10.
People say that if you analyze your dreams then they mean something. Crazy, huh? But that's what they say. And I always seem to have crazy, weird dreams. It's true. So, the thing is, you can't analyze them in a literal sense because dreams can often be pretty fucked up. You have to analyze them in a metaphorical sense, dummy. Got it? So, with that in mind, then you have to hear about this fucked up dream I had last night because I want to make sense of it all. It was really far out! It was like I was on acid, although I've never taken acid before. But I imagine if I ever did take acid (and that's a big IF because acid is a goddamn disgusting thing to do), then this dream is how I would see the world. Maybe it was the combination of beer and Oreo cookies I had in the hours proceeding going to sleep that brought on the crazy dream. Who knows?! But get this, you're not going to believe it when I tell you. I'm sure of it.
The dream started out innocent enough. It was a tranquil scene, me with the kids at a water park next to a huge lake. It was all very scenic and colorful and fun and serene and perfect, like a goddamn bullshit commercial for a Caribbean resort like you see on TV. It was just too good to be true. I felt very present in my dream though and being that I was self-aware, I paid extra attention to my kids and their demeanor. They seemed very happy, which is good. Nothing is better than seeing your kids happy even if it's in a goddamn bullshit dream. It's true.
It went on for a long while like this with me observing my kids, watching them have fun. Time has a way of slowing down in my dreams. Then out of nowhere, a guy approached me and asked me if I'd be interested in making some easy money. Duh! The faceless man proceeded to tell me that he wanted me to take pictures of the water park with this strange device he handed me. It looked like a camera straight out of the movie Star Wars with its alien contours and large screen and bizarre color. When I flipped what I imagined was the power switch on, everything in the screen looked like a pixilated cartoon. I snapped some shots of my kids making weird faces, their tongues sticking out all over the place and their hands stretching their eyes and mouths into funny faces. It was all just too much. My kids can be a goddamn riot. It's true. Now, I don't know why I did this but I told my kids to stay put while I walked around the park and took pictures with the Star Wars camera. Leaving my kids without adult supervision was a really strange thing for me to do but I was dreaming and I thought they would be OK. Weird, huh? You can rationalize anything in a goddamn dream.
I walked around the water park taking pictures of people having fun and eating hot dogs and drinking goddamn sodas while their fat asses baked in the sun without a lick of sunscreen on. Time seemed to speed up a bit because I was power walking around the entire goddamn place. I must have covered the entire park in a matter of minutes and I must have taken thousands of pictures. I soon found myself in the outskirts of the water park, walking through a wooded area filled with deer and squirrels and birds and foxes and turtles. It was like I was in a goddamn Disney movie or something. All of the creatures were cuddling and shit and talking in high-pitched voices. It was a strange sight to see, very strange. It's true.
At the edge of the wooded area, I realized I was walking through my neighborhood and I had a group of old folks following me. They were decked out in these wild exercise outfits, neon jogging suits with matching headbands and fanny packs. You know, to put their Geritol and Aspercreme and shit in. They were cackling and hooting it up all over the goddamn place like a pack of elderly savages, having a good time and all. I remember telling them to keep it down because it was a quiet neighborhood. They just giggled at that, telling me I was a wet blanket. Crazy bastards! Old people can be crazy when they want to be with no regard for decency. I guess because they had nothing to fear anymore. Or they were senile. It's true.
I came to a house that was strangely out of place. It was a huge mansion in the middle of this modest neighborhood of small houses. The old folks continued on without me and I decided I had to check out this strange house that I had never seen before. The front yard was filled with all kinds of exorbitant bullshit like water fountains and bushes trimmed in the shape of animals and palm trees and gazebos and various sitting areas with barbecue pits and lawn furniture and hot tubs. It was a goddamn sight to see! Who would own a place like this in my little neighborhood? It was very strange indeed. It's true.
I soon found myself inside. I could hear a baby crying, nothing too serious I could tell (I'm a father, you know? I know these things when I hear babies cry). As I walked into this humongous living room, I found Grant the Rockstar sitting on the couch, still pierced in every orifice like before, tattooed all over his goddamn body, clad in black leather and denim, but wearing an apron around his waist like a maid would wear with lace and embroidery and shit on it. His hair still looked like it had been styled with a box of firecrackers, sticking up all over the goddamn place. But you know what? I was kind of glad to see him. Don't ask me why but I was. It's true. He turned around and saw me.
"Well, well. If it isn't the nerdy computer programmer who thinks he's some hot shit writer!" He hopped up and gave me a big bear hug. He squeezed the shit out of me.
"I am a writer!" I said. Boy, that really pissed me off. Who the fuck did he think he was? What an asshole!
"Whatever. How you doing buddy?"
"I'm fine. When did you move into my neighborhood?" I asked. I was really curious about that. How did I not notice this punk rock brat moving into my neighborhood?
