A Sleepless Nightmare

It all seemed so real, even the baby with the cleaver standing on my chest, in my own bed, and glaring at me with those bright, red eyes. The demonic little tyke hopped up and down on my rib-cage once, again, then a third time, and it spoke to me through sharp, pointy teeth. Fangs, more accurately.

"Welcome to Nirvana," it welcomed me in an impossibly deep sports-announcer's voice, and it waved the huge cleaver about with a strength that belied its size. The creature paused to scratch at one of its misshapen, protruding ears, then returned to whipping the thing to and fro madly, as it repeated with a shrill cackle, "Welcome to Nirvana!"

Then, with an almost artful flourish, the fiend whipped around one last time, hopped again, and planted the cleaver in the middle of my forehead. There was no pain, and there was no blood, but I did feel an eerie and awful sense of release that had to be just like when Pandora opened that box of hers. All sorts of thisses and thatses escaped my cloven head in a burst and a flurry, I was flooded and bombarded. I was awash in it, and foundering.

These were my own anguished thoughts and best-hidden memories come to assault me as I faced the unpleasant contents of my own twisted mind. Vivid recollection, terrible and true, gripping me and marching me through a grim procession of the wish-it-was-forgotten, and the what-was-I-thinking.

Witness to that miserable night once more, that wretched, shameful evening wherein my virginity was forfeit. Oh, how that evil harlot laughed, so cruelly, sneering wickedly as she suggested, "You just keep your money, honey, cause three minutes ain't worth makin' change." I shuddered to recall her pasty face and clown-like makeup, how her oversized frame rolled with the laughter that spilled from enormous, collagenized lips.

This was insufferable, this unwelcome remembering, and I reeled in the face of it, I would have turned away from it, but I couldn't. I was held firmly in place by the vicious placement of that heavy butcher's blade, and the diabolical little fiend just smiled slash snarled at me as he gave the cleaver a bit of a twist.

My very first job so many years before, watching as my trainer demonstrated how to properly construct a hamburger. He did so quickly, and effortlessly, but not very instructively. Flipping, searing, draining, buns toasted, and condiments applied. Then he exposed me to an awful truth as he gleefully revealed to me the making and the make-up of our 'secret sauce'. Truly unspeakable, this knowledge not fit for man, yet now I knew. And I continued to eat there, even so. How could I not? It did taste pretty good.

How unkind that this all came from within me, that my tormentor could so readily assault me by plucking these unpleasant recollections from the deepest recesses of my own mind. And the thing wasn't even half done yet.

The cold and sterile environs of an antiseptic delivery room, with green gowns all around, beeping monitors, various instruments gleaming under the bright lights. The grunts, the groans, the sometimes anguished moans, and my wife finally looking at me in disgust and telling me to cut it out. I had a camcorder pressed to my face because she had insisted, and that meant I had to watch. I didn't have a choice.

I managed to stay vertical, but only barely, and I squinted so I couldn't quite see what I really didn't want to see. I think I was supposed to help her with her breathing, but I was far too busy trying to remember to breathe for me.

Most of the details were fuzzy to me, and they came out of focus since I was squinting through a camera at the time, but I recall, vividly, that "One last push" and then "There he is! Congratulations, it's a boy!"

I looked for real then, I let the camcorder drop and looked without squinting, but everything was still all blurry because of the tears. All I could really see was a green backdrop cradling something kinda purplish red, holding it just like a football. "Let's have dad cut the cord," the doctor suggested, and I didn't want to, really, yet part of me did. I was too numb to object when they put the scalpel, or scissors, or for all I know machete in my hand. I'm pretty sure it was scissors because as I reached out to grudgingly comply, beaming with pride and unable to see a thing because of all those damn tears, I remember they were just starting to close when I heard, "NO! NO! NO! THAT'S NOT THE CORD! THAT'S NOT THE CORD!"

