Chapter 1

I sense trouble. Although I can't perceive anything, somehow it isn't how it should be. Should be. I don't remember drinking last night or today and I don't remember last night. Maybe it is still night and that is why I can't see. I don't need to see to know that my head hurts. It hurts like it has been frozen then melted too slowly. I don't remember asking to have my head frozen. I don't remember any diseases that would have made it necessary. If my head was frozen then either the rest of me was frozen or severed and discarded because of lack of funding. Perhaps I fell asleep in a meat cooler. That sort of thing can happen but since I've never been in a meat cooler it shouldn't happen to me. Someone may have put me in a meat cooler. I've heard stories of worse things. In a meat cooler, I should be dead. Animals in meat coolers are dead. No animal in its right mind would go into a meat cooler if it wasn't dead.

Disregarding the meat cooler theory and just now wondering about my brain, I find it odd, at least I presume it odd, that I can't deduce my situation. I may have been born blind. Yet this seems unlikely. Though I can't contact what is in my brain, it seems there is too much to have only starter. I'm sure I wouldn't understand being blind and meat coolers would not likely be a notion carried into the realm of the living. Though I can't remember who I am, I can believe I am too big to have just been born. Thinking about it leads me to question how I could assume that a valid conclusion. I could counter argue whales but then why would a new born know of whales unless they too were in the meat cooler. There should be much more excitement for a new-born. There is only this musky smell.

Musky smell. That tells me something. What could that something be? Since I sense a smell, I should be able to believe there is something outside my brain. Luckily I know little about Mary Backer Whatshername or the possibilities of virtual validates. Of course, if my brain isn't quite back on track, and I can't be certain what the track was, I may be imagining the musky smell. If there is nothing for me to perceive, I would likely resort to fantasy for stimulus. Even if I was fully aware, I might still rely on fantasy if my situation was not desirable. Maybe I never was aware and only fantasised I was participating in the universe. But this is nonsense. Concrete or imaginary, I still must make the actions required for prolonging survival.

So here I am in darkness having determined the idea of musky smell. It's not very much but it will have to be where I begin to remember.

I remember he said something. Still, I hear his voice. What he said was important. If I could remember who it was and see the face, I might remember what I had forgotten. "It couldn't have been too important or you would have remembered it." But that wasn't it. That's what someone was likely to repeat without deliberation when I said that I didn't remember something. To close the door. No. It was more than a door. Doors can be very important at times.
"It couldn't have been that important or you would not have forgotten." But I can't remember anything. Not everything can be unimportant.

The walls. I remember they were thin. It sounded like somebody was in my bathroom most of the time. Nobody ever came out. It could be that I'm in my apartment. Even the musky smell would support the notion. Perhaps I will soon wake up.

Familiar things would remind me where I was. My apartment isn't a pleasant place to wake to but I would welcome it now. I remember it was a chore to find an apartment. The demand outweighs the supply. Simple mathematics reveals it is more profitable to have apartments than a good education. With my good education, I was one of the many who believed it was good luck to give someone large portions of money for the privilege of hiding in a small musky room.

Though I'm void of a kitchen, I did uncover a little kitchen table buried in dust and cat hair. I cleaned it and was pleased to see it good as new. It wasn't so good when it was new but it did what a little table was designed to do, hold things away from the floor. I could eat or work at the table.
Sometimes it is a stupor I resort to when avoiding work. This could hamper my recovery. Even recovery may only lead to other distractions. There is always finger nails to be cut. It is often necessary to look out the window in search of temporary salvation from tedium. I may be force to take it upon myself to satisfy my sexual desires. That might lead to the need of a short nap. When I again awoke, I might start to do what I had set out to do. If I remembered what it was.

It was important. I should remember.

Sometimes worrying helps. If I could focus my worry on something, that could lead somewhere. I believe there is something important I should be worrying about.

I should be able to discern the sound of the tap dripping. It's nearing a steady flow from the old faucet in the small kitchenette. The water leaks around the back of the taps as well. It finds its way down to the two burners where it sits and oxidises the metal. A crusty cockroach lies on its back in a thick blanket of rust.

The landlady, choosing apartments rather than education, likely doesn’t understand that hot water cost more than washers.

In the closet, renamed 'the bathroom', there is a hole, larger than my fist, in the shower wall. I'm unaware where the water pools but I can imagine that it's causing rot. One day, if I can get up, the whole stinking building will cave in while I'm attempting to waken with a warm shower.

I know the dwelling. Though the inside appears somewhat like an institution funded by the inhabitant’s welfare checks, the outside resembles a grand house. It was built before the city's growth attracted money hungry, space dividing, land lords. When the large box addition was completed, all the rooms were divided into eighths. Each tenant was to have room for a small bed and just about enough room to open the door. These are called apartments. They are cells. And either I'm in my cell now or I've done something stupid.

The landlady knows about the dripping tap and the hole in the wall; we talked about them when I came to inspect my new cell. She won't fix either unless the cell below is flooded. She doesn’t give a dam about anything but the money. I'm not fooled with her contrived concern and calculated kindness.
I remember I cleaned the bottom part of the window by leaning out backwards on the sill. If there was any light, and there should be some, I could look out at the apartment buildings. If I felt lonely, I could imagine a young woman was looking out her window imagining someone exactly like me. By chance our eyes would connect in a magical moment where we both knew, or at least imagined, that we had finally found each other. We would believe we could fly to each other. Out our windows, we would jump. Together we would be. In the hospital. If we weren't dead.

