Paradoxical Undressing
Copyright 2016 Lee A Jackson
Paradoxical Undressing
Mid-winter in the northern moors town of Tealsdale was a time of vast blankets of snow resting upon rolling meadows. The covering of snow was even, but the many hills that made up this scenic world lay underneath these blankets and made it look as if the fall had been haphazardly distributed over the fields. Almost like a giant had been shuffling about under the bed covers; a big pile of white scrunched up here, even bigger pillows over there. The hedgerows which encompassed these fields looked like the whitest cream piped around the edge of a mammoth wedding cake.
Despite its attraction to Christmas Card frontages, the winter brought about hard times for the isolated farm-hands of the north. It was always a struggle for them to get out of bed, let alone tear themselves away from an open fire to make their way over the hidden tracks towards town.
Hardly any semblance of light had broken over the world as Archery pulled the cottage door shut behind him. Archroy realised why it had been darker than normal and opened his eyes to rectify the situation. An apocalyptic white shock-wave immediately blasted through his pupils, knocking him backwards. Trying to shake his head free of the hangover that last night’s plethora of cider had inflicted upon him, he plodded forward, eyes barely open.
Hearing a whuuummmph behind him, Archroy turned around and squinted at the cottage. A bare patch on his roof was now exposed and a fresh pile of snow had fallen on his doorstep where he had just been stood. Archroy’s brain mumbled that it must be his lucky day today and on he ploughed towards the town that lay two miles away.
A new batch of cold snow, like icing sugar cast by creation’s finest decorator of cakes, started to find its way earthwards.
A cold morning in winter and the town of Tealsdale was hardly a hive of activity. Only footprints from the milkman wound their way down the high street and Johnston the postman was about to weave another set. Johnston hardly ever a saw a sole in the summer this early in the morning, apart from the milkman and the odd farmhand making an early start to the day, let alone in the bleak mid-winter. Johnston’s job was pretty lonely despite all the houses he called upon.
Having fed the last of the letters to the hungry jaws of the butcher’s letterbox, it certainly came as a surprise to the postman to see a figure that resembled Archroy stumbling down over the fields. Could this possibly be the same Archroy who was keeled over in the Mason’s Arms last night in the belief that a profusion of alcohol would beat off his fever? ‘Fair play to the man,’ thought Johnston, ‘his cranky methods must obviously work,’ and was about to turn away when something caught his eye.
Johnston stood and watched the farmhand approach the town from across the fields.
As Archroy neared, Johnston’s brow furrowed deeper.
There was definitely something odd about Archroy this morning.
As a heavier quota of snow started to fall, Johnston decided that he couldn’t be bothered to wait for Archroy to get close enough to see the farmhand properly. Pulling his coat collar up around his ears, Johnston shuffled off back to the post office.
Archroy stumbled uneasily to the edge of the town and not three minutes later he had passed the spot from where Johnston had seen him approaching. If the postman had remained just that little bit longer he would have had a bit of a shock, for Archroy was still in his pyjamas. He had his grey slippers on too, but they had now turned black from the wetness of the snow. Upon his head, he wore a balaclava and a thermometer stuck out from beneath his tongue. A thermometer that read...
97ºF – Pre-shivering
Deep inside his body, Archroy’s in-built sensors alerted the temperature control centre in his hypothalamus. He could feel his insides; his muscles clamped and tightened like vices with each passing second. He could feel the constriction of his entire web of capillaries.
Bravely Archroy battled against his body and stumbled on down the street.
At least, he tried to.
Archroy collapsed to his knees on the frost-bitten floor.
Everything was quiet and still.
Archroy head-butted the ground trying to shake the felon out from inside his head. But Jack Frost held on tightly and then gleefully splattered snowballs at the inside of Archroy’s skull, laughing all the while with menace.
95ºF – Mild Hypothermia
Gathering himself to his feet, Archroy felt the world about him shake in one great earthquake. Even the cold air about him was shuddering and battering his body left, right and centre. As he tried to grab a post-box for support, he suddenly realised that it was he who was violently trembling and the world was indeed, as still as it had ever been.
