The latest news from the best of all possible worlds arrived with a whoosh attached to a running shoe at midnight. It’s a tradition, sort of, representing little more than next to nothing. Unless that was a stand-in for the real thing, mimicking a slash from a rapier that dangled sweet, deep, and desperately low.
A crumby trail of pebbles lagged far behind the arc, mere trifles, as per norms for losers. It was dark, of course, after normal business hours finished flexing massive pecs backed up by a boilerplate entitlement clause, as the new year commenced with blood simmering on a hot stove before curdling right nicely. After that, like duh, though not without heedless recriminations, many leftover carcasses were forcibly fit into medium sized spandex body suits that glowed in the dark. Then they left to fend. Unless those trifling pebbles were stones, stoning, while stoned.
Then I heard, “Wake up.”
The tones were not designed by robots to be dulcet. No disengagement allowed. What does a lowly prone body do? Sadly, I obliged. Too bad for my side of the bed. I could hear machines grinding stumps in the forest amid the heat condescending. The light on my side of the bed chronically fizzled out too close to the edge. By then, the lumps had come alive and were starting to dig in for the long haul, to bounce me up, out, and away. To be followed by long gone, gone, gone.
The yin twin said, “There’s a man in a uniform at the door.”
The yang twin said, “Haw.”
I said, “How did you get here?”
“Mom dropped us off.”
“It’s too early.”
“She said you have no choice and will have to deal with it.”
“What kind of uniform?”
“Army uniforms are green.”
“How do you know?”
“How do you not?”
“What does he want?”
It has to be the police, I concluded dimly, morphed into the official format of a Deputy Sheriff of Santa Cruz County. Who else so boldly claims to recognize me by the slanted expression of my sheepish grin? As an understandable reaction, the fire phase meridians between the fluid junctures of jianzhen and tianzong in my soft left quadrant began to spark. No smoke, though. That gave me just enough time to put on fresh pants, but not enough time to change out of the unsightly pins and needles that would soon turn into an awful itchy mess.
Change tended to come at me, when it came at me, hard and sneaky fast. It displayed a frequent bitter break where the bottom dropped out. The raised seams on the speeding ball often left a mark on my skin, and they hurt. This one looked like a banned spitter, deceptively slow until it was too late to react. No spin was evident at any time as a warning. The seams had been sewn effectively shut in a sweatshop in Caracas, Venezuela. Deputy Sheriffs had been known to come at me sneaky fast with spit, too. Unless it was Vaseline.
There was no need to open any new doors of perception because a Deputy Sheriff was already standing inside. I detected no discernible slouch. I believed I knew him as well as he knew me.
“It’s my job to ask the questions.”
“I’m beginning to have a severe knee jerk reaction to Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD). You know the drill. I need to be able to strap a light therapy visor to my head and breathe.”
“The sun is shining.”
“Not inside my head.”
I hefted my trusty visor for which expedited shipping was free and fractionally adjusted the screwy tension wires that are nominally held in place by scuffed leather straps. That was all it took. Mood Indigo was swinging atonally like Eric Dolphy in the ether.
“Don’t think I won’t be back.”
“Don’t think my condition won’t be unchanged.”
As do many among us, I have a special relationship to the law at a safe distance. I am not only above the pedestrian fray, but continually clinging to the ladder. That’s where our exemplary skills in pattern recognition take us as humans. Contagion strikes no fear like the one you can call your own. Unless that is more accurately clamoring. No matter what, I nearly always strive very hard to look the other way while waiting in line behind the tall lemming in front of me.
Someone who may have once distantly resembled me said, once, “Don’t tell no fucking truth or your filthy mouth may be washed out with lye. All’s fair that’s not foul between white lines. Eat some small dirt while you’re so hard up and at it, too.”
After my interrogation, I understandably felt safe enough to remove my visor. I discovered the sun was indeed shining. Just like that, my symptoms of (SAD) were not so sad anymore.The itch as it turned out was only another assault of dust mites. I should have known better. Who wants to see too much? Don’t tell me myopia does not have its vital role to play. How can invisible bugs ever be trusted to stay in their place?
And don’t tell me it don’t feel good to flex some massive fucking pecs.