You Are What I Call My Sunshine

Sunshine Hall held itself on the razor-edge of existing and you had to hop through the door for the moment you could see it.   JimJam knew when to hop.

“Ugh.  There’s always a line.”  JimJam was already behind schedule, too much metal-beaten welts on him today as it is, but this long line – that was going to put him in the red zone and his watch only went one direction if he wore a watch at all. There was only ten or so  people ahead of him, fettered cats carrying bags and photos, trophys, yearbooks, chipped gravestones and all other mad mementos of poor decisions.  JimJam was himself  unburdened and loose like a broken string or a row of random notes, adding up to an un-singable melody.  He had a new haircut.

Sunshine Hall had many lines.  At the end of each line was a lousy machine that took something, gave something, emitted something, pleasured or pained.  Some did all.  Some machines did absolutely nothing, demanding purpose and context from the user.

When it was JimJam’s turn, the machine said, “You Are What I call My Sunshine.”  And then JimJam put it in.