The cold metallic surface of the post-box held him in its icy grip. He felt paralysed; his hand stuck to the freezing surface. Archroy mumbled, teetered uneasily upon on severely trembling legs, and with a surge of effort managed to remove his frozen hand.
93ºF - Amnesia
Archroy felt more cold flakes of white land upon his exposed lips. His balaclava couldn’t protect everything. He licked his solid lips and looked about the street for shelter. Everywhere looked foreign to him. He had not been here before, had he? Where was he? Where was he going? Archroy couldn’t remember as his brain shut down the memories and concentrated all its efforts on telling his body to keep shaking to raise that temperature.
‘How do I get home? Where is this place? Have I been here before?’ Archroy was confused. ‘Where is home?’ All the doorways around him were foreign, strange entrances that could ultimately lead him further from where he was heading. Wherever that may be. If only he knew where his home was. He could be even standing outside his home now and he wouldn’t know it.
More flakes fell onto Archroy’s balaclava. Archroy felt a mighty surge of a shiver tear through his body. A dusting of white fell off his crown and showered the already white ground around him.
91ºF - Apathy
‘Oh, what the hell? Who wants to go home?’ Archroy figured. He could feel the wet snow seeping through his clothes, touching his skin as if he had forgotten to put any clothes on this morning. ‘But that’s just crazy talk. It’s only a bit of cold. Maybe I’ll just sit and watch the day go by, it is pretty after all. I’m easy. I’m cool. Who cares about the weather? So what if I’m getting soaked through? The fire will soon dry me off. Hey, come on Archroy, let’s walk some more, let's make the most of this beautiful morning.’
90ºF - Stupor
Nah, thought Archroy, failing to feel his feet on the ground through the numbness. With his feet obviously not bothered about walking on, he decided that he couldn’t be arsed to walk either. ‘Maybe I’ll go and sit by that street-lamp over there, rest my back and watch the world go by. I feet a bit dizzy and numb after all. Lassitude isn’t a bad thing. Just my body is ordering me to rest. Yes, I have been stressed with this fever and I need to rest! Hey, hey! Poetry in motion.’
88ºF- Profound Hypothermia
Archroy’s body slumped against the nearest lamppost. The winter weather carried on regardless of the poor man’s condition. The sun stayed hidden above a plethora of greyness. The blood inside Archroy’s veins was thickening like crankcase oil inside of his cold engine. He thought of nothing as he leant there, unaware apparently of his alarming condition. He just watched the lonely white world go about its business of doing nothing. The snow from the heavens started to fall with more vehemence even as he stood there. A stiff chill was now whistling its way down Tealsdale’s main street.
Unbeknown to him, Archroy’s oxygen consumption had fallen to almost a quarter of the normal measure and his metabolic rate wasn’t that far behind.
Archroy was in dire straits.
&
nbsp; 87ºF – Loss of recognition
As the morning progressed and Archroy remained supported by the lamppost, a handful of people started creeping out of their warm homes to brave the severe winter weather.
Through a gathering blizzard, Archroy watched them shuffle past on the opposite side of the street. ‘Look at all these people wandering about aimlessly,’ he mused. Most of the people walked head bowed in shelter from the wind, so Archroy and his plight went unnoticed to them. ‘Isn’t that old Mrs Whatshername over there? And Mr Thingamebob. Hi Aunt, um, Aunt, Aunt um…..hey, how ya doing Mr Chinese man.’
Archroy folded his arms and held himself. None of these people who were hurrying past in their winter coats wanted to know him. Even though he had seen these people a hundred times before he was now beyond the state of recognising them.
‘Oh well,’ he thought as he watched new footprints being imprinted in the soft whiteness about him, ‘the weather can’t be all that bad if they’re out and about.’
Archroy shoved himself off the lamppost and stumbled uneasily down the snow-covered street.
The few people who had ventured out rushed to the shops and back home as quickly as the Arctic conditions underfoot allowed. Mr Chang scuttled his way back to his restaurant from fetching
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