Post by Deleted on Jun 8, 2019 16:56:50 GMT -5
John slowly opened his eyes. This one, again. Sort of. He had already lived it. It’d been awhile since he bothered to remember the same tired old sequence. It has been even longer since he had tried to commit it to memory. But even then, there was always a mistranslation due to … whatever. He had the utmost idea as to what he wanted to say and then it’d come out … wrong? He wondered if that was the right word for it.
Anyway, this lapse in time, it was different.
He had learned by now that it was much wiser to squint through the light the fluorescent tubes brought forth. He rolled on his side and faced the white cement wall. The shade of paint was just as unforgiving as the lights above him. He traced a finger on the groove of the wall.
He guessed it was morning. The slot in his door would open and they would slide in breakfast. John rolled over and swung his legs off the bed. His bare feet touched concrete floor and the chill was a jolt to the system. He raised his arms into the air and stretched while omitting a long yawn.
John listened for the footsteps. They weren’t there.
Not normal for him to deviate from his routine but stranger things have happened. He usually woke up just in time for the morning shift to begin.
In the year and a half since, he had become aware of when this happened. He always considered it a callback to a routine that essentially defined him half of his life.
He got up. Stripped off his underwear. Relieved himself. Brushed his teeth in the sink built into the same stainless steel toilet he just used. He sequestered the previous day’s dirty laundry in a closed container under his bed. He looked into the bin right next it to find a stack of carefully organized clothing, retrieved them, and put on his clean underwear, white jumpsuit, and slippers.
He made his bed. It had to be just right. He stripped the non standard linens and pillows he’d earned as some pittance for good behavior. He examined them meticulously. He would make sure that they didn’t need be laundered along with his previous day’s clothing. After the bed was made to his satisfaction, John stood around with his hands on his hips. He was getting a little agitated now. Most likely due to hunger.
This was usually where this charade exposed its purpose. He looked to the drain set right before his toilet. Any moment he’d hear his voice. He had never learned the name that owned the voice. It happened. And then by happenstance, he’d been there all those years. There was a part of John that wondered if he was ever real after they’d encountered each other the first time. There was conflict in everything that defined reality. That’d been so long ago. And besides, one day, the voice had gone away by itself. Last thing he said is that he couldn’t wait to see Johnny in hell.
John sat back down on his bed. A couple months back, he’d confided to Mike maybe to the nature of these encounters. What had possibly happened to him. Didn’t take them much to put two and two together. He hadn’t been seeking out some absolution as to what happened. The act was after all part of him. The absent voice, the man it belonged to, they would always be a part of him. And so in a strange way, John was disappointed that they wouldn’t reminiscence about old times. And he always had something to say about the present. And then he would join him.
But that wasn’t happening. He clasped his hands together, cracking his knuckles in the process.
He didn’t like this. It wasn’t part of the routine.
Finally, there were footsteps approaching. Eventually ending at his door. There was the jingle jangling of keys, the scrape of metal on metal as the right one was inserted and turned just so. The release of the lock. The creak of the hinges as the door is pulled out, light pouring in. Partially blinded, he could only make out the figure’s broad form. Very familiar. It stepped into the cell.
John sighed, “Me.”
He had become very accustomed to what one would consider putting his best foot forward. And so here he was, in the dark grey suit he’d worn earlier in the week.
“Really? This is just confusing.”
The suit shrugged, “What did you think you were doing all along? This is a work of fiction, transcribed or not. Why are you writing these down afterwards? Half the time, you crumple up the page and toss it. I mean I’d rather not obscure things by implying some disorder because that isn’t it. This is just you lost in thought. Mike and you are in the hotel room. You two are watching the Red Sox get their shit kicked in. Mike’s words, not mine.”
“I know that. Just doesn’t make any sense to me.”
“Me either,” the man, well, John, joined the other by taking a seat beside him on the bed. Bed was a generous term as it was a frame bolted to the wall with a sliver of a pad for comfort. He clasped a hand on the inmate’s shoulder, “Tell me something, and by that I mean, tell yourself something. You considered walking off the first night you were invited to stay in the guest room. Why is that?”
John hated dredging up that mess.
“I mean, depression, right?”
“Probably.”
“Actually, I’m asking the wrong question. Why’d you stay?”
“Didn’t have anywhere else to go. Was tired of being alone.”
