I came awake with a start, squeezing my eyes shut and popped
them open again. And standing less than three feet from me was Uncle Jake. He
looked down upon me with his steely gaze and sour expression. I studied his
face for a moment and found his sullen eyes and followed them to the place
where I lay and found myself on the couch. I registered this news and realized
that at some point whilst I slept Lurch had picked me up and carried me over to
the couch. Such was the burden of being a sound sleeper.
“Yes, I picked you scrawny but up and put you on the couch,” he
said as if reading my mind.
I shook my head hoping to rid my mind of the cerebral cobwebs.
No such luck once they were in place they were there to stay. Charlotte, yes,
the same spider from Charlotte’s web, took up residence in a small corner of my
brain. Only difference being was that I am not that cute and adorable little prize
pig from that book. I guess the cobwebs could be a metaphor for the tendrils of
the dream of future yet to come. Then again it could be a lot of things I’d
rather not mention.
“You got to stop doing that, old man,” I cried.
“Stop doing what?” he questioned feeling caught off-guard.
“Nothing, never mind,” I retorted shaking my head.
He cast his gaze down at his feet and lifted his head up to face
me once more. His facial expression was stern but had softened a bit. I
believed it was a mixture of pity and mild disappointment he felt for me. Maybe
it was more of the former than the latter. He was my flesh and blood and blood
was thicker than water. I loved the big bear of a man and he loved me back. It
was us against the world after all. Come hell or high water we’d fight side by
side to the bitter end. And bitter the end was sure to be.
“I am heading out to the shop,” he declared shattering the
silence beginning to crystallize about the living room.
“All right, see you later,” I said bidding him farewell.
I watched him cross the room and pick up his jean jacket and
lumber back to the hallway that leads to the front door. His movements were
slow and exact. I swear the man was cast out of iron. The man was up in age and
had been diagnosed with countless ailments and still he kept on going to work
and drinking the whiskey. He always commented on this saying that men of his
generation were made of sterner stuff than the younger demographics today.
I found my pack of smokes and took one out. Lighting it up I took
a deep drag to collect my thoughts. I put the cigarette to my lips once more
and left it there. I let the cancer stick linger there perched between my lips
a moment longer and then took a deep drag. When I released the smoke it came
out of my mouth and nostrils. I had the distinct impression that my physical
appearance was similar to one of those fire breathing dragons you’d see in
fairy tale book you’d find in the Young Adult section of a bookstore. Instead
of feeling cool by being able to dispel cigarette smoke through multiple orifices
about my person I choked on the residue smoke and nicotine that got trapped in
my lungs.
I found a bottle of water, removed the cap and chugged half the
bottle. The water was room temperature but still damp enough to whet my whistle.
Small sores had formed in the tiny cracks in the recess of my throat developed
as a result of dehydration. I didn’t much care for water. Gatorade was always
my nonalcoholic beverage of choice when my throat felt parched from a long
night of drinking and getting stoned. Dr Pepper was great too but was not
really the ideal choice when you were dying of thirst. It’d only make matters
worse not to mention the side effects of drinking a beverage that was made from
prunes.
I finished off the bottle of water and focused my attention on
the old typer and ignored the blank sheet of line-less paper staring at me from
across the makeshift writer’s desk I had managed to put together. Shop class
was never my favorite class and my hands weren’t made for hard work. I pressed
the keys and put ink to page in the form of words and the mechanical clanking
of keys formed a melody in my head and I let it be my guide. Soon the clanking
of keys and my humming filled the vaulted ceilings and echoed off the walls and
thumped against the thin pane of glass that filled the window seal and frames.
At the back of my mind that was currently enjoying the chorus of
harmony and taking care of business the dream lingered like a finger beckoning
me back to rabbit hole and down to the future yet to come. I caught myself as I
was about to take the plunge be swept away only to awaken disappointed and
ashamed at my weakness. An imprint had been stamped over my eyes of darkness
and a hint of light that lingered at the fringes of my pupils that promised
hope and happiness. My subconscious played nasty tricks on my conscious mind
and I tended to give into the propaganda it was spewing. Mostly I wanted to
believe whatever I was told when it came to my being happy and having this
bitter void in my heart filled. This was the type of recess while figurative;
it has the tendency to manifest into a real problem that affects you
physically.
Strange enough how emotional and mental anguish can transform
until you begin to get stricken with some medical problem that swiftly develops
into a condition that stays with you for the remainder of your days. I know
this first hand on account of aforementioned anguish and having dealt with my
share of melodrama and the twisted love child thereof which is melancholy.
