Valentine makes a face that is full of happiness and pity, makes a noise that is full of happiness and pity, hugs my head with force sincerity and says, “Sweet Dreams, Brother.” before she goes back inside.
That's the only goodbye I need. I head home.
Under these pink sheets lies a very dishonest attempt at slumber. The sleepwear is on; my eyes are tightly closed; the fetal position is assumed; my cat is purring out a chainsaw lullaby, but tonight, sleep is hours away, and my imagination is holding me captive.
Cut to brain, I am in my dream home...our dream home. It used to be a garage that we have remodeled to resemble a small factory. The inside is clean and spacious and with the exception of a storage closet, 2 bathrooms and a space that used to be an office, the rest of the building is comprised of one large area that makeup my kitchen, living room, garage, studio, and bedroom...excuse me, OUR kitchen, living room, garage, studio, and bedroom.
And we love it.
The building is old, and to see it from the outside is to immediately classify it as a business that could replace your alternator or restore your Impala with the exception being that all of the windows are darkly tinted and no stray oil stains or haphazard paint jobs taint the brick of this little industrial palace.
There is no lawn, as is the fashion of most businesses, a small parking lot of blackest asphalt replaces the need for Kentucky Bluegrass and azalea bushes. Yard work consists of taking a leaf blower to the random leaves and pebbles that tumble in and banishing them into the kudzu on either side of my dwelling. I’m usually finished before I can finish a bottle of Grolsch.
The time I spend outside is usually spent on the building's flat top roof where I can sit for hours in my iron spring rocking chair, listening to XM Radio on a modest outdoor sound system and playing “That's My Car” as the vehicles pass on the not so busy, two-lane road. Occasionally I'll play a round of 9-ball against myself on my black and red outdoor pool table, even though I am terrible at all forms of billiards and once even skipped a ball off the table sending it flying through the segmented skylight that situates right over my bed, scaring the hell out of my cat who was, at the time, enjoying her fourth daily nap on my California King.
In my imagination, I looked down and shouted an apology to my furry familiar and at that, my wife who had been inside reading a Palahniuk novel laughed loud and joyously.
In my imagination, I laughed as well.
Sometimes, friends come over in the summer and we grill hot dogs and burgers on the roof as we tell dirty jokes, drink beer, eat copious amounts of popsicles, play guitar, and splash in a kiddie pool that I pull out when the temperature breaks 90º. Sometimes I even turn on a water sprinkler and we all play “That's My Car: Team Edition” under a cool drizzle and laugh about our equally happy and interesting lives.
For days when I play outside I can reenter the building by climbing down the steel ladder on the side of the garage and go through the front door. The door itself is solid black with a large minimalist brushed aluminum door knocker and standard doorknob / deadbolt combo also in brushed aluminum.
Never being an excessive outdoors man however, I usually enter the house by simply pulling my car into the former garage bay that is now my garage / kitchen / living room / studio / bedroom...excuse me...OUR garage / kitchen / living room / studio / bedroom. I step out of my gunmetal grey Audi A5 with the BBS wheels and black leather interior. Just like that, I am home.
I feed my cat, throw There Will Be Blood in the Blu-ray player and continue to design a picture of me as Frankenstein's Monster at my computer desk whilst waiting for my wife to come home.
In the building, in my mind, is home. The flatscreen on the wall is a nice 54” 1080p LCD connected to 3 gaming systems and my home theater receiver all of which are stacked evenly below. I have arranged all the electrical wires in the building with clips and screws that attach directly to the brick wall and only add to the industrial atmosphere of my dream home. If you are a fellow technosexual, you are constantly haunted by wires. Necessary evil. In my little imaginary version of perfect, I have found that simply incorporating them into the various beams and electrical conduits that skeleton my walls alters the state of said cables from standard wires that usually wind up dusty and clumped behind a person’s electronics like decaying android intestines to design elements that grid and help move your eye throughout the room. My wife laughed when I got excited at the idea of buying a baby blue HDMI cable as a decorative element for the house. She was highly entertained by that.
In my imagination, I am never happier than when I’m entertaining her.
This space, designated as the living room, is central on the north wall of the large-ish rectangular room. To the left of the TV are 2 framed posters, a one-sheet from The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly and a Limited edition Rob Zombie poster with silver accents. They are stacked vertically on top of each other with a consistent spacing between them and the ceiling, floor, TV and the other various artworks that are framed and extend farther to the left beyond the 2 main pieces. Their are easily over 50 medium to small paintings, doodles, pictures and reliefs hanging on this wall all framed in simple black or red frames. About one red frame per 7 black frames. Just enough to break up the space. This is generally the first area noticed by people entering the room from the afore mentioned big black door on the west side of the building. I suppose you could call this my gallery...yeah, that sounds nice.
I add the term gallery to my imagination and continue with the tour.
