T-to-the-A

Fur Trees and John Travolta

In Fiction, Prose, The Daily Drool on April 13, 2009 at 8:02 pm

It was early… an early-bird call.  So early in fact that I questioned whether or not this bird might have had one too many, skipped the tequila, and gone straight for the worm.  But there it was, plain as the un-day – and I reached for it in all the confusion… shaking my cat loose of its happy place.

“Mmph?”  

And he wanted to talk.  To talk about his day.  Because for him, it was still going.  

“Butits, huhmp, it’slikethreeo’clock- in the morng!”

What?  Is that English? 

And I repeat the time – “Three o’clock, it’s three o’fucking’clock in the morning!”

It was important, though, he needed to be heard.  To feel that the world wasn’t silently eclipsing him as he toiled away at his act;  Tending the broken hearts by night, and his own broken dreams by day.  

So I listened.  And I snoozed.  

“Are you listening to me?”

Mmph.

And there it was, finally a crystal clear click of understanding.  “What time do you have to be up?”

I’m leaving at 6:30.

“In the morning?”

YES.

“Oh, Jesus, I’m… I’m really sorry.  I’ll talk to you later.  Go back to sleep.”

As if I could… He’s stirred just enough of my neurons that things otherwise unnoticed at such an hour are now devastating my nest.  The cat is doing battle with my piggies and my brain is counting minutes; each one lost up against each one to come.  The sheep have gone off to pasture and I’m left to my own wicked devices.  

3:30.  

3:30 in the frickin’ morning and I’m dreaming of a sleep long past due.  

3:45 and the birds, as if taking their cue from my phone have all waken.  Singing out to the sun, ushering it towards the day.  

I’m wrapping the pillow over my head, I’m kicking the day off, crawling my way back into a dark, silent, night.  

4:00 and I’m now down to two.  Two blasted hours with which to rest my way fresh for a new day.  

I’m thinking wicked thoughts.  Thoughts of murdered bird, simmered in tequila, served over noodles that I eat in bed.  John Travolta shows up to ask if I’d like another, and I tell him “No thanks, the train is already in the courtyard.”  He nods, our intimate understanding sending every molecule into a delicate shiver.  I turn to the large furry tree sitting next to me and ask him to pass the salt.  

I’ll remember this dream once morning comes, and blame it on that phone call.  I’ll grumble my way to the toothbrush, and grumble my way to the door, and I’ll grumble my way through the sprawl with my ex-friend’s name on my angry tongue.  But for now, oh for now, I settle in to a strange sleep, not for one moment questioning the strange sights before me as the fur -tree offers me a mint.

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