Unedited life never appears as spectacular as the movies.

The church bell chimes every fifteen minutes. If I remember to count the chimes, I won't need to get a clock. Since I can't remember if I'm going anywhere, it likely doesn’t matter what time it is.

Suddenly I wonder if there's any escape from the thoughts that invade my head. I question the sanctuary of the musky smell. What if, in my forgetfulness, I believe I sense things for the first time and my lack of symbolism for those things keep me in a state of awesome terror? What might be worse is if this musky smell isn't the same musky smell that my room has. If I could roll over and touch something familiar, or I could see a familiar shape, or the phone would ring, or the intercom to the front door would buzz, or I could hear a car horn blow, or I could identify one sense other than this musky smell, than I could believe I was in my bed.

I would love to eat something. What a treat it would be to have the other half of the banana. I can't remember when I ate the first half. It might have gone unrecognised in my state of worry. I was anxious about not having a mattress. The mattress that came with my cell was so full of rot, cat hair, various pubic hair, head hair, moulds and funguses accompanied by a sickening smell like that of vomit in a public washroom, that I chose to put it in the hall for the superintendent to incinerate or put in another room.

Maybe I can't move because I have been sleeping on particleboard.

Even the sound of my neighbour's dreadful music in some far-eastern tongue would be a welcome sensation. There seems to be nothing beyond my walls. The walls must have become thicker.

I remember as a boy, standing at the wall. A six-foot wall around Rick's front yard pool. When we stood on his front porch, we could watch him swim. The four of us would stand there with our bathing suits under our trousers. We leaned on the wood framed, green plastic wall to watch Rick swim. Melting in the sweltering heat of the sun, we watched Rick show us his swimming skills. "Watch this!" he would yell before performing a dive off the board. While looking as parched and shrivelled as we could muster in the heat, we silently cursed him for being the careless child of parents who could afford a swimming pool. Although he was handsome and talented, it was not our intentions to encourage his ego disorder with our cheers.

Because the pool had to be nearly in the front yard for lack of space in the backyard, a sliding door was built into the living room for access to the pool. The door was next to where our flaccid bodies limped over the wall. Around the time we mounted in madness, with determination to feed Rick to hungry army ants that would slowly and methodically devour his flesh as he hopelessly screamed in pain with each limb tied to four trees surrounding the ant hill, the door slid open. Out from the opened door emerged an angel of glory and beauty. She beamed at us with a splendid smile. In true surprise, she quarried in her charming Scottish accent, "Why don't you boys go for a swim?" We adopted puzzled looks as if to wonder the same thing. We said nothing about her son's generosity or ants. We smiled at her, then at each other. We eased off the fence before slowly sauntering off the front porch.

When we were out of sight, we ran like buggers from a crime on our way to an ice-cream truck. When arriving at the gate around the other side of the house, we casually strolled on to the patio saying a few friendly things to Rick's mother or Rick’s sexy sister.

Rick still prattled on as if he hadn't noticed the sudden political change.

To add to Jamie’s frustration of waiting to get into the pool, he had that day forgotten to wear his bathing suit. He hadn't noticed until he saw he was the subject of our laughter. Although, slightly embarrassed because Rick's sister was a witness, he managed to redress, fly up the street to his house and return before any hideous circumstance such as a freak sandstorm or meteorite hampered his receiving the too long awaited swim.

Even the sound of the television blaring banalities across the hall would be a welcome sound. The comfort I get from the musky smell is not enough.

I resent the control television has on our malleable minds. We could seldom get Kenny away from his one way to come play road hockey. He wouldn't even come to the door so that we could plead. Although we won him seldom, he always was eager for battles with enemies from other streets. On occasions, teams from other streets would march over with warped plastic bladed sticks and ragged goalie equipment to challenge us for the title of superiority.

It was a different type of hockey when there was competition. It was no longer simply fun and recreation. We had been taught by our heroes that winning was all. Batman would never surrender. Bobby Orr would seldom see the bench. We wanted the Stanley Cup. Each goal was cause for celebration: cheering, dancing, hand slaps and light hitting.

Our team usually faired well in street verses street games. We had more real hockey players, more determination and team spirit. Our team had a more vigorous training season as well.

Not every game ran smoothly. Sometimes there would be arguing and scrapping. Serious fights were unusual but once one stopped the game. We were playing a more talented team than usual thus had to work hard to maintain a lead.

We may have fallen behind while Ian played net for the first period. He came out of net for the second period. Even as a boy, Ian was formidable. Most of us were friends with the other team members but this didn't stop Ian from becoming a rage when he didn't fancy the way John was abusing his shins. Instead of the formal string of curse words used in such instances, he opted for erupting into a possessed killer hungry for blood. His victim almost choked on his tongue in fear as he ran wildly around a car to escape Ian's wrath. We managed to catch and restrain Ian while John's team quickly vacated.

Lately, I have been contemplating a more destructive lifestyle. It seems so appealing. I could develop my desire to eat over salted or over sugared, fatty, garbage food, drink cold Russian vodka or Scotch, smoke dope and cigarettes continually and leave my room only to get more supplies. Fortunately, I can't afford such luxuries. I'd like to go out like that one day. Perhaps when I'm much older. I'm too young to die. I hope it isn't this state I'm in now. To have nothing but a few memories in the loneliness of darkness, even with the musky smell, is not a life.



read on. book_01 chapter_02



by Joanne B. Washington

© 2001 | the jose wombat project