Failing Upward

Chapter 29 (part 1): Ziploc Bag

Rotten food, paper towels, junk mail. All frozen. Shit. What was this? Last week's chicken? My appetite is ruined. Bon appétit, my ass. I felt like a homeless man, digging around in the two garbage cans by the back door, covertly scavenging for my old jeans and shirt. It was the sand. It had to be. I opened the trash bag and emptied it on the ground before me. I dug around on my hands and knees, searching. Sand, sand, I had to have the singing sand. At least it was cold enough that it didn't stink, but my fingers turned to stiff icicles digging around. In the second can, in the very bottom trash bag, my numb fingers finally found my clothes. I reached into the front pocket of my soiled old jeans and brought out a handful of sand, as white and sparkling as the snow around me. I put the singing sand back in my jeans pocket. The front and back pockets held more than enough for my purposes. I tried not to dwell on where my clothes had been as I carefully rolled them up and put the trash back.

I crept through the mudroom door and slipped into the kitchen. I washed my hands first. My cold hands burned as the warm water poured over them. I dried them on a blue towel hooked to the cabinet and began my quest. Now, trying to find a ziploc bag to put the sand in was next to impossible in this kitchen. There were more than twenty old wooden drawers, every one of them stuck. By some miracle, I caught the silverware drawer before it fell to the floor. With each squeak, I tensed and looked up, certain I'd see Glenda come around the kitchen counter and ask what the hell I was doing in her kitchen. I found the bags in the side of the linen drawer. I pulled one out, tucked it in my pocket then ducked through the dining room, down the ante room and up the stairs. I needed sanctuary. I had to think. Could I do this? Could I get our lives back?

I had until Wednesday. I'd go to work tomorrow... maybe. At the very least, I should stop in and see Mrs. Hudson. My job at the flower shop was still there. As far as I knew.

I went to the wastebasket by my desk and meticulously emptied the sand out of my pockets into the bag. I sat cross-legged, leaning over the basket, careful not to spill any evidence on the floor. I felt kinda like a teenager trying to hide weed from my parents. My fingers were still stiff, cold, and shaky. I couldn't get the fucking bag to seal. I tried again. Shit. I placed it between my legs and blew on my hands to warm them. There. Yellow and blue do make green.

I held up the bag; it swung lazily like a pendulum, and the light from the old lamp on my desk made the sand sparkle hypnotically. So much trouble from something so simple. I drew myself up off the floor, then threw my old clothes under my bed. I stashed the bag in my underwear drawer under my socks.

I felt out-of-sync, like an old clock winding down, ticking off each second slower and slower. My arms and legs felt detached. The house was still.

I took my twelve-string Alvarez out of the guitar case and curled up on the cushions in the old bay window. I pressed my spine into the frame and ran one finger down the sheer curtains. Pulling them aside, I gazed down into the frozen garden. It was easier for me to think playing my guitar. I turned back to my twelve-string. Remembered Sherlock sitting on these very cushions in another universe, watching me below. The roses—the aroma, the sting of thorns—waited in the cold garden, dormant and lonely. And the sand. I could feel it sing through the strings. As my thumb caressed the smooth maple neck of my guitar, I connected with the other me— he was me. That John and I were the same, our thoughts and our passions in tune. The realization vibrated inside. We both wanted the same things. Sherlock. The roses. The sand. And the garden...wanted us. Called to us the same. I scratched my wrist where the thorn hid beneath my skin— where it hid beneath the other John's skin as well. My face became hot. Christ. My cock was hard. How long had it been since we'd been down there?

Too long. It had been too long since we'd been down there.

I wanted to go outside to the garden, but I moved away from the window onto my bed instead. Glenda had a hothouse with the roses, but going there would solve nothing, just fill a void. As I thought of Sherlock and moved my fingers over the frets, my head finally cleared. Wednesday, I would try to go back to my universe, to my Sherlock, and if it didn't work, I made up my mind that I would never try to slip into another reality. It hurt too much, but worse, it hurt others too much.