October 20, 2012

Seven. 7. Number 7.

We would throw it around like the Stanley Cup, everyone getting a kiss as if we had won a prize.

Our town, our little city with its little problems and little parking deck. During the Cold War, our little speck on the map was seventh on the Russian’s nuclear hit list. We never once asked: Who would get hit after us? Who would watch a golden red dome rise over our small town? Who would feel the heat, and the concussion and live to tell about “The Time I Saw a Bomb Dropped”
Who was on that list after us?
Who was on that list ahead of us?


6 or 8?

I accept responsibility, I didn’t drop it, I didn’t set it, I didn’t turn it on or even fucking arm it. However, I accept responsibility. I awoke at 5:30am October 20, 2012 from a nightmare, a bad dream, a horrible vision in my head that my imagination concocted , from what, I do not know.

My dream was this:

Halloween, near sunset. The warm glow of the fall sunshine filtered through leaves that were hanging on a lot later than usual for the area. Trees lit aflame by the shortening days, leaves turning to flagrant fluorescents, protesting the earth’s decision to rotate its axis again. What gall the earth has. What pure brutality present in Nature.

Then nature’s real, raw, ravenous, power is revealed. I did not hear the blast in my dream. I did wake up with beads of sweat on my forehead and damp bed sheets underneath me. The heat….the incalculable heat.
To the east the dome of fire rose, I couldn’t bring myself to stare long enough to see the Portabellan plume rise from the land that we knew as our state Capitol. I knew it would, I did not know what would happen to us, here, in our small town. Number 7 on the list.

Wakey wakey

No person has ever “sat straight up in bed”, no person I could ever believe anyway. Eyes opened, breathing heavy, wet with sweat. I grabbed my phone, 5:27am. Fuck. I can’t sleep after that.

Silence

Growing up I would experience déjà vu quite often. Always some mundane idiotic irrelevant scene. Eating spaghetti and spilling the sauce on my shirt. So on, so forth and so what. I never once experienced déjà vu after discussing a dream. It became a rule of mine. Have a nightmare? Talk it over to keep it away. Perhaps a mantra my parents would tell me to help me talk about my nightmares and get me back to bed. I. Do. Not. Know.

I do know this….

I never told anyone. Nobody.  Not A Soul. Ever. About “the dream”
Days passed, time passed, thoughts passed, all into the ether. Clock In. Clock Out. Eat. Sleep.

Repeat.



Danse Macabre

Children were decorated, disguised, and disembarking. The street in front of my home seemingly crawling with life. Where as every other day of the year these brats will hardly walk a quarter mile to a bus stop, dangling candy in front of them like carrot and horse inspires amazing feats of physicality. I was not decorated, disguised, and had no intention of disembarking. I was simply wandering about the apartment, television on but nothing showing. I had become anti-Halloween, mostly withdrawn from the festivities.  Since the first time our little town had moved it from the 31st to the 30th ,because that year, Sunday fell under the 31st, and “We can’t have our little angels collecting the devil’s candy on the Lord’s day”.
Typical in my opinion of the softening of our youth. Softening should be reserved for the late 20’s when drinking becomes paramount and you disappear from societal concerns until you tire of hangovers and empty wallets.

A cold beer in my hand, my work shirt unbuttoned, abandoned atop the bed. Socks discarded, feet bare and cool, scrubbing off a day of containment on the matted carpeting. The couch creaks, cracks then cushions me. I scan the channels I usually watch on the television. News is too depressing; election this, democrat that, republican the other thing. Fuck the real world, I work in it everyday. Give me cartoons and sitcoms.

The sun is blazing in the window, forcing a glare on the television screen. It is for that reason that I get off my ass and lower the blinds. I notice then, some pint sized candy whores headed up the steps to my deck. Despite my stance on the holiday I have candy ready. I will not be THAT GUY. The door swings open, candy is dispensed.

Idle Chatter: Nice Evening. Sure Is. Getting Dark So Early. Yup.

Interrupting our illustrious conversation is the screaming howl of multiple military aircraft. I step out onto the deck and peer through the sun-filtering tree leaves to see a tight formation of fighter jets and a large air liner. Not completely uncommon, its Air Force One, Air Forcing itself One hell of a lot faster than I had seen it go before.

Idle Chatter: President Must Be Campaigning. Looks Like He Is Late Too.

We say our goodbyes, goodnights, and good lucks. I return to my couch, beer, feet, and remote rehab.

A few more candies get handed out before the sun, first below the tree line then below the horizon, is gone.
One last visit at the door and its my neighbor and her children. They get special treatment, which means the rest of the bowl of candy.

Idle Chatter: They Are Growing So Fast. Tell Me About It.

We didn’t chat long. I heard a whistle. Wyle E Coyote falling off a cliff out of a cloud of his own disbelief whistling. Old World War II movie bombing run whistling. A meteor? There is an orange tail chasing some dark figure through the sky. East. Then it is gone.

Idle Cha-

The light cuts the night hard and fast. Eyes squinting, pupils reacting, retracting, refocusing. Brilliant white and yellow and angry. Then it is gone. Just. Gone. What the fuck? Was that lighting? No fucking way. I realize I am speaking aloud. The children are just in awe, not yet afraid but my language could change that.

The Dome

As I scan the horizon to see the next bolt hit. I see it. My dream comes racing back. My legs begin to shake my heart pounding palpitations into my now pallid coffer. I am frozen, I want to look away. I want to hide in my beer bottle, which has become encased in a vice grip of my terror. This cannot be. I see the faintest glow of orange to the east. Over a small mountain I see grow before my eyes a dome of orange and yellow. A feeling of despair uncoils in my stomach. I know the rest of this story. The dome grows higher and wider, boiling hot. The air begins to smell like ozone during a heavy lighting storm. The heat wave hits. It is intense, I feel instantly sunburned. I’ve seen this show before. I only wish I had waited around after the credits to see what happens next week.

This town is number 7. What number was that town?