With a simple decision to shave my face, I went from looking like Jeff Bridges to Vince Neil.
Not the “Home Sweet Home” version at all. More the celebrity plastic surgery on VH1 version.
Anyway, just felt I had to type that. On to something else…
***
Well, that was a refreshing sleep. It seems like I’ve been in bed for days. That’s what I remember thinking that morning.
The feeling of euphoria didn’t last for long. Soon, it became apparent, super apparent that something was amiss.
My first clue was the inability to get out of bed. The desire was there, for sure. It wasn’t for the normal reasons however. Wasn’t hungry. Did not need to pee. In fact, my bladder felt uncommonly empty. As did my bowels. Why I would notice such a thing, I hadn’t clue.
Suddenly it dawned on me. I couldn’t close my eyes. I wasn’t blinking at all. There was not way to shut out the light. And it appeared to be a pretty sunny day outside, especially for early December.
Did I have a stroke in my sleep. That was my first assumption. That’s kind of been my go-to way of … Shit, now it makes some sense.
I’m dead.
Not being a very religious person, always holding on to the belief of “being a believer, but not really sure of what”, I always wondered if the soul just stays put. And how horrible that would be.
Does it slowly flicker out instead of bursting out -- hence all of the great white lights folks see in near-death experiences.
But I am obviously still inside this carcass at the moment. My view of the world is the wood paneling that this old house is completely covered with. And my dresser. Same dresser I’ve had since I was a kid. I finally moved it with me to this place. At the age of 39. Been all over the country, but never took anything but clothes, Cds and stereo equipment.
I can see my cell phone. I wonder when someone will try to call?
Most likely, it will be someone from work. Trying to figure out why the hell I didn’t show up. First day, it’ll be a simple question. Second day, an angry one. Probably by the third day, they’ll just figure I up and quit on them.
No real concern will come from there.
Next on that list? I’m supposed to go to Richmond in two weeks. When I don’t show up, I’ll get a text. I won’t answer. Which will lead to a call. Which I won’t answer.
It’ll die there. Ha.
Two weeks later, I’m supposed to see a concert in Baltimore.
The text will come the day before. No answer.
A call the next day.
That may spark some interest. May.
By then, my corpse will be nice and ripe. No air conditioning or heat in the place. If it’s a cold December, who knows, it may end up being like a fridge and keep me from spoiling everyone’s day.
My mailbox will be full of bills by now. Unpaid ones. Phone will start ringing as bill collection agencies start to troll.
The rent goes unpaid.
Landlord sends a letter. Then a phone call.
Finally, after it’s two months late, they show up to knock on the door.
Going inside, they see a rotting mass of Zatarain’s on the table.
Into my room, the landlord ventures. Seeing me, still in bed. A sheet drawn over my head.
If I’m still in there, I’ll be more worried about being seen naked.
He grabs at the sheet, pulling it back.
Gruesome huh?
How long do you think it would take until someone found your body?
But, I’ve only been here a little while now. Time to take stock of what’s going on here. Am I really dead? I guess I should figure that out.
And the only way to find that out is to wait. I can see myself. My hairy belly at least. My feet. My dick. I look up and I see my hair. Is this rational? Should I be wondering this.
Now, since I’m still inside this shell, can I start to wonder if I’ll feel anything when they cut me up for an autopsy. This guy’s too young to have died of natural causes, they’ll most likely say.
But I didn’t kill myself. Heck, last night, or the last night I remember was pretty good. I went out to the local pub, had a few solo drinks before the bartender started flirting with me. I’d always dreamed of a barkeep taking an interest in me. And this time, she actually did.
Now, I’m a realist and understand she flirts with every guy that buys a $2 Yuengling. It’s her way of getting paid. But I’m the only person in the bar by 2 a.m. and she’s still standing in front of me, talking. We’re talking about writing. Appears she wants to be one. I tell her I want to be a bartender.
By 4 a.m. she’s done cleaning, I’m done drinking. I ask her where she lives. She says down the street. Pointing west. I sigh and point east for me. The last thing I remember was her saying “well, looks like I’m heading east tonight…”
No comments:
Post a Comment