Brinkhurst.com

Sleep. It’s the most harmful daily occurrence that the human mind could go through. The cosmic joke is that 16 hours is only enough time to begin to question our lives, our problems, our existence. Suddenly, we pass out in an 8 hour haze of distraction, and like a whore’s dignity, our thoughts are destroyed.

People who can’t sleep shamefully take pills and see doctors, but they’re awake because they need to be, need to think, do, and live. Why won’t they wake up?

I stopped sleeping 24 hours ago, when I got the news . . .

“Sam?”  I hear a voice next to me say.

“Sam!”  The voice repeats.

Great, now I am obligated to acknowledge the existence of this strange person standing next to me. Not only do I have to acknowledge the person’s existence, I’m forced to try to remember where we met, the last time we saw each other, and the things we used to do together. I’m now staring with my usual blank expression, waiting for the “hamster wheel” in my mind to make a full revolution, but the awkward silence is broken by: “you look exactly the same as you did in high school; you haven’t changed at all.”

Right, I’m not drastically different looking than I was. I haven’t gone gray, lost my hair, or gained weight, but something about me must be different. I must gently say: “I don’t know you.”

“You do. We had classes together.”

“I’d remember you.”

“Well, I remember you Sam.”

“I’m not good at this.”

“You’re doing fine.”

She’s a little bothered that I don’t remember her, but she’s completely turned on by the fact that she has an advantage over me. She has me squirming to remember who she is.

All I can mutter is: “um, ah, yeah; damn you’re beautiful.”

With a ballerina’s half pirouette and the most beautiful smile I have ever seen, she turns away from me, stands on her toes and bends all the way over to touch the ground. Her short, red skirt taunts me, as it waves in my direction. I feel drawn to that waving red piece of cloth. An uncontrollable feeling is coming over me, but her simple, white panties are revealing the truth. I bet she forgot that she put those on this morning. Unbelievable; she’s the type of woman who makes a poet cry over his verse. Turning back around, she grabs my hands, puts them around her waist and stares. Her arms are softly placed around my neck. I sing Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World,” while we sway our hips and move around in a circle.

“I just wanted to tell you that I . . .”

She is looking at me in a completely different way; she’s terrified. She doesn’t want to hear that, not from me, some guy she met 5 minutes ago. I don’t have to say anything more. She knows how I feel, but it doesn’t have to be “out there.” She’s not moving, not blinking, barely breathing; she’s just staring, looking through me. She doesn’t have feelings for me, how could she? With a hand placed gently on my face, she nervously utters: “Sam, you have to go.”

I’m not the type of person who won’t take “no” for an answer, but I am honest.

“I love you.”

“Sam, you don’t even know my name.”

“I know that I love you, and I know that it’s always worth taking a chance on something you believe in.”

She’s looking at me with a confused and almost hurt look in her eyes. I think she’s holding back tears, but all she says is: “you need to go, right now.”

I just remembered that I’m in a drug store, but I can’t remember why. I look across the store to see a woman shooting vicious glances at the woman I had just danced with. Are they friends, lovers? She looks back at the angry woman with an apologetic look; they must be lovers. I’m leaving. This has been bizarre, very bizarre. I can’t stop sneezing; stuff is coming out of my face, and my eyes are watering. I’m going to skip work today and go to sleep, sleep.

Ring … ring … ring

I just fell asleep; what the hell is that noise? Ah, no, bloody phone.

“Hello?”

“Sam; it’s your sister.”

I know that I’m expected to say something else here, but she called me. I don’t even want to talk to her. I’m trying to sleep. I’m not going to carry on with words about how happy I am that she called or how I’m aware that she exists. If she wishes to speak to me, she can talk. I have no problems waiting out an awkward silence.

“Sam, are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“Look, I just called about Dad.”

I hate hearing about my father.

“Sam?”

“Yeah, sure, Dad . . . I got the news yesterday.”

“What can we do for him?”

“Tammy . . .”

“What?”

“Do you really think it makes a difference at this point?”

“I think it makes a huge difference; he is . . .”

I hang up the phone, killing the connection. Really, how am I supposed to act? Some father he was. What difference should it make to me. It won’t do me any good to shed tears on top of a bacteria filled corpse while people lie about what a kind and generous person is about to be buried. I close my eyes again.

