With Ear Pressed to a Cylinder, Overheard Worry, worry, worry and worry, until what’s worried about has worn to less than a nub. Then, pause a moment. This can’t be; yes, yes, that is it. Close your eyes and shut me out, says the wide round dark cylinder overflowing with worries, that are not really there. Ah, good. Yes, that’s right. Teeth painful and throbbing from gnashing hard through the thick brush of wood-ticks mosquitoes and sweats all night, at last can rest. See, it’s true, it couldn’t be that bad. There’s no need for that last push to rake up and bag what the teeth sliced through and away and let fall to the grass all behind. Garbage. Garbage. Nothing could cause so much garbage. Thank God there will be no more. The place to put is was almost full. There was never any garbage at all, actually; it was just a cheap overly long play perfectly performed as though almost real, but now past the bushes any size or strength of grey-brain can see that it was all just make believe on a false stage set under the kliegs. So, this is when the stage crew pulls the rope that glides the curtains together and this is when the actors’ eyes are all supposed to pop open and pull back away, and there goes the stage, sliding pulling over the dark of the bedroom before the cast, who breathe deep sighs of relief. Wow, hey, shit. It wasn’t real. But the last tiny words from the last tiny bushes lying on the grass, cut and dying, need to be all heard before the last word opens the last set of eyes. These are yours. It will take the words forever to open the eyes, yes it will there’s ages to go, this is a nice peaceful breather of a spot, nice warm words goose-bumping cold that will pry loose for many years, surely, listen the words say, Life’s just one big moment. Eternity holds its breath; life starts and stops; then eternity exhales and strolls on. That’s what the Doctor said. That’s a healthy way of seeing all around as life rolls by, one sidewalk concrete square, after the other. Life is one big dog-walk. It’s a quest to find the perfect dog, and the perfect way to walk. That’s all your desires boil down to, in the end. The end is meaningless when one has got everything that one ever desired. The fun ride is over. The play park gates will be shut up locked. You got to just pull your head out of the mud right now, wipe the stench from in your hair with the towel handed you by the surprise of an attendant, and as you search for coins to pay the attendant this unexpected tip, this last fact razes everything that’s gone before. Up until just before eternity exhales as a factory bell-buzzer signals the blue-men, it must be time to go. The everyday mortal invisible tripwires have all been avoided. There were close calls but just brushes they were. The tip? Huh? Something about a tip what, where, oh well; there’s no need to tip the sudden frozen dripping with thaw water chocolate bird, whose left wing brushed down over a sun-sized solid brass ball all hung there. In one hundred years the wing will brush again. And over and over until the ball is worn to a point so small it just quivers and evaporates. The bird brushes once more and thinks the ball is still there. The one-eyed bird blinking brushing down once every hundred years forever, until the bird is so far ahead no one could possibly see it again. Has it been taken and will not need to brush down again? Or is it just too far away to see? That’s a good question. Yes, class. That’s a good question. Anybody know the answer, class? If you think you know the answer raise your hand. Come on, come on. A guess at least? What? Hey! No questions? What kind of class is this? Holes for eyes are in all sixty-five young students. All the holes expand growing together pulling up inky liquid from way deep inside. The best potters let the clays form themselves. Deep under water, its dark and confusing on which way is up. Follow the feeling of that air bubble to the surface above which again panic settles in; what panic, why panic? These shut eyes can’t see anything to fear. Just still solid absence of noise. Too hollow to stab cut hit kick or curse. Curse is a word. Sure it is. Curse. Curse. Curse, but a breath must be taken eyes must pop open taken breath opened eyes taken breath and open eyes, sure; the truth’s icy bare curved steel all around. After all that, it is still around. The watched water never boils. Never. And at the never point here, Panic sets in but; don’t yell. Oxygen don’t use up