To the right of the flatscreen are a series of 6 floating shelves that are packed with various books, movies, graphic novels, toys, cds, videogames, LPs, knick-knackery, leaning photo frames, a bottle or two of cheap czech absinthe, and a music box that I gave the Mrs. once when we were on vacation at Disney World. It plays “Once Upon a Dream” from Sleeping Beauty when you open it and inside, she keeps several rings, a few sundries and a set of brass knuckles we got as a joke from the white supremacist pawn shop just outside of town. All these things are placed on the shelves neatly but in no particular order at all and it is all perfect portrait of the way we love each other.
Every movie somehow reminds me of her.
Every song is inspired by her.
Every princess I rescue in a video game is her.
I’m 100% sure she feels the same way.
Beyond the shelves is the door to the office.
It’s just an office. Normal and drab. With desk, calendar, pens, etc etc etc and it is a space just begging to be decorated in some amazing fashion, but in someway the normalcy is a nice way to break up the space. I’m sure we’ll redecorate it one day, but for now, we let this room alone and just pass through it as it contains the only door to the walk in closet resting behind the living room wall.
Under the TV, instead of a fireplace I have an electric heater installed in a hearth. Retro-futurist with a little steam punk thrown in. It’s a very clever object. I feel clever just thinking about it. She giggles every time I turn it on because I always squat real low and act as though I’m warming myself on a crackling fire instead of the soothing hum of electric warmth. On the hooks where a poker, chimney brush and shovel would normally reside we have long metal skewers with wooden handles that we use on cold nights to roast marshmallows over the clever electric fireplace whilst sitting on the silly fake polar bear rug situated in front of it.
Our friends think that we have more fun than anyone else on the fucking planet.
They are right.
The living room furniture consists of a large black couch that curves from directly in front of the TV to the east side of the building towards the gallery. The other side of the room is consumed by my oversized recliner that is covered in a grey red and black plaid pattern just like the interior of a MkV Volkswagen Golf (A FINE automobile), and a matching ottoman that my cat has declared her throne. The inside of the throne is hollow and I use it as a storage place for my remotes, video game controllers, and a secret pack of Camel Wides. My wife hates it when I smoke, but doesn’t begrudge me as long as I keep it under a pack a month, don’t do it in front of her, don’t do it inside, hide the butts and mouthwash before she needs some sugar.
I love that she doesn’t want me to smoke. That pack’s been in the throne, unopened, for years. The only reason it’s still in there is because it reminds me that I don’t even feel the urge to smoke just because of her whim. She has me laughing in the face of addiction. Her wish is my command. Happiness in slavery.
On with the tour.
On the eastern most wall touching the gallery are a series of waist to ceiling windows with large steel slabs that act as shutters when you slide them into place. These “shutters” can be pulled in front of all the windows in the building via a series of metal tracks and lock into place with a thud that I find satisfying every. Damned. Time. The locking of the shutters make the building completely secure and you will never have to question your safety from any attacks that might stem from alien invasion or zombie outbreak. The slabs are scratched and scuffed from previously being housed at my Uncle’s welding shop back home with the exception of a few sporadic magnets that she has scattered on the one closest to the kitchen. On the opposite wall, under an identical shutter closest to the door are few multi-colored permanent markers in a black Baphomet coffee mug. The mug rests on top of a writing desk we found at a thrift store.
It was a steal.
This desk is full of junk. Every home should have a desk full of junk. You know, the first place you go when you need a pen or tape or sewing needle and if the junk drawer gods are in a good mood, you’ll find the object you desire. On the top of the desk, in permanent marker I have drawn a large raven. My tribute to Alice and her adventures in wonderland. The markers are now used to write honey-dos directly on the shutter. Sweetening her requests are doodles that never fail to make me smirk. Every now and then she’ll spray some degreaser (kept in the desk) on her notes so that she has room to start anew and write some more. I am always kinda sad to see the shutter so sparse, but I am also healed in the fact that every time she cleans it, she immediately grabs the black marker and writes “I love you” as a starting line to the requests that will follow in the days to come.
The kitchen is blocked on a patch of hardwood floor in the southeastern corner of the building. She has full control of the kitchen’s decor and has chosen to go with a retro 50’s motif. Everything is white and seafoam green and wooden and glossy. It looks amazing. She looks amazing in it, then again, she looks amazing everywhere.
The small dining room table is just outside the kitchen under a window and in front of my car. The table itself is simple in design with a centerpiece consisting of a taller cactus beside a smaller cactus. The table can sit 4 but we only keep 2 chairs readily available. Both of them on the same side of the table so we both have the same view out the window and steal food from each other’s plate. Just beyond the table heading toward the gallery is a similarly simple computer desk that is setup to hold our laptop. She insists I work near a window so that I can occasionally peak out and exercise my strained eyes.
Opposite the kitchen corner is my studio space with a drawing table, easel, and set of school lockers where I keep my supplies. The easel is adorned with a half finished painting and like-wise the drawing table has a sketch taped too it that is far from completion. The entire corner is littered with doodles and magazine clippings and other various forms of inspiration. In-between the kitchen and the studio Is a door to my bathroom, a door to her bathroom and a small tool bench. A peg board wall holds a random assortment of tools on display that are used to make do-dads for the home, repair broken skylight windows and do general man stuff to my car. I’m no Bob Vila, but I love performing the occasional handyman task with my small arsenal of tools.