This was vile, this was inhumanly inhumane, and there was more to come. I progressed past many more memories, each came more terribly unbearable than the last. Not memories, now, no, this was even worse. I was confronted at some length, by one nagging and chronic concern after another, the most hideously heinous of my ceaselessly incessant worries.

Is my son really going to flunk the third grade, again?

Is my wife sleeping around, again?

Did my boss really mean it when he threatened to replace me with a machine, provided, he always added, that a machine could be built to perform half the work of the average man and still botch things up, regularly and often?

Did the roof really get fixed or did that guy just slap some kind of goo over the hole and bill me for shingles he never used? I wonder if mama ever knew the fire started because I was smoking in my room. Well, not smoking per se, more like offering up ritual sacrifices to some thankfully inert godling or another, same as everybody else was doing at the time.

Did daddy have something particular in mind when he told me it would make me go blind? Or was it just another generic warning like 'your face'll freeze that way'? Because daddy wore glasses, and he couldn't hardly see without them, if memory serves.

Is that pain really normal for a man my age? And if so, why did the doctor say it would be unwise to leave town anytime soon?

I paused to consider Professor Morgan's interpretation of Doctor Turner's adaptation of some really weird philosopher whose name I never could wrap my tongue around anyway. Not that it mattered so much, philosophy class was probably some of the best sleep I ever got in my college days, and that was about all I got out of that class, really.

I remembered my first dog, how he ran off with another little boy. A more well-adjusted little boy than I, admittedly. My second dog, the dog that Daddy insisted committed suicide, because Daddy swore that dog saw the truck coming, but he just sat there! Daddy said Spot knew that truck was coming but he didn't budge, he just hung his head and closed his eyes real tight and, at the very last, he smiled gratefully. That's what Daddy said.

My first kiss, she gave me a cold, but I didn't mind so much. Until my throat swelled almost shut and the doctor explained to me what mono was.

The first time I had lasagna and just totally loved it. Then mama told me, to my ever-lasting dismay, what kind of cheese went in it.

All these awful, horrible memories that I forgot I remembered, and more worries came to plague me. What was I thinking, getting a picture in picture television? Did I really believe I could watch two games at the same time when most times all I get to do is watch my wife find something else to watch?

If I put my shoes on while I shave in the morning, could I gain enough time to enjoy that eighth cup of coffee? How many cups of coffee could I safely enjoy before I finally had to pass a stone, anyway? Did medical science have the answer to that yet, and if not, why not? Slackers.

Was there some way I could rig Jack Weller's keyboard to delete a random file every time he hit his enter key? And, more importantly, could that be traced back to me if I did? Because didn't he just plain have it coming? If I tell my mistress that I'm getting a divorce, would she give me back the key to my house that I never should've given her and what was I thinking? If not the house key, at least the keys to the Buick.

I fretted further.

Did the Reverend know I intentionally forgot to sign that donation check? Twice. Parker, my crummy next-door neighbor, didn't it ever dawn on him that his lawnmower should've gone a whole lot farther on a tank of gas than it did? Didn't it ever occur to him he's never seen me gas up my own rider? And did that bathroom window of his just get curtained up by coincidence, or was he watching me watch his wife in the shower? Sick bastard, and damn that curtain!

What if the IRS finds out about that account in my dead uncle's name? Just what was the president trying to prove by signing that arms agreement? I sure do miss the good old days when the more bombs we had, the less wars there were. Do these people want a war? Did I lock the BMW? Did I turn on the alarm? What could that smell be, is that me?

Torturous thoughts, wretched reflections, I couldn't escape any of it. That southwest report is due Thursday, property taxes are due to go up again, how did I ever get that bruise and there of all places, when oh when are they going to cure baldness, Weller kept my change at lunch. How could I have missed that? That's it for his keyboard, then.

It all seemed so real, but then it was real, and that's why it seemed real. Insomnia really sucks, but these sleeping pills kick some serious ass!

END