oxygen; please don’t yell. Please, my face, pray for me in the Church lobby before mass. After six o’clock Mass, wander out. Been in there too long and prayed perfectly knifelike to everything; each sit, stand, and Kneel also, done perfectly, precisely. Life is over, you say, Peter? Life is really over but how can it be still marching? How can the ball have been thrown when here it is palmed tight and hot? If the boots were thrown in the fire why do I hear them marching? No, no, no, not! Life over; step by step, extreme panic builds, breaks through, explodes but words come a will to keep it back. Quiet, relax. What’s living? What’s dying? What’s this horrible in-between place? Why be given life if it’s going to end like this? Honest out of school childhood sweetheart can’t get work no no no no no interviews please no none no not; we just got time to get down and go in the daily laborer pool. Run down the steps with shoes just half on; when kneeling, the good book says, do not lean your butt back on the pew to rest. No, never do it. Like in Catholic School, the large mysterious frightening black-draped being of a nun that wanders and watches, and would poke any boy on the side that it caught dozing or leaning their butt on the pew, kept the class honest, and will single you out. The have to shit bell is rung, and the need to piss bell is rung, but; need to go, as taught; get there, as taught; can get out to a rest room to go, but how? Oh, sure, how about I ask this other guy waiting on the corner across from the Dunkin’ Donuts I’m suddenly at for the thousandth time, whose name is Lucas. On the hit list to the rubout is where he is sure, says Lucas talking to one of the other regular gang of guys waiting for day work on the street. The other guy is a large man named Walter, uh, oh, but can’t go into that now because I feel I have peed myself in my pants, cripes almighty. Need to leave, get new pants, sound stiff as if rolling around the steel drum what steel drum, no God, no—stay where you’re at, smile at Lucas. Lucas! Hey Lucas. Big wind today, eh? Oh sure, sure, says Lucas, turning from Walter—and he goes on to rattle off, Hey man, do you know it is a fact that every fetus begins urinating into the womb very early, and once started pees every forty or forty-five minutes? So, don’t worry about it. We understand. We can see your—well, your problem. No need to hide it. If I were you, I would do the same thing, what the hell. Go on to the bathroom in Dunkin’. They won’t make you buy anything. But, Lucas, it’s not just the periodic wish to pee. It seems like mere pee, but it’s actually a wish to not ever have been born. If I could go back and catch mother and father copulating, I would stop them like dogs and yell, No don’t do that don’t you are condemning me to this! It would be far better for me to have never lived. You know what I mean, Lucas. It is damned cold out here. No, chewed Lucas from his cracked lip. I don’t get it. How about you, Walter. You heard. You get it? Oh, sure, I get it, said Walter in a deeper slower voice. I Get it. Why Can’t you? They spoke nonsense in my view, so I turned away and pushed my hand down my pants, and felt around. Dry—everything felt very warm and soft and absolutely dry. I could not find my penis in the bushes, like finding a needle in a haystack it was, but since everything was dry, we called off the search. The penis in there must be shrunk all flaccid, but there’s one there, yes, last time we looked there was a pretty well defined penis there. Please, please, Mother, do not give me birth! Be like me I cannot do it. Half the world can do it and half cannot. I know, I know. So, in this handwritten letter I can truly say, I am developing okay. Why had I felt myself urinate, she replied? So in honor of my long gone Mother, I opened my eyes and Lucas and Walter and Mother and all went totally flat black mixed with absolute silence and my hands moved feeling everything all around; just in the dark we felt hard cold curved steel, and the flat under me was a puddle of something, I didn’t know what until the urine smell from the flat bottom strengthened, and I struggled to feel down in the dark, and everything, yes, everything below me was drenched; bad, bad, bad; bad was all around; see what I mean Mother? Oh, please, please, Mother, do not condemn me! Eyes pressed shut to escape behind, as it gradually became harder to breathe. Very hard. A big growing tight wheeze. Eyes shut and