Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Wrangler, Lee,
Lucky Brands,
and more than I can say
they’ve wrestled with my waist,
swathing my legs in new
blue-denim
ways.
Bell-bottomed, flared legged,
low-riders, relaxed fit.
Button up, zip down,
stone-washed,
acid-dipped.
Straight legs and boot cut,
now they try to move me new ways
with stretchable materials
and flattering stays.
What would I be without my jeans
defining my blue ass
and stretching tight
at the seams?
I used to be such —
Ah, ‘used to be’. Famous words that begin many tales.
I used to be a model. I used to be a salesman. I used to be very flexible. I used to drink more coffee, stay up late and party, and go to work early.
Words of memory, ‘used to be’ invokes a sense of gentle passing on what was, a point to pivot onto the current moment. In my case…
I used to be such a desirable customer. Oh, the offers that came in the mail. First were the weekly avalanches of credit card and banking offers, magazines, and book and music clubs. They all wanted me. Every day, I considered and rejected suitors. No, you’re not for me, American Express. No thank you, Delta. I’ll pass today, Discover. Come back another day, Book of the Month.
Ed McMahon and American Family Publishing dropped in sometimes, delighting me with the news that I MAY HAVE ALREADY WON. I didn’t win, but I appreciated their optimism. Sometimes, Publishing Clearing House also came by to tell me that I’m a potential winner. Both wanted me to buy magazines. I did, once, because I was a newly appointed young adult, with an income, and I liked car magazines. They billed me later.
Dating services targeted me for a while. I guess they thought I was lonely. Then came ways to save via coupons on buying new checks, eating out at restaurants, getting my car repaired or painted, my carpet cleaned, and my windows washed.
As we passed into the last half of the past decade, suitors come less frequently. Maybe they were giving up. Their pitches changed. Cruise lines and vacation resorts showered me with beautiful people having wonderful times in beautiful, exotic locations. Politicians solicited my support and donations. I started hearing from hearing-aid companies for a while. A few companies wondered if I had enough health and life insurance. Others wanted me to plan for how my loved ones and I were going to be buried. Concerned investing firms approached, offering to buy me a meal while worrying whether I had enough money saved for retirement. I appreciated their efforts, but gently tore their offers in half and deposited them in the recycle bin.
A few realtors approached, asking if I wanted to sell my house, telling me that I could really make some money because they already had buyers lined up. The Great Cable Wars brought more offers for a few years in my late fifties as satellite dish companies sprang forward, trying to gain market share. Sometimes I received three offers in one day from them, three, I tell you, in one day. Yep, I was a wanted man.
Alas, I’m no longer a young adult. The mail suitors have disappeared. Oh, some have changed with the times and approach me via email, notably AARP and Viagra, competing against Bernie Sanders, Elizabeth Warren, the DNC, all who beseech me daily to give, give, give, along with urgent requests to sign petitions. Then,of course, they’ve called, too, but with caller ID, they soon learned that I don’t answer the phone.
Now, they’ve all stopped trying, it seems. All that remains is Spectrum. Having taken over Charter, they’re trying hard to win me. They’re doing it the old fashioned way, too, first with people coming door to door (charming young men) asking me how much I pay for my phone service and what Internet service provider I use, assuring me that I’ll do much better with them.
Then came the mail pieces, one every day, (except Monday, a holiday), but a piece came Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. Tears of memory sprang to my eyes as I realized, Spectrum wants me. It’d been so long. I almost hated tearing up their offers, and held off for a few minutes, thinking about their kindness, reaching out to me for my money, just like the old days.
“Thank you, Spectrum,” I whispered, and then tossed the offers away.
It feels good to be wanted.
Dreamed I was standing out somewhere void of particulars. I saw myself out there, alone, in clear daylight. Not details about myself emerge so far as age, but it was me. I was watching from a long way off.
Lightning struck me. I lit up as a ball of white light. Then I raised my hands and moved the light aside. When I did, I was standing in a huge desert of sand. Sequence ended.
Except watching me said, “What just happened? Was that sand?”
So the sequence was repeated, exactly the same.
Watching me said, “That is sand. It’s like a desert.”
Which it was, just like the Sahara out of the movie by that name, all dunes of wind-blown sand.
The sequence repeated, only this time, when I moved the light away, I revealed an ocean.
Watching me said, “How am I standing on an ocean?”
That’s when the dream ended.
I spent a lot of time thinking about this one.
To begin…I’m in some ill-defined place (think of petroleum jelly smeared across a camera lens and you have a sense) that’s green, white and black (think white sidewalks and buildings (maybe), and a grassy pitch) (I think the ‘black’ were dark windows, but I’m not pos). It’s a big, noisy crowd, and I’m with a small group in this rowdy crowd. It reminded me of a Pink Floyd concert I went to in Germany back in the late eighties, where one hundred thousand people swallowed my group of five.
