Over the Darkened Landscape - By Derryl Murphy Page 0,12
too far away.
He disconnects, puts the thing down and turns to face us. “He’s canceling for today, says he couldn’t get a flight out of Denver until too late. Says he’ll be here tomorrow morning.”
Silence for a moment, then I say, “You mean I cleaned up for nothing?”
We all laugh, like I knew we would.
I dream the dream again. A giant anvil pressing on my chest, the pressure that makes me sweat, that pushes at bowels and kidneys I had thought empty, and then the release, the freedom that feels so glorious, proved so harmful.
The transition is sudden, me standing with eight others on barren wastelands, breathing my own air, my own body odors, sharing them with no one else. The red and orange dirt and rocks, the sky a pale pink, the sun cold and unblinking near the horizon, smaller than it has any right to be.
I look to my companions, note with surprise that there is an extra one, not wearing a helmet, but I can not see his face, and although I can’t see through their face-plates, I can somehow see that three of my other companions are nothing but skeletons beneath the layers of protective clothing, bones shattered but still standing in this light gravity. I turn to warn the others, and am shocked at how stooped, how old they look. Two have fallen to the ground, pulling themselves along with their arms.
We rise then, nine of us in front, the mysterious faceless one following behind, like many space-suited versions of Icarus flying towards the sun, a star suddenly much closer and brighter then it should be. It flares brighter, and I hide my eyes, dip my head in fear and deference, feeling cowardly but knowing that fear will save my life. The star flares around us, expands, then turns into arrows of light, throwing the three skeletons spiraling away, smashing the face-plate of another.
And then the release and freedom that had felt so glorious, now only ominous and frightening. Rats with helmets and air supplies continually gnawing at our joints. Small, sad-looking men approaching us and removing marrow with large, animate, cartoon needles.
And all the while, a deck of playing cards floats through the air in front of my eyes, the Black Bitch sneering at me as she wheels by, and hundreds of voices murmur in the background, a pressing choir of humanity.
I wake up sore, as usual. I’ve slept on my arm funny, my knees ache more now than they will later. Sweat is pooled on my sheets, the air too humid by far. I can hear Jason’s chair buzzing around in the kitchen. He always wakes up first, spends the half-hour or more needed to get into his chair without help.
I slowly stand, then when I don’t feel ready to tumble over I walk over to the kitchen, wearing my boxers and nothing else. A curt nod to Jason, I pour a cup of coffee, take a sip, then wander to the bathroom and pee. When I come back out Peter is just trudging across the floor to use the head. Everyone else is starting to move, decades of discipline overriding years of pain.
Alex comes buzzing in after his trip to the head, starts getting out pots and pans, ordering me and anyone else nearby out of the way. “Potato pancakes today,” he announces, and we all scatter to let him have the peace and space he needs, knowing we’ll soon be full to bursting, Alex wanting to put on a good show for our visitor, even though he is not here.
More cleaning up, we all get dressed, then eat. Everyone is quiet, this time of day. The pains are at their worst first thing in the morning, each of us concentrating on keeping them down, small, out of the way. Chewing, clanking of cutlery on plates, the odd sniffle or crack of a joint, these are the major instruments of our opening soundtrack.
A car door slams. Out of place, that sound. Nobody drives anymore.
We stare at each other for a second, maybe two, then jump into action.
“Shit! He’s here!”
“Get the plates.”
“Randall, fix the beds.”
“Get a chair ready for him.”
“Drinks! We got any cold beer?”
“Beer? It’s six-fucking-A.M. Even I wait until nine.”
“Oh yeah.” Laughter.
“Why the hell didn’t he call first?”
“Too late now.”
A rap on the door. “Yeah!” shouts Tom. Wilson, the kid that Tom lets live on the bottom floor in exchange for doing errands for us, pokes his head in, speaks that