again, we’re in the gang out for day work before the Dunkin’ Donuts, and Walter and Lucas were in the middle of yelling something. —wake up! Lord God, man, how do you sleep standing up like the that? You, I swear to God, I never seen the like of it before—sleeping standing up! Me? Yes, you. Okay, okay, but tell me what. What where is Miss Sweetie? Huh? said Walter. Miss who? Sweetie, I say. Miss Sweetie you know Miss Sweetie don’t lie! Walter’ eyes softened and tossed to the side, Hey Lucas, he’s back now. He’s okay. But he’s talking shit, some kind; of shit! Yes, smiled toothy Lucas, there you are. Hey, why you pretend to be asleep to scare shit out of us—hey, I bet you guys didn’t know, that toward the end of its term a fetus will defecate in the womb too? What are you trying to say? Asleep? How asleep. I was not asleep, I-- Eyes sprang open cutting everything quiet, as giant fire hoses’ worth of darkness gushed in my eyes, all going down through, flushing me raw, and coming out, and before I could help it, it was coming into my pants, and it was hot; and there came Mackie again, across from me at dinner, up on his heels, doing the big boss toast! Men, a BAC level of point thirteen to point thirty percent leads to this stage, which borders on alcohol poisoning after consuming an unreasonable number of drinks in just one hour. And, the resultant confusion gives way to emotional upheaval and extremes. Coordination is markedly impaired, to the extent that the person may not be able to stand up, may stagger if walking, and may be completely confused about what’s going on. So watch your drivin’, goin’ in! Uh, but, I thought he made this toast already, but there he is, doing it. The eternal toast. He’s doing it. It changes over the next few days to, Johnny, you are the best! You are the best-- Maybe I’m back there? Could I be back there to stop them before—before you know what, and so, am I safe? Oh, yes, very safe, Johnny. You have done what all we, plus more! Right boys? Yes! He has. Yes! Oh my dear God, yes God, I can stretch, stand, sure; it’s a miracle to be able to walk, God I am stiff as shit, where was I, where was I, think where I left off, before the—don’t say it. Keep it like it is that there’s no barrel all dark and cold and around anymore. No need to say it anymore because it’s gone and over. Good God—no more a horrid dying body. God was wise to make us so there’s no feeling after death because being dead must be unbelievably painful. The boss’ speech told multiple times that those in this stage of intoxication are highly likely to forget things that happen to or around them. Blacking out without actually passing out can happen at this stage. That’s all it was, was blackout. No death right behind. No more steel side top bottom sealed I guess, no more holding my breath and closing my eyes to make it now never had happened! Yes, Mackie! God, yes, go on! Yeah, said the tipsy large boss, raising a goblet—here’s to you, Johnny—hey, everybody, wait a minute. Johnny, why’d you stand up in the middle of my toast? It’s not polite to stand and wave your arms, and all, when I, the very Godfather, am giving my speech—you know, Johnny, a truly drunk person may not be able to feel pain. This makes the individual more susceptible to severe injury during this stage of intoxication. So, Johnny, are you all intoxicated with needing to shit? You got to go take a piss and a shit? It’s something like that’s why you can’t wait ‘till I’m done, because you’ll slime your pants in back and front inside, and end up wearing trousers that got a professionally hand-embroidered multicolored technicolored surrealistic kind of butt! The room erupts laughing, screeching and clapping. Yes, you may begin to feel your baby move, since he or she is developing muscles and exercising them. This first movement is called quickening—say Johnny, is that it? You feeling your insides quickening? What. you trying to give birth to yourself? Huh? That does not work, Johnny—hey, boys, what you think—should we let him go or what should we what hey! I ran mortified toward the exit to escape the great thick wave of laughter, that pounded across the room, with Mackie’s words drowning inside shapeless, saying, Yes, hair begins to grow on baby's head. Baby's shoulders, back, and temples are covered by a soft fine hair called lanugo. This hair protects baby and is usually shed at the end of the baby's first week of life. The death sentence is over, baby speeds off toward