I was at the ball field in Corder, the tiny town I lived in in my late teens. It must have been work related, because B was there. I was driving a Camero, which is ridiculous, as I have never owned anything sporty or wasteful nor desired to, not since I was like 9 or 1o anyway (but that’s a different story). So B and I go to a little food stand and I order a big slice of pizza and some chips. As we’re walking back to my car, B’s like, “Way to not order what you don’t want to eat, man.” He’s being Mr. Older Fatherly Educator, and I’m being Mr. Young And Irresponsible. He’s criticizing me for my lack of choosing to order vegetables–as apparently there was broccoli available.
I’m kind of offended and convicted by this, as I have heard that B likes to imbibe certain beverages–a lot. So continuing to be irresponsible and sounding kind of like I’m 19 instead of almost 41, I’m like, “If I want to die early, so what?” And B continues to be cool and mature, and he’s like, “Whoa, whatever man.” Since he doesn’t bite back, I’m all, “I’m sorry, man. I mean, how many times have I made jokes about your liver?” (The correct answer is that I frequently make jokes that involve the intersection of B and cirrhosis of the liver).
So we–me, B,pizza, and Camaro–pull up the fence at the ball field fence (apparently I was so lazy I drove 15 feet south from the ball field fence to the fairground to get the pizza). We get out and sit with a bunch of other people from work. We are just kind of chewing the fat,and I am still feeling guilty about not ordering vegetables, so I start explaining to B, and everyone else, that when I eat stir fry I eat loads of vegetables, but just not all the time. Everyone is bored by this (understandably). I end up working on my Camero, and someone comments on the giant jug of water in the floor of my car, which is for the radiator. I can hear my wife in the distance talking to someone higher up the chain of command above me.
“Great, my wife’s talking to so-and-so,” I say. Then one of the other guys from work is like, “I just set so-and-so up with a new app for the iPhone that does…” and he tells me what it does. “Why’d you do that?” I ask. At the time it seemed dumb for them to do. So before my wife comes over, I leave (I have no idea why) and walk home. By home, I mean the home I lived in when I was a late teen, as I mentioned. The house is just a block down the street.
As I am walking down the street, I see a billboard that towers above everything else in town. On it it lists several bullet points with reasons for owning and playing Nintendo. Apparently I had rented this billboard as kind of a passive aggressive way to express to Heather my justification for my video game habit. As I’m walking past it, I think, I should rent that billboard for Valentine’s Day and put something like, “It’s easy to treat you like a queen when you are a princess,” on it, as a giant card for Heather. Even in my dream it sounded cheezy. But then I was, “that will cost so much money,” and then I was, “but you spent that much money to justify your gaming habit.” Finally I just decided not to think about it.
So I walk up to the house, put the key in the lock, turn the key, and enter the enclosed back porch. It is completely dark. I can feel a cool, dry hand, just resting lightly on the back of my neck. I check all of my hands–left hand, hanging in usual spot at side. Right hand–still holding key. Cool dry hand on back of neck–nope, not mine. I turn my head slowly, terror creeping up my spine, and in the dark I can see the face belonging to the hand just inches from mine–a skull with human eyes looking straight at me, saying nothing.
Completely terrified, I edge my way outside so that I can scream for help. I inhale as deep as I can, and just as I go to scream, I wake up. But instead of waking up screaming, I just let out this, stupid seal noise, like “Arp!”
And so children, let that be a lesson to you. If you come home and just waste time playing video games your creativity will find a way out.
No–wait–I came home and did like three hours of graphic design.
Stupid brain.
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