The man in the suit bursted out laughing, even slapping his knee. It was a mischaracterization. It was contrary to everything John was, “That’s, Church, that’s pretty funny. You could have surrounded yourself with all manner of people. The business being what it is and you chose to linger around the one person who takes you in like a lost dog.”
“They seemed nice.”
“Okay, okay,” the suit had now been prone to sudden peels of laughter and he had to wipe tears from his eyes due to the sheer hilarity of it, “Fair enough. And so what is this?”
“What is what?” John wanted to run out that door, maybe it’d end this. He’d like to just explain everything to Mike. Stop playing around. Stop mixing up his thoughts. Stop being so … not sure?
“Is this pretend? Just like before?”
“No,” he said adamantly.
“You sure keep quiet about all of this.”
“Easy enough to find out. Seems like everyone knows more than me anyway.”
The suit stood up, separating himself from the gloom of that statement.
“I feel like a pinball, you know that? Just bouncing around from thought to thought,” he gestured towards the open door, “Funny enough, I don’t know what’s out there. There isn’t anything beyond this silly little cell. You think it represents clarity or self actualization or … eh, probably not. Doesn’t work like that. Sort of like how you’re handling, you know, life about now.”
“I’m trying.”
“At what? What do you think Mike is all twisted up about? I can’t tell you what it is. Again, I’m you. There’s something beyond an eighth grader’s first relationship. The chaste kisses. The hand holding. Then acting like you’re exploring the unsettled lands, step by step. The haphazard gratification. The handjob under the bleachers. I mean, it wasn’t there literally but Jesus Christ, John. Saying you two are partners.”
“We are.”
“I’m … I’m trying to help you but John Bishop Church isn’t equipped to help himself. I’m just whistling in the wind. I’ll just go.”
The suit turned his back to John, stepped towards the exit.
“Game’s over. Four fuckin’ runs at the top of the 9th. Get fucked, Boston. Anyways, Mets’re on later tonight or whenever, timezone’s got me all fucked up, but you don’t gotta watch on the account of me. Your turn, John. Your turn to stop watching reruns of your life.”
“I, I don’t know how…”
Out the door, “Fuck if I know either. Figure it out.”
The door slammed shut behind the suit. But the door didn’t lock. John slumped over, face buried in his hands, muffling his exasperation, “I don’t know how…”
Anyway, this lapse in time, it was different.
He had learned by now that it was much wiser to squint through the light the fluorescent tubes brought forth. He rolled on his side and faced the white cement wall. The shade of paint was just as unforgiving as the lights above him. He traced a finger on the groove of the wall.
He guessed it was morning. The slot in his door would open and they would slide in breakfast. John rolled over and swung his legs off the bed. His bare feet touched concrete floor and the chill was a jolt to the system. He raised his arms into the air and stretched while omitting a long yawn.
John listened for the footsteps. They weren’t there.
Not normal for him to deviate from his routine but stranger things have happened. He usually woke up just in time for the morning shift to begin.
In the year and a half since, he had become aware of when this happened. He always considered it a callback to a routine that essentially defined him half of his life.
He got up. Stripped off his underwear. Relieved himself. Brushed his teeth in the sink built into the same stainless steel toilet he just used. He sequestered the previous day’s dirty laundry in a closed container under his bed. He looked into the bin right next it to find a stack of carefully organized clothing, retrieved them, and put on his clean underwear, white jumpsuit, and slippers.
He made his bed. It had to be just right. He stripped the non standard linens and pillows he’d earned as some pittance for good behavior. He examined them meticulously. He would make sure that they didn’t need be laundered along with his previous day’s clothing. After the bed was made to his satisfaction, John stood around with his hands on his hips. He was getting a little agitated now. Most likely due to hunger.
This was usually where this charade exposed its purpose. He looked to the drain set right before his toilet. Any moment he’d hear his voice. He had never learned the name that owned the voice. It happened. And then by happenstance, he’d been there all those years. There was a part of John that wondered if he was ever real after they’d encountered each other the first time. There was conflict in everything that defined reality. That’d been so long ago. And besides, one day, the voice had gone away by itself. Last thing he said is that he couldn’t wait to see Johnny in hell.
