Mike Frazier and I
(do)
(do not)
live in the town of Amorea.
There’s an electrical snap and a mechanical voice blares, saying, “HELLO YOU ARE FINE HELLO YOU ARE FINE HELLO YOU ARE FINE HELLO—”
He stumbles on his feet in Amorea.
He breathes in that sweet, sweet Amorea air.
“Okay,” he says, and his voice is shaking. “Okay.”
Maybe he should go see Doc.
He doesn’t want his brain to waste away. He’s got so much more to—
His wrist itches something fierce.
He’s scratching at it and as he looks down, he sees black lines starting to etch their way onto the skin of his right wrist. He doesn’t know what they are, but they’re clear as day in the moonlight and there’s a 4 and a 22 and a 15. There’s a 5 and a 20 and an 82, and he sees them. He knows what they are. They are numbers tattooed onto his skin, numbers he’s never seen before, and he thinks they’re dates. They look like dates. In his head he sees 4/22/15 and 5/20/82, but that makes no sense, because that’s old, those dates are old because it is Monday, September 13, 1954, and Happy thinks they’re going to have an Indian summer this year, followed by a cold winter. He lives in Amorea. He works in Amorea. He loves in Amorea.
The numbers fade even as he watches. The itching fades too.
I’m just tired, he thinks. That’s it. That’s all it is. I’m tired and first thing I?
?m going to do is see Doc. In the morning.
He starts toward home again.
He makes it three steps before he starts to see trails.
Like everything is melting around him.
The stars look like they’re crying, their little ice-chip selves streaking across the sky.
The moon is a long, fat bright line.
The houses around him are melting.
The trees are melting.
He closes his eyes and breathes through his nose.
He opens his eyes.
He’s horizontal again, and the lights above him are harsh. They burn and he squints, trying to make out details, any details he can, and the voice is saying, “CODE ORANGE IN THE GARDEN. CODE ORANGE IN THE GARDEN.” He’s trying to breathe, but he can’t because he’s stuffed full of tubes and the machines around him are screaming, and he’s choking, he’s fucking choking to death, and he’ll—
He gasps as he takes a step in Amorea.
Everything is the way it’s been and the way it should be.
Except he’s in an overpriced apartment in Washington, DC. He’s furious, more furious than he’s ever been in his life. He’s trying to calm himself down, and he hears her in the kitchen moving around, muttering things to herself. He’s staring out the window, and he can see the tip-top of the Washington Monument if he looks hard enough, and his reflection is there too. His beard is neatly trimmed, and his hair is sticking up all over the place, like he’s been running his hands through it.
He’s wearing a sharp suit, black and pinstriped, the tie around his neck a deep red. There are dark shadows under his eyes, like he hasn’t slept in days. He looks worn down, like the weight of everything is on his shoulders. He’s thinking of leaving, he really is. It’s about time. Someone has to call this, and for some reason, he hasn’t done it yet. Jenny won’t do it. He can pack up a bag, stay in a hotel for now. He’s in the office enough as it is. Maybe Mark in accounting can recommend a divorce lawyer after the shit he went through with his ex-wife a couple of years ago.
He rubs his hand over his face and thinks to himself, You’ve really fucked up your life. You’ve really let it get this far.