doesn't know how else to explain it. Sometimes he will wake up in the middle of the night aware that he was having two dreams simultaneously; surreal and distinct imaginings competing to be remembered in his now-conscious state.
Another odd thing is that one dream is always in color, and the other in black and white. He has a theory, though. Perhaps the left and right sides of his brain are competing. Maybe they always are, maybe that is where the electricity comes from. Constantly at war, each side synaptically discharging volleys at the other, producing more energy than his skull was designed to contain. Is it just a fluke of nature, or a condition that would lead to split personalities in anyone else? Then it occurs to him that he does have a split personality, projecting normalcy to the world, hiding his talent (or curse) the majority of the time.
He goes back to sleep, dreaming an amusement park in the desert; dreaming a spring day with technicolor maple seeds helicoptering down on him like nature's confetti, trees marching, marching, tendril roots a flurry underneath their bulk, gliding down the parade lane, all is quiet save for leaf rustle and seed flutter...