The Weird Insights of a Scobberlotcher

Two Sounds Shoe Leather Brown

Grim mornings aren't hard to come by that time of year. They can grind by your house one after another like a slow moving dirty gray coal train. The typical west coast mid-winter view for those who can afford it. But this particular grim morning the bottom fell out. It was also the morning my wife turned into a ghost. 

I'd stumbled out of bed feeling like absolute crap. That's how I usually feel first thing. My initial hint that this was going to be different came when I tried to get dressed. I dithered over the process like it was a major, daunting decision. Which pants? Which shirt? Yesterday's underwear? Fresh? Do I really need socks? Do the socks need to match the pants? Each other? Not that I ever gave much thought to style. There are years of forensic evidence for that. But the whole thing had become mind boggling. A cloud shrouding my brain. Decided it was just another hangover. Gave up and threw on a dressing gown. No choice involved there since there was only one. I went to the kitchen to get a coffee and had surprising difficulty grabbing the cup, fumbling it twice. I remember stopping to look at my hand as if it was some foreign object. I finally got it to work properly then promptly spilled the coffee. I may have a record of convictions for maladroitness as long as my arm but this was ridiculous.

Finally made it to the living room and collapsed on the couch. Couldn't have felt more drained and disoriented if Nosferatu had gorged himself on me in my sleep. This just wasn't me, even for that time of day. And this was no hangover. Somehow between night and morning I had been drained of... drained of... of what? Positivity? And left with the dregs of what? Hopelessness? Ya, but these were just words. The whole point of what I felt that morning was that it was beyond words. Words have substance. Or at least live next door to it. Next door that morning was a bottomless pit and, like that old joke about Helen Keller, I was hanging onto the edge with one hand and screaming for help with the other. I was going to fall at any second and nobody would hear, nobody would know. Then I realised I wasn't about to fall, I already had fallen - and landed - in the middle of a ten ton vacuum; airless, onerous, totally inhospitable. Panic set in. Was I losing my mind?

So what do you do if you're going mad? Well, from my experience of fictional asylums, you watch t.v. Institutionalized mad people are always watching t.v. Seems to keep them happy. Or at least oblivious and that would have passed for happiness just then. So I decided that, yes, what I really needed was a good dose of diversion - the news, the weather, sports highlights. Tried to reach for the channel changer but was surprised to find that I couldn't. It was like I'd been afflicted by a posthypnotic suggestion that made it impossible to complete this simple task. The whole operation was unexpectedly clouded in uncertainty. Should I turn on the t.v. or not? What was the point of turning on the t.v.? What difference would it make if I did turn on the t.v.? So many existential questions attending the use of a remote. I hobbled round and round this track till the phone rang. New horse, same result. Why bother answering? You might not even know who's calling? This time of day? A bill collector? Or someone naively calling from the eastern time zone? Check the caller I.D.? Why bother? And if you do know them then you'll have to talk and what will you talk about? What will you say? This last one really frightened me. The very thought of having to pursue some line of conversation in this condition was out of the question. I didn't want to talk, I wanted to hide. Enter my wife, living-room left.

"Who was calling?" Mary asked.

"What?"

"On the phone. Who just called?"

A legitimate question. Deserved an answer. Didn't have one. Battled confusion and an odd desire to dematerialize. I was also losing command of four of the five Ws. They were disappearing into some kind of thick mist. Now there was just 'why.' Why anything? It kept stinging my brain. Fortunately, primitive instinct was victorious in this one tiny skirmish. She was going to work while I sat on my ass all day. There's your 'why.'

"Nobody," I answered. One of the most exhausting three syllables I have ever had to come up with. Felt like ten.

That's when she turned into a ghost. Not an actual ethereal projection of a dead person. She looked solid enough, though I would never have put it to her quite like that. But she might as well have been a ghost. It was a tough situation. I remembered her from before she was a ghost. She was very nice. She could be scary sometimes but she didn't manifest it supernaturally. Now it was like we were on different planes, in different worlds. There was no connection between us and the thought of talking to her, dealing with her, left me panic stricken. I could feel myself starting to shrink away. Fortunately her voice didn't pursue me. Then she left for work and I was finally alone.

I tried to take stock of the bizarre situation, to figure out what the hell was happening to me, to my mind. The very idea stirred up a huge wave of exhaustion that crashed over me. I couldn't bear the weight and the next thing I was on my back and out cold. I woke up two hours later with the dog licking my face. I knew as soon as I came to that nothing had changed. Whatever it was still had me in its grip like a fat guy trapped in a wet suit. I looked at the dog staring at me expectantly. I had to admire his normalcy. He just wanted to go have a leak and get on with life. And we were late. Very late.

With some effort I heaved myself up and into motion. Had to get dressed. Had to gather all the requisite articles for leaving the house. Had to get all the dog's requisite articles for leaving the house. Jesus, the list just went on and on! Then the blackouts started. Not like a drunk blacks out, coming to and wondering what the hell went on during the excised hours. More like stumbling through a timeless fog between point A and point B. Next thing there we were, fully clothed and equipped, standing outside the house. I looked down and the dog was hunched over and heaving. Not surprising since we were technically past crap time and well into nap time. When he finished I leaned over, delicately trapped the fragrant assle blossom in a doggy bag, gave it a spin and tied the top in a knot. Since we were right in front of the house anyway I tossed it over to the porch stairs to be dealt with later. Then we turned left and headed down the street. We almost bumped into some guy headed the other way. My fault for not paying attention. He gave me the filthiest look of disgust. A step or two past I realized why. Not because I almost ran into him. No, he thought I was one of those random doggy doo dumpers. Judgmental prick! Out of nowhere I was consumed by anger. It was my house. I left it at my stairs. I'll look after it when I want! Then I had this vision, really vivid, too. The guy came back, tapped me on the shoulder and started to lecture me. One punch in the face and he was down. I stood over him righteous, gloating. Whoa back there, Bessy! Where did that come from? I turned around to see if he was still in sight. Maybe I could explain. Maybe. But there was less of him now than poop vapors so we just headed off. Thank Christ for that! May our paths never cross again.

Two blocks further and we ran into a woman I barely knew walking her little Princess. What is it about people with dogs that makes them incapable of resisting the impulse to socialize with each other? It was always annoying but what could you do, avoiding it is hideously antisocial. Now this artificial bond created by the yin and yang of ass sniffing had become excruciating. Worse still, I felt compelled to participate. It was sickeningly fraudulent on my part. I felt like a puppet dangling at the end of the strings of local convention. The longer I pretended to blather on about canine arrhythmia and mounting vet bills the more fidgety I got. Then the urge to run became overwhelming. I couldn't contain myself, gave the the leash a quick jerk and made a break for it. Never did find out what caused Princess' bladder control problem. Then there was another merciful blackout and we found ourselves back home again. I couldn't believe how tired I felt. I flopped onto the couch like a casually tossed rubber chicken and passed out.