Ring … ring … ring

Damn phone. Last time someone called it annoyed me; I’m not taking that chance again. A trip downtown always makes me feel more sane. Walking among the bizarre crazies, from those pushing shopping carts to those wearing suits, they all have that look in their eyes. They are blank and distant, and they’re on the edge. There are those who push around their buggies wreaking of human fluids, while the uniformed commerce servants smell of excessive alcohol and plant oils, splashed about their necks and faces, all in a sad attempt to cover up the stench of who they almost are. It’s difficult for me to see who is better off, the automatons or the poor. I just keep going downtown, trying to understand why advanced primates do what they do. It’s a good day for a walk; it’ll take about 3 hours to make my way downtown, but it’s a good day for a walk.

Buzz … buzz … buzz

Bloody door bell; why do so many things in my house make noise? My phone makes noise, my e-mail makes noise, and my door makes noise, all because people who are not in my home want to talk to me. Some of them want to discuss drugs to stop impotence or start weight loss; some of them want me to switch phone plans or get my ducts cleaned. Some of them want to see my heating bill . . .

“Hello,” the 2 of them say in unison.

A man stands in front of me, so disgustingly beautiful that I could forget about women altogether if it weren’t for the gorgeous woman standing next to him. Although the man was looking at me, to look in his eyes, I would think that he is looking directly at his god. There is not an obvious thought in his head; he is simply in awe. He has found his place in this world, even if it includes delusional visions of a god that constantly floats in front of his face, only turning semi-transparent so that he might see the world in front of him long enough to be able to preach to it. They are wearing similar looking outfits, one made for a woman and one for a man. They seem like modern puritanical outfits. The woman looks familiar; her eyes are not void; instead, they are alert, awake, and alive.

“I don’t suppose you two are selling chocolate bars for a good cause, huh?”

The man looked directly into my eyes to tell me that “we are not here to sell anything.”

That was obviously the woman’s cue to hand me a pamphlet. Her hand was shaking furiously while she glared at me, the same glare she gave me from across the drug store, while I was dancing. That’s where I know her from. I have a million questions for her, but the way she’s shaking concerns me. Clearly her religious ‘partner in crime’ had no idea about her drug store friend.

“Thank you,” I say, while gently grasping the pamphlet, discreetly tapping her knuckle and raising my eyebrows, as if to say: ‘I know you too.’

She swallows deeply, barely able to breathe, and her theological equal simply looks at me and says: “we’re here to give you something.”

My quick response of “that sounds most enjoyable” was either not received well or completely misunderstood by these god freaks.

Stepping outside and locking my door, I say: “I’m going for a walk; you cats coming?”

Of course they would follow, since that’s what those people do. After walking a few blocks down the road, the woman turns from a light tan to a pale gray. Her chameleon like skin has let me know that she wants nothing to do with me, but I can’t resist. I must question her, finding out more about her friend, the beautiful woman that I danced with at the drug store. Did her friend dance with everyone? What was her friend’s name? How would I begin to ask her these questions? While attempting to understand the point of view of the excessively religious, I was able to see beautiful trees, a flowing river, and sharp jagged rocks, protruding from soft, round hills. The river flows low, under a road bridge, in a secluded enough area that nobody would care what you might be doing, even if they did happen to notice you. Under the bridge, I quickly disrobed then immersed the lower half of my body in, rather cold, flowing water. All I could say at this moment was: “I didn’t catch your name.”

“My name is Derek.”

“They call me Ann.”

Derek looks at me with disgust in his eyes, as though I were a cockroach playing in a bowl full of maggots. Standing on the bank, I can see that Derek is noticeably covering his pant area, in a very vain attempt to hide his true feelings for me. He says, in a teenager going through puberty sort of way, “I gotta go; this just isn’t for me.”

Hands now in his pockets, he awkwardly walks away and has a very difficult time doing it.

“So, Ann,” I say, in an accusatory/sarcastic tone, as if to note that we both know Ann is not her name.

She says nothing while removing her shoes and socks. Her demeanor towards me was indifferent. I was neither a flower nor a cactus to her. I am but a simple blade of grass.

I continue with: “what sort of door to door religion would allow you to stay here with a naked stranger?”

Her emotions seem unchanged while she removes her shirt. This feels like a game of strip poker, her face unaffected, her clothes coming off. Although I am not getting any answers, each question seems to be worth an article of clothing.