We’re meeting others, laughing and having fun, when I see a man off to one side raise and lower a flag. It happens so fast on my vision’s edge that I’m not certain that I saw it. I’m momentarily at a loss, wanting to continue what I was doing versus going to check on the man with the flag. Why was he there? Was the flag for me?
As the dream’s events progressed (and I kept going), I thought, wait, was that a white flag or a green flag? Uncertain, I thought again, I should check, but was distracted by others, and didn’t. Then, with a start, my memory said, that was a checkered flag. But a checkered flag is used for finishing a race while a white flag is used for surrender or to warn that one lap remains. A green flag means go.
Those conflicting ideas took me out of the crowd. I needed to know which flag it was. I had to find the man with the flag and see what flag he’d waved and if it was for me. I didn’t believe it was for me. As I remembered him, I thought he should be easy to find; white, he was short with a small mustache, and was wearing a bowler hat. Someone wearing a bowler should stand out, except he’d been so short, I thought that would make it hard to find it.
Perusing that dream thinking, I saw bushes and concluded (with some excitement) that he’d been over by the bushes to the side, or maybe some bushes somewhere else. Now separated from the crowd, I hunted for bushes and then thought, go back, go back to where you were, retrace your steps and you’ll be able to find him, right? Sure, made sense. But there’d been no markers or landmarks that I could remember. My friends, who might’ve been able to help me, were nowhere in sight.
So it was that I found myself alone, unsure where I was or where I’d been, searching for something, looking for something with only a vague idea of it.
That’s where it ended.
Noble Coffee Shop baristas wear long black aprons, which lend them the appearance of coffee wizards as they slip around behind the counters and cases, brewing drinks, dashing out to the roaster and grinder to create more.
Judging from this cuppa, it’s wonderful magic at work.
Well, how was he here? How?
He’d been feeling really good, like AAA bond good, a comparison that he’d picked up from his late stepfather (stepfather, yes, but the only person who’d ever successfully plugged in as a father). (Don’t even get him started on the two previous impostors, which included his biological father.) (He was still getting over his stepfather’s death (from brain cancer after a long illness) two years ago.)
First, he’d finally got out of debt, which was good. His veteran’s disability amply covered his nut. Moving closer to Mom helped, too. He’d hooked up with a good support group and therapist, and was on the right meds. Things were so looking up. He’d found a nice little apartment for him and his cat (Sam, just Sam, a sweet young black cat) (not far from Mom’s house, where he could go do his laundry). (And socialize!) (And eat, yeah.)
Where had the hole come from, then?
Yeah, the shower, yeah.
The shower clogged. He’d told his landlady ’bout it, but she was eighty, and forgot. He waited, though, but he couldn’t use the shower, so he couldn’t shower, so he didn’t shower, waiting for it to be fixed. He was just going through clothes, though. Changing clothes every day (he’s not a friggin’ animal), he wasn’t able to go over to Mom’s house to do his laundry because he’d not been able to take showers, and now he smelled bad (geez, his hair was getting matted) (and his beard was a mess).
Without being able to shower (and do laundry) and without clean clothes, he’d quit going out. He missed his support group meetings and then had run out of meds. He couldn’t get out to get more meds because he was filthy and embarrassed. (And he was running out of food and household goods, and losing weight.)
Christ, it’d taken just two months, two months from being triple A good to being in a shithole of despair.
What was that whole thing about, for the want of a nail?
They called him OBG, because he’s the old guy who goes to the bathroom at least once an hour.
How old? They struggled with that; they were young. How young? In their early to mid-twenties, that period before things cease functioning (peckers, prostates, lungs, heart) and start dropping (breasts, butts, faces, and arches).
(They knew, intellectually, but still (and really, on the periphery of their awareness) that they were conditioned with a sense of the ideal and normal. They knew that others had body failures before they were twenty (they’d seen it on the web), but none (of those types) came to their coffee shop or university classes, and none (that they knew) were ever seen. Out of sight, out of mind, you know. Although, to be fair, they were self-aware enough to know that they were experiencing health privilege (although it wasn’t thought of that way). (Hey, you were either healthy, or you weren’t.) They were unaware (as the young and healthy often are) of the many changes quietly being made beyond their control in their young, healthy bodies.)