Between the studio and the writing desk is the bay door and usually, my car and beyond that, a night stand followed by our bed. The California King that rests on a platform of railroad ties about 2 feet off the ground. The headboard is also made of railroad ties and though it’s description sounds meager, it’s just about the coolest bed ever assembled, thank you very much.
The bedding is baby blue and charcoal grey. The pink is long gone. Good riddance.
Then theirs her. My wife. She’s home with me.
On the couch throw my arm around her as she leans against me to paint her toenails a movie is on TV and I can smell the chemicals in her hair.
At the dinner table she sits down next to me and steals dips out of my sweet n sour sauce, even though she has her own container.
In the kitchen, I creep up behind her and startle her. She laughs though her tears produced from chopping an onion and smiles giddily as she looks up and kisses my cheek.
In the studio I paint as she walks up cuddling the cat in her arms and says, “I love it.” no matter what I paint.
In the bed, we look up and out of the skylight after we make love. Making imaginary names to imaginary constellations as we laugh about the littlest parts of the day.
In the living room, I move the couch and pull the car in front of the TV. I put in Coraline and we both put on our 3d glasses. We have instant popcorn and whiskey with coke. We have a drive-in movie date and though she is entranced and wrapped around the stop-motion delight I stopped watching past the opening credits.
I can’t take my eyes off her. I adore her. Every instant I ever feel from this point forward I want to concern her. In these imaginary moments I know that if the remainder of my days were spent here in this place, breathing in the air that came out of her, then my life would be spent happy through all the misery life has to offer. If she is sad, then her sadness resonates in my heart, If she’s angry then the target of her anger has 2 enemies, If she wants, I will provide, but all she wants is me, and all I want is her and when she’s happy I know why I’m alive; To keep her that way.
And I know her. And I fucked up.
And it’s all my fault that none of this can never happen.
In half a second, my dream is gone. My awareness returns to my fetal state in the warm pink sheets. My eyelids explode open and I can almost hear the steal shutters slamming shut in their positions, in the building, in my brain. They keep her safe until I can return to the fantasy I wish was my life.
Right now, I'm aware something terrible is about to happen.
Someone's in here with me.
I lay there, wondering which of my senses triggered this disturbance. I heard no sound and saw no movement. I was simply laying in my room and generating heaven when I undoubtedly knew I was not alone. I lay there convincing myself that I have manifested this feeling. My conscious self was drowning in a sea of wanton thought and the feeling was simply a by-product of my awareness dying. I was struggling for breath and made one blood curdling cry for help. A cry heard in my adrenal glands and felt in every molecule of my being.
Yeah, that’s it. I imagined it. Yeah.
I lay 75% convinced, half amused and half wishing my glandular system had just let me drown in that wonderful madness. When I reach a state of 85% assuredness I close my eyes. When I reach 95% I hear the strike of a match and followed by a very feint smacking sound.
The confidence in my personal safety is 0%
Someone is in my home.
Someone is in my room.
Someone is watching me lay in my pink sheets.
Putting 2 and 2 together I try to quickly assemble the situation I’m in. A match and smacking noises. Obviously I’m dealing with a pyromaniac. A pyromaniac that plans to burn this simple dwelling to a mound of charred remains and get some devious sexual pleasure from watching my white scarred skin grow black and crispy like a marshmallow on a skewer over an electric fireplace in the building in my mind.
Then the smell hits me.
Someone is sitting in my room smoking a pipe.
This doesn’t make me feel better.
A thought, “Please, don’t let anyone be there.” repeats in my brain at a speed incalculable by non imaginary instruments as I slowly turn and sit up.
My room is dark. I have double blinds and 3 layers of chip-board over my 2 tiny windows. Normally, my crypt, as it has been jokingly called by more than one woman, is black and quiet and very suitable for sleeping, sex, and various other nocturnal ventures. Light is permitted via the ceiling fan or book light or television, but none of these were needed as I lay so vulnerably in that spot dreaming of my life with her. Sitting up, I become aware that a small, dim, red glow is piercing the darkness of my room. It’s the pipe. The glow is bright enough to illuminate a small wisp of smoke emitting from the heated ball of tobacco and also cast the the sickliest amount of light on the black gloved hand holding it.
The location of the light tells me that he is sitting down on a set of shin high drawers that are placed against the wall farthest from me. The light is my only indicator as to his position. I see no form. I hear only the soft crackle of burning tobacco. I smell the room being filled with the pungent aroma.
I am scared.
What does he want?
I am scared.
Who is it?
I am scared.
I can’t run, I can’t reach for a weapon, I can’t dive out a window, I can’t turn on a light.
I. Am. Scared.
When I hear the cocking of revolver from the space of the intruder’s other hand, I am 100% sure this room, will in fact, be my crypt.
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