“Why did you falsely join that religion?”

Off come her pants.

“Was it really a coincidence that you were at my house?”

Say goodbye to the bra.

“Who is the girl from the drugstore?”

For a brief moment, Ann’s poker face is lost. She is thrown off by this question, as she fiddles with the elastic on her panties. Slinking out of that last article of clothing, she steps down from the bank into the river, looking fiercely into my eyes while she walks towards me. Her body is incredibly beautiful. She is slender but has no bones protruding. Her average sized breasts look massive on her petite frame. Yet, I barely notice her nudity, as it’s difficult not to stare at her gorgeous face.

“What’s your real name, Ann?”

She grabs my throat, clenching it tight in her hand. I’m not worried about her seriously harming me, since she is quite a bit smaller than I am, but she is causing me pain as she says: “my turn for questions.”

The water feels much warmer suddenly, as her body is pressed tightly against mine. My heart begins to beat faster. Her hand is still around my neck with our eyes still locked, she asks: “How do you know the woman from the store?”

I feel my heart pumping harder as I quickly reply: “high school.”

I ask: “what’s her name?”

With her left hand still tightly grasping my throat, she moves her right with full force, slapping me in the face.

She screams, “I said that it was my turn.”

My heart is now racing full force, pumping harder and faster. Hand still grasping my neck, she uses the other hand to pull my hair, jerking my head backwards; she bites my lip and moans: “do you love that girl?”

With one final groan, I let out a “yes.”

A moment of calm, quiet relaxation dawns on us. Moving her hands away from my head and neck, Ann places them around my waist and softly whispers in my ear: “her name is Maria.”

“Sir, sir, do you have the time?”

“I don’t wear a watch. Computers tell time, to sleep, wake up, know what to do and when to do it.”

“So?”

“So, I’m an animal, not a, a … um … is that a watch you’re wearing?”

“Yes, the time stopped.”

The little guy has a wind up watch with a second, minute, and hour hand. His light blond hair, cut medium short, is slightly curly on this humid summer day.

“Like in Hiroshima,” I replied.

“Pardon?”

“I’m guessing you have somewhere you need to be?”

“My dad gets angry if I am late, but nobody came to pick me up.”

“Just give your old man a ring,” I said.

He looks at me, confused, muttering: “I could not find a pay phone.”

Now, at this point, I too look confused and can only utter: “really?”

“Do you know where I can find one?”

I thought all kids his age carried cell phones. If I had a phone, I would let him borrow it, but, like wearing a watch, it turns you into a controllable machine, and I won’t be a part of that. A pay phone though, interesting request. I wonder if anyone still makes pay phones, since “I hardly ever see those anymore.”

“I do not know how to get home from here.”

I can see his anxiety building, shoulders tensing, eyebrows slightly raised with an unnatural curve, and the pain, in his eyes, the pain, I always recognize it. I always hate it; it always scares me.

“Where do you live? I’ll walk you.”

“I live near St. Maurice.”

“The church, right, that’s close, 15 minutes.”

“Thank you very much.”

I always try to help when I can. There’s something off about this kid though. I wonder if he’s abused or just neglected. Maybe I can talk to his dad to make sure everything’s all right. This boy’s speech was peculiar. He did not have an accent nor an impediment, no lisp, no regional dialect, nothing that made his words unique. This boy could have been raised anywhere in English speaking North America. Something about the way he spoke was wrong. It was almost as though he was making sure nobody would notice him, nobody would remember him, which made me wonder why he would let a strange, fully-grown man walk him to his home address. With such a clean accent, this boy had to be from the city; he should know better. Is he so terrified of his father that he’s willing to risk his personal safety, or is he a trusting boy? Am I missing something?

“The name’s Sam, by the way.”

I reach out my right hand towards him. It’s a gesture of introduction, a sort of welcome to my world. Two people shaking hands shows a level of mutual respect, and somehow, physically grabbing each other in a non-violent way lets both people know that no harm is meant by either party. The boy holds his hand out, arm straight and certainly uncomfortable, waiting for me to grab his hand. As soon as we have clenched each other, he quietly murmurs: “I am Matthew.”

Shaking hands is an acceptable way to break the barrier of stranger, and it allows you to be able to say: “Now, Matthew, now we know each other.”

