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by Mike E. Swope
Mainstream, 7 pages.
Originally Published in The Rectangle, Vol. 66, No. 1, 1991
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The dreams, though wild, are not his.
He dreams he is Shiva, the Hindu god, sitting naked beneath the tree of knowledge, overshadowed by the dense foliage overhead which buzzes with silent insect life. He sits straight, the seven chakras aligned from pelvis to skull. He is unaware of anything beyond himself, yet aware all the same. The power uncoils from his groin and climbs through the chakras. His penis is erect. He is both erotic and celibate, in a state of perpetual ecstasy. The tension is sustained and the seed will be forever unspilt. He does not smile, but concentrates, working the snake up his spine. His body is thin, emaciated, content. His is the life of the spirit, not the body. He does not reach the seventh chakra, nirvana.
Before he can make it to the toilet, he messes himself.
He is an old man, seventy-three. He lives alone on the top floor of a four-story building. It is downtown, and in the evening the streets are empty but for a group of boys who skateboard in the parking lot outside his window. He does not mind them. They do not skate long, and their voices keep him company while he reclines in his chair in front of the television. He is asleep before they are gone, and the light outside his window illuminates the old rug at his feet. His apartment is small. It does not trouble him. His set is left on.
He dreams a different dream each morning. Mondays he dreams he is Shiva. Tuesdays he is a young boy. He lives in the jungle. It is hot and humid. He wears only a skin across his loins. He sweats, but he is strong and limber. He runs like a leopard through the dense undergrowth. His senses are keen. He is one of the animals. He carries no weapons, although anger is in the air. It is on the leaves and stems of plants. It permeates the area. The boy has wandered into strange territory and the beasts are angry. Numa, the lion, is angriest of all. He stalks the boy for vengeance. He pads along softly behind, until he springs. The boy flees, but he is lost and cannot escape. The jungle is strange here. In the end he does not cower. He is brave, like the river, where his blood runs.
4D. That is the old man’s apartment number. It says so on the door. He remembers it does. He remembers the apartment has three rooms and a bath. There is a front room, a kitchen, and a bedroom. The bath has a shower, but he is too weak to stand beneath its jet. When he runs a tub of water, the pipes knock and groan behind the walls. It is a lonely flat. There are only two windows: one next to his chair and one over the tub. Both look out on the lot where the boys skate. The apartment is dark until the sun gets to the west and shines in. The sun soon disappears behind the neighboring buildings.
Wednesdays he is a young man going off to war, leaving a wife behind who knows he will not return. She sobs at the window of the airport as he boards. She is beautiful. Her hair is long and black. It cascades like a waterfall over her shoulders. He loves to run his hands through it when it is heavy and wet. Her breasts are full and round. Her figure is firm. He waves. She waves back. The tail of his jacket flaps open in the wind. He is an Army private, a foot soldier. He has been trained to dig deep trenches quickly, to squeeze off rounds with unerring accuracy. He is a professional killer. Yet he is tender. He is capable of love. His wife still waves at the window. He waves his last to her. There is no child. He will not have a son. He is headed for Fort Knox, Kentucky, then to Europe. He does not know where he will be stationed. The M-16 is his bed fellow now. No one will carry on his name. His plane crashes into the Atlantic.
When he awakes, his bottoms and mattress are wet.
His chair is green vinyl. The arms are torn where the vinyl has dried out. The edges are like stiff, brittle leaves that shatter in the palm of his hand. There is a bookcase over his shoulder. It reaches almost to the ceiling. To get to it he has to get up and walk behind his chair. The light is dim and the spines of the books are difficult to read. His eyesight is failing him. When he squints, wrinkles gather at the corners of his eyes and his nose is pulled up. His skin is pale, almost transparent. It hangs loose over his cheeks, his arms, his legs, his hands. His nails are soft. He does not often trim them. When he takes a book from the shelf, he must be careful not to tear one. He does not like pain. It distracts him from his reading.
Thursdays he is lost in Belgium. He is of indeterminate age. He does not speak French or Dutch, and is unable to communicate. He resorts to crude hand gestures and hopes the citizens understand. He has made himself clear to a man who raises livestock, and is hired as a laborer. He feeds the animals and cleans the barn. He loads and unloads hay from the wagon. He sleeps in the loft where the smell of manure guarantees him safety. He is up before sunrise and -- [End of Preview.]