OBG knew (from his casual observance) (hell, it wasn’t hard) that they’d noticed his habits. With that shrugging air of one who’d lived and survive, he dismissed whatever they thought. Into the bathroom he went, first blowing his nose (damn sinuses) (he hated blowing his nose in public) (just didn’t want to bother others), and then stretching (because that fucking sciatic nerve was getting inflamed again and despised sitting in those chairs too long). (Yeah, he shouldn’t sit in those chairs so long, reading his Kindle and browsing the net, habits that he’d started when he’d retired, ten years before, which, in turn were begun by habits he cultivated in his twenties, when he was in school, like these servers who watched.) (Do you see the circle that he sees, the circles of behavior and culture, and how linked they are, like the Olympic logo?)
Then, because he was there, he went ahead and sat down and pissed (not that he had to go, but he was there, so…), flushed, and washed his hands. In all, four minutes of his life had passed, but it all adds up, you know?
Well, dreamed that I seemed to be on a pilgrimage. At first, I traveled with others, about thirty of us, I’d guess. I knew a few, but none were intimate friends.
We were all walking together on a road or a path (it didn’t seem clear). We’d left a city and were now into the countryside.
We came to a small house. Many announced they were stopping to rest or had decided that they’d gone far enough. But it was light. I wanted to keep going. With a few accompanying me, we went on. Walking faster, I’d assumed the lead.
Glancing back, I discovered that more people had dropped out. The remaining were far behind. I waited for them to catch up. They slowed. Exasperated, I walked back to them. They told me that they were stopping to rest.
I shrugged and asked if they minded if I went on. I felt driven at that point. I realized that we were heading toward a mountain, and I wanted to get to the top of it. I told them that. They laughed. They weren’t planning to go that far. If I wanted to go on, that was alright with them.
Their condescending tones told me their impression of my desire. It irritated me. Deciding that I was done with them, I told them, “See you later,” and left.
It was still bright daylight, but parts were darkening. I realized a storm was coming. No, then I saw that to climb the mountain, I had to go through a storm.
Well, alrighty. I hesitated some but remembering the others’ tone restored my will. I was going on.
Now I reached the mountain. The paths ended at the bottom. It was steeper and taller than I’d realized. Looking for the easiest path, I couldn’t find one. Just had to go for it. I was tiring, and entertained thoughts of going back. Looking that way, I was surprised how far I’d gone. I’d gone up more than I realized, and the view of a broad valley was stunning. Far away, I thought I could see the city.
I couldn’t believe that I’d gone so far. The city’s buildings were barely visible. I’d gone miles, but it’d only been a day. I also thought it odd that it stayed daylight for so long. Well, that didn’t make sense, which made me chuckle.
Then I turned back to the mountain. Holy moly, it seemed incredibly steep and tall. There was no way that I could get up it. At this point, I had to crane my head and neck back to see any of it. What I did see seemed like sheer granite walls. This would be a climb, and I wasn’t ready for it.
But I’d come so far that I didn’t want to go back. After vacillating a bit, I spotted a place that seemed like a way up and started up the mountain. Big, hard, cold drops of rain fell on me. There weren’t many, but they were huge and hurt when they hit, and were incredibly cold, sending shivers through me.
That slowed me down and returned me to thinking, do I want to go on? I didn’t really decide but felt like I’d let myself down if I didn’t, so I resumed walking and climbing. Sometimes I could walk, but then would come to a place where I’d need to climb, so I did what had to be done to get up the mountain.
Harder, more thorough rain suddenly erupted, soaking and freezing me. I hunted protection in the rocks and found a little. Hunkering down, I put my back against rocks and shivered and rocked from the cold. A wind would sometimes blast me, forcing me to duck my head. I tried looking out over the valley but the storm blocked the view. Feeling miserable, I cursed myself for trying this.
After a while, the rain relented. I’d become numbed to the cold and decided I had to do something, so I’d go on. Moving might warm me. Leaving the rock’s shelter, I discovered a path and started walking up the mountain, no problem. While I did, I discovered that I’d been praying.
Praying is contrary to my nature. I wasn’t sure what I prayed for. At some point, I found that I’d walked out onto a rock ledge. The rain didn’t fall there, although I could see it still fell in places around me. Lightning struck me, lighting me up in a purplish aura. I saw myself standing on the rock with my arms stretched out, lit up in a light purple aura, as a bolt of lightning stayed attached to me.
The dream abruptly ended then with me sitting up in bed and sucking in a breath. Thinking back on it, I thought, I’d been praying for magic.
Looking back on the dream versus writing it, I can’t convey how fast it went, just click, click, click, jumping from scene to scene, image to image. It’d been a very fast-moving dream, and I haven’t been able to convey that. Remembering it, though, my heart beats hard and fast.
Odd, but I think I dreamed this before. It seems so familiar.
Yeah, we did it. Yeah, we started. Yeah, it’s a difficult one. Yes, we’re starting to hate it.
The floofs didn’t come around to supervise us. Maybe that’s our issue…
Michael Seidel, writer 