John sat back down on his bed. A couple months back, he’d confided to Mike maybe to the nature of these encounters. What had possibly happened to him. Didn’t take them much to put two and two together. He hadn’t been seeking out some absolution as to what happened. The act was after all part of him. The absent voice, the man it belonged to, they would always be a part of him. And so in a strange way, John was disappointed that they wouldn’t reminiscence about old times. And he always had something to say about the present. And then he would join him.
But that wasn’t happening. He clasped his hands together, cracking his knuckles in the process.
He didn’t like this. It wasn’t part of the routine.
Finally, there were footsteps approaching. Eventually ending at his door. There was the jingle jangling of keys, the scrape of metal on metal as the right one was inserted and turned just so. The release of the lock. The creak of the hinges as the door is pulled out, light pouring in. Partially blinded, he could only make out the figure’s broad form. Very familiar. It stepped into the cell.
John sighed, “Me.”
He had become very accustomed to what one would consider putting his best foot forward. And so here he was, in the dark grey suit he’d worn earlier in the week.
“Really? This is just confusing.”
The suit shrugged, “What did you think you were doing all along? This is a work of fiction, transcribed or not. Why are you writing these down afterwards? Half the time, you crumple up the page and toss it. I mean I’d rather not obscure things by implying some disorder because that isn’t it. This is just you lost in thought. Mike and you are in the hotel room. You two are watching the Red Sox get their shit kicked in. Mike’s words, not mine.”
“I know that. Just doesn’t make any sense to me.”
“Me either,” the man, well, John, joined the other by taking a seat beside him on the bed. Bed was a generous term as it was a frame bolted to the wall with a sliver of a pad for comfort. He clasped a hand on the inmate’s shoulder, “Tell me something, and by that I mean, tell yourself something. You considered walking off the first night you were invited to stay in the guest room. Why is that?”
John hated dredging up that mess.
“I mean, depression, right?”
“Probably.”
“Actually, I’m asking the wrong question. Why’d you stay?”
“Didn’t have anywhere else to go. Was tired of being alone.”
The man in the suit bursted out laughing, even slapping his knee. It was a mischaracterization. It was contrary to everything John was, “That’s, Church, that’s pretty funny. You could have surrounded yourself with all manner of people. The business being what it is and you chose to linger around the one person who takes you in like a lost dog.”
“They seemed nice.”
“Okay, okay,” the suit had now been prone to sudden peels of laughter and he had to wipe tears from his eyes due to the sheer hilarity of it, “Fair enough. And so what is this?”
“What is what?” John wanted to run out that door, maybe it’d end this. He’d like to just explain everything to Mike. Stop playing around. Stop mixing up his thoughts. Stop being so … not sure?
“Is this pretend? Just like before?”
“No,” he said adamantly.
“You sure keep quiet about all of this.”
“Easy enough to find out. Seems like everyone knows more than me anyway.”
The suit stood up, separating himself from the gloom of that statement.
“I feel like a pinball, you know that? Just bouncing around from thought to thought,” he gestured towards the open door, “Funny enough, I don’t know what’s out there. There isn’t anything beyond this silly little cell. You think it represents clarity or self actualization or … eh, probably not. Doesn’t work like that. Sort of like how you’re handling, you know, life about now.”
“I’m trying.”
“At what? What do you think Mike is all twisted up about? I can’t tell you what it is. Again, I’m you. There’s something beyond an eighth grader’s first relationship. The chaste kisses. The hand holding. Then acting like you’re exploring the unsettled lands, step by step. The haphazard gratification. The handjob under the bleachers. I mean, it wasn’t there literally but Jesus Christ, John. Saying you two are partners.”
“We are.”
“I’m … I’m trying to help you but John Bishop Church isn’t equipped to help himself. I’m just whistling in the wind. I’ll just go.”
The suit turned his back to John, stepped towards the exit.
“Game’s over. Four fuckin’ runs at the top of the 9th. Get fucked, Boston. Anyways, Mets’re on later tonight or whenever, timezone’s got me all fucked up, but you don’t gotta watch on the account of me. Your turn, John. Your turn to stop watching reruns of your life.”
“I, I don’t know how…”
Out the door, “Fuck if I know either. Figure it out.”
The door slammed shut behind the suit. But the door didn’t lock. John slumped over, face buried in his hands, muffling his exasperation, “I don’t know how…”
“Don’t know what, bud?”
“N, nothing.”