"I've always lived here. But after my band The Assholes were put on the cover of the Rolling Stone, we blew up and I made a pile of cash. So I tore down my old house and built this rockstar pad. Isn't it fucking bad ass?!" He started playing air guitar and banging his head like a fucking idiot. "But, the stardom was getting to be too much so I told my band mates that I needed a break. And now I'm a dad!"
"You are a father?" I asked, flabbergasted.
"Yep! You can call me Papa Grant!" He started with the headbanging again, thrashing his head around. I thought his head was going to pop off his goddamn body. It's true. "Wanna see my kid?"
"Sure."
He led me over to a crib on the other side of the living room. It was a cute affair filled with stuffed animals and baby toys. I could hear the baby cooing and making silly baby noises. Grant leaned over and cooed back to the baby. He picked it up and handed it to me.
"Don't drop the little bugger. You got that?" The baby had the cutest face I had ever seen but its body was not quite right. The baby fit in the palms of my hands and had this body like a chinchilla or a squirrel or some type of fuzzy animal like that. But its face was a normal, cute, human baby face. I couldn't believe it. It was the strangest thing I had ever seen. It's true. "Cute little bugger, isn't it?"
"Uh, yes." The baby climbed out of my hands and was crawling all over me, its little baby claws gripping onto my clothes, its little animal tail wrapping itself around my arms and legs as it crawled all over me. It was a strange sight to see. It's true. "Is it a boy or a girl?"
"What?!" he blurted, pissed off and red in the face. "It's a boy, you asshole!" He was really mad and all and I felt bad for a quick moment. I knew that was rude of me to ask but what would you think if some fuzzy, squirrely, baby creature was climbing all over your goddamn body? I thought so.
"I'm sorry. He's adorable." I was really laying it on thick with that fib. It was the creepiest little thing I had ever seen. It's true. Grant grabbed his fuzzy, squirrely, baby creature and cradled it in his arms. He was a proud papa for sure. I could tell. "Can I ask you a question?"
"Shoot, nerdy man."
"You seem to have it so easy and I have it so tough. As a creative person, how do you do it?"
"What are you getting at?" he asked, laying the fuzzy, squirrely, baby creature back in its crib.
"Why does life have to be so goddamn hard?" That was it. That's why my dream led me to Grant's house. I had a realization in my dream that I was searching for something and that's what it must have been. Some t
ruth, I was searching for some truth, even if it was from a crazy punk rock asshole with firecracker hair and a kid that looked like it was out of a bad horror movie.
"Life isn't hard, dummy."
"But..."
"No but's, you got that? Lighten up! Have some fun. Loosen those nerdy shackles. Have a drink. Get laid. Something." Just then, I could hear a voice from another part of the house, a female voice. "I'm in the living room, honey."
A woman walked into the living room and, just like the weird baby, she had a strange appearance to her. She had this large, rectangular head and her skin was wrinkly and bumpy like an elephant's skin but it was pink and dewy. She was all made up too with red lipstick and eye shadow and rouge and styled hair. What a family!
"How's the baby?" she asked, a little concerned.
"The little bugger is fine. This is Simon. He thinks he's a writer! Of all things, a writer. Isn't that funny? Ha!"
"I am a writer!" I barked back, pissed off again. I was steaming mad. Furious!
"Now, Simon," she said, sweetly, her big head leaning toward me. "If you're going to be rude, then I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
"Yeah!" Grant yelled, jumping on the couch and bouncing around like a goddamn idiot. He was jumping all over the place and his goofy looking wife was getting a real kick out of it. The baby too, the fuzzy bastard. They all started hooting and hollering and jumping around. They were a bunch of lunatics!
"Fine," I said and I walked out of their goddamn monstrous mansion.
"And don't come back. You got that, nerdy computer programmer?! Don't come back!"
It was all just too disappointing. I walked through their ridiculous front yard and I could still hear them hooting and hollering and jumping all over the goddamn place. They were a crazy bunch of lunatics living in my quiet neighborhood and I felt relieved to be out of their mad house. As I walked down the middle of the street, I remembered that I had left my kids alone and started running back toward the water park, trying to find my way, trying to get back to them in a hurry. I felt a real sense of urgency so I picked up the pace. I tried to get my pudgy body going but I couldn't get there fast enough. Before I knew it, a manhole cover slid open and I fell in, falling in darkness, falling like a bag of rocks into the void.
And then I woke up.
I tried to analyze the dream and make some sense of it all but I couldn't. It was all just too bizarre and surreal and strange. 'What did it mean?' I kept asking myself. Was there some hidden nugget of truth that my subconscious was trying to tell me? Or did the beer and Oreos create some kind of stomach disturbance that caused my brain to freak out and revolt in my sleep? I don't know. It was all just too much to take. It's true. All I knew was that I missed my kids. Maybe that had something to do with it. That had to be it, I was sure of it. Like I said, they say if you analyze your dreams they mean something. Well, that's what they say anyway.
