Sinister took up residence, leaving Jerry with an incessant feeling of dread. Something needed to be fixed, but he didn’t know what it was, much less how, like he was a mechanic with an engine that wouldn’t start, yet all the parts checked out.
His bed became a prison; night was the sentence; and the clock was its enforcer. It’s large bloodshot numbers burned 11:30, 12:15, 1:20. Sleep! commanded the clock. You’ll be punished come morning. You won’t make it through the day. SLEEP!
Mind whorls coursed through his consciousness: How does sleep occur? How does the mind drift away from consciousness, not noticing anymore what’s happening, not noticing anymore how fast the heart is beating, or how uncomfortable the body is feeling or how tormented the mind is thinking. How does the mind turn that observing part off?
And when he slept, there were nightmares, like one where he was in his childhood bed. It was night. His bedroom door was open. A mysterious man lurked outside. He was coming for Jerry. He tried to call out but couldn’t make a sound.
In the morning, like an automaton, Jerry dressed for work. He forced fed himself breakfast, shoved it down his throat, tasteless, textureless. He swallowed. He did it again, over and over, repeating the penetration, until there was no more.
Darkness encircled day, as if he was looking through a peephole, a peephole whose door was to a cellar, and he was on the inside. Stuck inside this cellar of the psyche, he was unable to get out, unable to cry out, only able to stare through the peep hole. The real threat was that he never would get out. Jerry was terrified.
He feigned normal while enduring a perpetual interior monolog: I’M NOT OK! WHY AM I NOT OK? HOW DO I FIX IT?
“Do you ever find it hard to get out of bed in the morning,” Jerry said to Chloe as they sat at their favorite Witherspoon’s sidewalk table.
“I don’t know what you mean. Of course I do. Are you kidding? I hate myself. I’ve fucked everything up, and it’s impossible to erase. It’s burned into my mind. I have to fight through it every day. Every girl dreams about the first times, sweet memories to put inside your memory scrapbook, the first kiss, the first going all the way, the first child. My scrapbook is a bunch of nightmares.”
“It’s too hard. Why is it so hard? I’m getting tired of trying.”
“Just do it, Jerry. Just do it. Lean in to your work. That’s what I do; I drag my ass over to the Co-op and get to work. Let’s not talk about this.”
***
“So when did ministry start getting to you?” asked Jerry.
“I dunno,” said Thomas, leaning into the bell tower’s oversized speaker stuffed with his sleeping bag. “Just couldn’t take all the pressure, have to make all these people feel good. Fix me, fix me, I’m not happy, I’m not fulfilled. Well, what about my life, what about my happiness?”
He pulled on a roach burnt down to his fingertips, only he didn’t seem to notice. “That’s the thing that pisses me off about this Jesus thing. Why the hell did he kill himself? Assisted suicide, right? I mean, what’s up with that? What kind of peace and love plan was that? And then he’s presented as being so perfect. Mr. Lovey-Dovey-I-Never-Sinned. Is that what we’re supposed to do? Crucify ourselves?
“If he had stuck around. If he had gotten a real job, got married, raised kids. Let’s see him stick it out instead of a quick exit.
“What more could we have heard from Jimi Hendrix and Mozart, ya know? We need to cherish life, not sacrifice it, ya know?
“So I took a sharp turn. I’m not gonna die for this. Fuck it. I’m gonna save my life. Ya know? You gotta do that, Jerry, you gotta save your life. Don’t let the man get you…”
Jerry waved a silent goodbye as he slipped down the stairs while Thomas ranted on.
***
Phil sported a tie and jacket. He resembled a white collar worker except he was in a food hand-out line.
Jerry and Phil, grocery bag tucked under his arm, strolled across the street to a park bench.
“But wouldn’t you like a house? A place to call your own? You know, a man’s house is his castle, that kind of thing?” asked Jerry.
“Sure, that would be nice.” He stared out ahead of him, stealing an occasional glance at Jerry.
“Then you could cook some of this food, grab a beer, sit back, watch a ball game.”
Phil smiled.
“Are there things you like to do?” Jerry asked.
“I like to read.”
“OK. Maybe you could work in a library. Just put the books away and stuff. You don’t have to talk with anybody. How does that sound?
“I guess.” His hands patted his knees. “You really don’t need to spend any time on me. I’m fine.”
“I want to help you.”
“I’m fine.”
“How about I just make an appointment for you at the social service agency. One little interview. What can it hurt?”
“Well,” he peered into the distance as if seeking something lost.