As we get closer to the church, I see someone sitting outside, a beggar lady, who slowly approaches us. The rags she wears about her are tattered, dirty, and old, much like the lady underneath them. Trying to ignore the filthy old woman, I placed my hand on the boy’s back, ushering him to keep pace. While she quickens her step, hobbling towards us, I hear desperate cries of “son, son, son.” The boy and I stop, turn around and are faced by the senile old lady. The woman stares at me with angry eyes, every so often glancing off to look at nothing in particular. I imagine she is trying to remember why she is mad at me, but she certainly has no reason to have any ill feelings towards me: I don’t even know her. My eyes suddenly lock with the eyes of the feeble woman, and I can’t stop staring. Her eyes are two perfectly polished emeralds, sunken into a mound of filth. She decides to interrupt my intense gaze with: “son, is that you?”

“Matthew, is this your mother?” I ask.

“No sir, no, my mother is dead.”

I could see his heart break in half as the word dead touched his lips. The woman is clearly not well. Again, I feel that I want to help out, so I say: “Miss, if you wait for me here, I’ll be back; we can go grab a sandwich.”

Upon my offer, she looks as I would look when seeing the bread at an all you can eat brunch buffet. I’m going to eat it, but I could just as easily do without it. Does she have no want for food when her five foot, nine inch body is holding no more than 120lbs?

We are walking away, and I hear the old lady yelling: “It’s going to happen soon.”

I promptly respond, “yes, I’ll be back soon, and we will eat.”

I didn’t realize she was on a time line. I can’t imagine that she has appointments to keep. Perhaps she has a spa treatment coming up. I bet she just looks like hell until she goes to the spa.

“This is where I live,” Matthew tells me.

A barn shaped house on the corner of the street is what this boy calls home. It’s big enough but brown and ugly. A man with a “bird body” (skinny legs and a fat belly) stands waiting in the yard. He wears clothes that have not been fashionable within any faction of society since I have been alive, and his hair looks like a nesting for a rare animal. He takes a step towards us, very gently saying: “son.”

No answer. No movement. No sound.

“Son?”

No answer. No movement. No sound.

The man looks distressed, almost ready to cry.

“Please come inside.”

Matthew looks at me, whispering: “I’ll see you later.”

“Goodbye,” I fearlessly say in a very audible voice, which, like a starter pistol at a race, gets the boy running. He runs straight into his house, but his father does not take his eyes off of me the whole time I am walking away.

Lunch time. I’ve never sat down to lunch with a homeless lady before. I suppose that I never really cared to do so. A person is a person, regardless of how they smell, but in this case, eating outside might be more appropriate.

Walking towards the church, I see smoke bellowing out of the building, surrounding the cross on top. I start running to see what’s happening, see if I can help, but it looks as though nobody is there. No homeless woman, no priests, no nuns, no parishioners, nobody but me. I stand, watching as the church is burning to the ground. Someone will call the fire department eventually, and this burning will stop, so what good is it for me to stand here? Why did I even run in the first place? I just expended extra energy unnecessarily. Now, I am even more hungry than I was before, but I have no homeless lady to regale me with stories about her life on the street and how hard done by she is. Is it really a big deal if a church burns to the ground? As long as nobody gets hurt, why should I care? I never liked church anyway. Why should we be force fed morality, neatly packaged as a path to a nonexistent after life? Can people not be moral without religion? Do you really need to go to a building and listen to a man in funny clothes tell you that you can’t have sex with anybody ever?

There was something almost liberating about standing there watching the church burn down. I get a frightening cold chill while watching it, but the fire warmed me back up again. My body is crying and laughing at the same time, but my face is unaffected. My mind does not care either way. I could smell this strong smell of incense, very suddenly. What is that smell? Is it sandalwood? The cross seemed to burn brighter than the rest of the church. The flames looked as though they were dancing, licking, and embracing. With not a single car in the parking lot, I walked away, abandoning that place and that fire. Someone would call the fire department, someone would. It didn’t really matter at this point. A lonely church in a lonely parking lot, burnt to the ground today, so what? Normal people only go there around Christmas and Easter anyway. The rest of the year it’s just really old people who are begging forgiveness for actually having lived their lives, and there are a few ridiculous younger people who actually go every Sunday, but they are the weirdos that whip each other and piss on each other because they need some really shocking nonsense to get over the disgustingly boring person that they are trying to be the rest of the time.