c. 2024 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(6-24)
I was groggy while standing in the bathroom on Wednesday morning. After a night of adjusting my position in bed, moving from one side to the other to quell bouts of joint pain and muscle soreness, I had finally surrendered to the arrival of daybreak. It was an early point in my personal routine that had become decidedly familiar. An admission that the struggle to rest had once again been put aside in favor of being vertical, and active around my trailer home.
A nap in my desk chair would come later. But for now, I was simply tired of trying to fight the twin demons of disability and decline.
As I stood before the looking glass, which was splattered with toothpaste, hand soap, and dribbles of medicinal compounds, a voice tickled my ear. One I recognized as being a character created for the purpose of spreading callous abuse in comedic form. It spoke rudely and loud, with little deference to the early hour. Barely past a first peek of gold above the treetops outside. Briefly, I wondered if my radio had been left on, overnight.
“ANOTHER DAY! HERE IT IS, ANOTHER WRETCHED DAY OF LIFE ON THIS BARREN ROCK, FLYING THROUGH SPACE! WHAT A SAD, WORTHLESS REALITY TO BEHOLD! IT MAKES ME ILL TO CONTEMPLATE THAT YOU ARE STILL ALIVE! AND SO AM I AS YOUR TORMENTOR! NEITHER OF US WANT TO BE HERE! WHY ARE WE STUCK DOING THIS DANCE OF THE DAMNED?”
I wheezed phlegm and stood with both hands on opposite corners of the sink enclosure.
“It’s the beginning of a new day. Couldn’t you at least give thanks?”
A raucous yelp of defiance boomed between my bathroom walls.
“GIVE THANKS? HA HA HA! WHAT A RIDICULOUS PROPOSITION! YOU ARE GARBAGE! YOUR LOGIC IS GARBAGE! WORTH NOTHING TO ME OR ANYONE! LITERALLY, A SUM OF ZERO! ZERO, I SAY! ZEROOOO!”
I splashed cool water into my face, and rinsed off with a hand towel which had been hanging on its wooden ring. Was I still drunk? The thought actually seemed sound, at least for that moment.
“Look, I have no response to your unwelcome comments. I’m not awake enough to hear an episode of the Phil Hendrie netcast, right now. Okay? Save your sarcastic soliloquy for later, when I’ve had some coffee...”
My mention of the famous satirist from California seemed to have hit the bullseye.
“THIS ISN’T A SHOW, YOU ROCKHEAD! IT’S REAL LIFE IN REAL TIME! YOU’LL LISTEN TO ME AND LISTEN GOOD! HAH! CALL ME BY THE NAME OF BUD DICKMAN, OR ANY OTHER! IT DOESN’T MATTER!”
I turned away from the mirror while fumbling for my canes.
“I Can’t hear you now! I’m headed to the kitchen. The BUNN brew system is waiting. You’ll have to take a number, my mouth is set on having some black magic in this cup...”
The anonymous quipster shrieked at my disinterest.
“YOU WANT BLACK MAGIC? I’LL GIVE YOU PLENTY OF THAT, DUDE! EVERYTHING I DO AND SAY IS MAGIC! EVERYTHING YOU DO AND SAY IS A PITIFUL WASTE OF TIME! YOU SHOULD BE DOUBLED OVER RIGHT NOW WITH HUMILIATION! I HAVE BEEN INSULTING YOU SINCE YOUR FIRST LEAP OUT OF BED!”
I sighed while filling the filter basket with ground coffee beans.
“Sorry, I don’t feel offended by noise. That’s what you represent to me, the creaking of a door hinge, or the buzz of a fan left on too long. Your opinions mean nada. Now if I respected you, and your experience, then perhaps I might feel queasy. But no, that isn’t the case. Keep blathering, it’s all just the clatter of dishes in my cupboard. Or tools on the workbench. Noise, noise, noise!”
I had struck a nerve. He whined and fretted as I filled the brewing carafe with water.
“WHAAAAAT! YOU CAN’T BE SERIOUS! I AM AT THE TOP OF MY GAME! A TIP-TOP PERFORMER! YOU’VE GOT TO LISTEN TO ME! IT’S IMPERATIVE THAT YOU LISTEN! DO IT, AND DO IT NOW!”
I shook my head and moved to a vintage chair at the end of my couch. It looked to have once occupied a spot in the waiting room of a doctor or a lawyer.
“Please! You’re drowning in self-importance. That is really arrogant. What makes you so important? You’re an irritating flyspeck, I could simply flick you away with my fingertips...”
The voice swelled to an aural crescendo that rattled every window.
“NOOOOOOOOO! I WON’T ACCEPT THAT! I AM EVERYTHING TO YOU! YOUR SPARK OF IMAGINATION! YOUR DEVILISH DARK SIDE! YOUR DUALITY, REFLECTED IN REVERSE! I AM WHAT YOU FEAR TO BE! I SAY WHAT YOU FEAR RO SAY! I THINK WHAT YOU FEAR TO THINK!”
His sharp lecture caused me to wince.
“Umm... politely said... no.”
My vocal equal shouted to be heard more clearly.
“DON’T SAY THE WORD NO! YOU WILL NOT SAY NO, AGAIN!”
I laughed and twirled my cane like a marching baton.
“No again!”
A seething wind blew through the mobile home. Photographs fell from their place on the entertainment center. Posters peeled from the walls. I rose from the wooden chair and staggered toward my kitchen counter. The coffee pot was full, at last. I lifted it and watched as a cascade of steaming java met my cup like a waterfall descending into its reserve among the stones, below.
The first taste of this nectar cleared my head at last.
“Ah yes, thank God. Thank God! For this day and this blessed drink of revival!”
A howl of negation echoed throughout my boxcar dwelling. At last, my faceless foe had been subdued. Consciousness was restored. I felt glad to have finally escaped the sound of my imaginary visitor.
“Hot and strong, that’s the Arabica brew I needed. Harsh enough to blast away the cobwebs, but gentle on the tongue. A treat for the taste buds and the soul...”
In my bathroom, I heard the mirror shatter from its frame. Glass shards flew across the carpet. I nearly dropped my flavorful beverage. Had it actually happened? Or was this another trick to scramble my brain cells? I couldn’t be certain.
But then, it was over. Real or not, the conflict had ended.
I read the morning paper in silence. This act cleared my head and offered a measure of comfort. Yet as I poured a second round into my vessel, there was a cackle of playful intrigue and bad intentions.
“TOMORROW! I’LL SEE YOU AGAIN, JUST AFTER SUNRISE, TOMORROW! BE READY!”
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