the age where it will know it is condemned! Hah! Out the exit the dark fell again drowning Mackie and all his boys upon the shore, up past Dad through all the fifties summers, struggling to spear the earth to death through the beach, with the tip of our not rented but owned ancient looking great big tall beachy as shit umbrella, all flecked with mold, waving up to the sky. The shaft pushed in, the sand parted to accept it, and so here’s the product, its skin covered with whitish vernix caseosa. The cheesy substance that protects the product’s skin from the long exposure to the amniotic fluid. This coating is shed gone, lost and unneeded, just before birth. What? Where? I thought you were dead, Dad—I thought you were dead! I—what, fingernails? Already, I got fingernails. Look at my hands look. I got fingernails! All’s well in your growth’s what that means, stated Father, out the cadaver-box sunny beach of yesteryear. So, by the end of the fifth month, baby is about ten inches long and weighs from one-half to one pound. Yes, one single pound are you, even though I am much, much heavier. So, go away. Back to the side of life you belong in. You have years yet to come over here. Look in the mirror you’ve got a human face. That’s a good sign you are developing nicely. I stood. Developing? Yes, developing. The laughter washed solid all tarry and gooey and threatening to drown—I watched it watched it take him down, but, what am I talking about thinking about laughing? I made this whole world of endless greasy goo engulfing everything, by my own laughter. Yes, my own. But no, I’m not laughing. Why do I sense I am doing a million things that I’m not? Nothing is to see. Nothing is to hear. I’ve a fourteen point eight percent chance of survival. And about half of these survivors are brain-damaged, either by lack of oxygen in the airless moist womb, or too much oxygen from the ventilator. Funny they save them, then just let them die again; but, no time to talk more. Everything’s around everywhere cold and solid. I live, but the solid steel walls are—no, can’t know. Don’t know. It’s not, there’s still a way out. Listen, no more heavy thought. Sleepy. Go on, sleep, you want to sleep—gone over gone over gone—going too sleepy to care. But, what’s that? That’s Mackie. Where is this? Still the toast? My God, any time closed eyes come up shoots the crazy toast again. Boy, said Mackie, goblet still waving, after tonight you’re going to get what you got coming, Johnny! Yes, you’re sure going to get what you got coming, he repeated, and maybe some more! Okay that’s it, I’m done. No need to cheer. I got to go shit now. Got to pee. It’s been weeks up here. Everybody then, so, stand with respect. Good God, thank God, the way out is here, stand, no; see stars crash on something all hard erasing the ballroom, a fire hose of black India ink fills in the steel. Up, down, all around it’s filling with black India ink, otherwise known as the absence of light, or the dark, or the cold, or the silent, the no. My God! My God! This can’t be, where are you Mackie? Please don’t do this Mackie, I don’t want your money Mackie; I swear to God I don’t want it at all, please? Please, because this joke is starting to hurt a little bit. The air is bad. Sure, calm down, just ask Miss Sweetie. See, here she is. I’m not sucking my thumb. She is sucking hers. See her here all curled in her ball? All lying on the wet cold ice steel puddle of filth thickly dumped in the bottom? Doesn’t the help here ever mop the floor? Oh, that’s right. To mop requires light. There’s no more light. Nothing but light will soothe. Where is Miss Sweetie again, you ask? No, she’s not lying there because she did me. No, she didn’t do me like it looks like, Mackie. Not Miss Sweetie, no, no; Miss Sweetie is only for you. Always has been since we were all born. Years ago. Months ago. Weeks ago. Days ago, plus hours, all minutes then only now, in this instant here where I finally sleep. Bio: Jim Meirose's work has appeared in numerous magazines and journals, including Calliope, Offbeat/Quirky (Journal of Exp. Fiction pub,), Permafrost, North Atlantic Review, Blueline, Witness, and Xavier Review, and has been nominated for several awards. His E-book "Inferno" has been published by Underground Voices. His novels, "Mount Everest" and "Eli the Rat", are available from Amazon. Visit www.jimmeirose.com to know more.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. Archives
April 2024
Categories |