11.
I tried to call Jessica several times but she never answered her phone or returned my calls. She was really starting to piss me off. I mean, who the hell did she think she was, wanting to move to Dallas and take our kids? It was all a goddamn mess. It's true. And I'm sure Sammie and little Jessica didn't appreciate it either. All of their little friends were here in Austin. Their school was here. Their life was here. Their father was here. I imagined that they would have no interest in moving to Dallas, away from everything they knew. But, then again, kids have no choice in the matter. They will do what they're fucking told to do and my kids were no different. They were good kids. It's true.
After getting the go ahead from my supervisor Rod, I realized I had one thing to do before leaving town. I had to go see my doctor. Weird, huh? Well, not really. I'm getting old, you know? It's true. This slightly pudgy, slightly balding "Adonis" isn't going to stay beautiful forever. Ha! Besides, everyone needs to go see their doctor every once and a while. It is a goddamn moral imperative. I made the appointment a couple of months ago after realizing I hadn't seen my doctor in quite some time, maybe before all my divorce bullshit. I had been compiling a list of ailments and weird goings-on with my body and health in general and I felt I really needed to discuss them with Dr. Todd, especially before leaving town. I call him Dr. Todd because his last name is so unruly and filled with dozens of unnecessary consonants that I'm not even going to waste precious keyboard strokes trying to spell it out for you. Just trust me, his last name is a goddamn Polish disaster. It's true. But Dr. Todd is a kind man with a caring way about him and I rather enjoy talking to him, even though I'm sure he will be examining my nutsack or prodding his finger in my poop shoot at some point today. Great. Just great.
Here, in no particular order, was the list of things that were bothering me over the last few years: constipation, left eye twitch, hemorrhoids, upset stomach, random headaches, weight gain, hair loss, weird dreams (duh!), knee pain, seasonal allergies, lower back pain, etcetera, so on and so forth. It was a pretty goddamn long list of ailments and nuisances but they were things that were really bothering me. I mean, especially for a writer, having distractions of the bodily nature can really put a damper on your creative spirit and literary output. Nothing is worse than a raging case of hemorrhoids to ruin a marathon writing session. You can't sit down for more than 15 goddamn minutes at a time when you have burning blisters poking out your asshole. It's true.
Anyway, I drove over to Dr. Todd's office. I pulled my car into the office building parking lot and parked in the back. The building was a pretty nondescript place tucked away behind a group of these massive oak trees in a decent part of town. Dr. Todd had his office here for years before I became his patient and I'm sure it would be here for years to come. On the outside, the building looked like one huge metal and glass box but on the inside, it was an elaborate maze of offices connected by a serpentine hallway that zigged and zagged in no justifiable way. If I didn't already know where his office was then it would be damn near impossible to find. I wondered if that was on purpose. Doctors do some sneaky shit like that sometimes. It's true.
I found his office after walking through the maze of hallways and entered quietly, standing next to the front desk. A nurse was sitting there, busy with something. She wore pink scrubs that had Winnie the Pooh and Tigger on them and her hair was long and blonde and styled in a way that reminded me of the TV sitcom moms from the 1980s. She didn't seem to notice me and I stood there for what seemed like a goddamn eternity while she scribbled on some forms on a clipboard. They must have been pretty goddamn important forms because she was carefully and intently filling in the boxes and checking other boxes and crossing her t's and dotting her i's and examining the hell out of that paperwork. Time really seems to stand still when you're waiting unnoticed for something. It's true. I decided to stop the madness and tap on the desk so she would notice me. I think I startled her. She about jumped out of her goddamn seat.
"Oh! I didn't see you there," she said, straightening herself, fixing her 1980s hairdo.
"No problem."
"I'm so sorry. And you are?"
"Simon. Simon Burchwood."
"And do you have an appointment this morning, Mr. Burchwood?"
"Yes I do. It's at 9:00am. And call me Simon. Mr. Burchwood is so formal."
She put down her important paperwork and typed something on her computer, mousing here and clicking around there. I couldn't quite place which 1980s actress she reminded me of but she reminded me of someone. Meredith Baxter Birney, maybe? I couldn't figure it out. I knew it was going to drive me crazy until I figured it out. It's true.
"Yes, Mr. Burch... I mean, Simon. I see you here in our system for a 9:00am appointment. Do you have your health insurance card?"
"No. I don't have insurance anymore."
"Oh. You don't have health insurance?"
"Is that a problem?" I asked, a little perplexed. Losing your job and losing your benefits really puts a kink in things, doesn't it? My benefits with the State of Texas weren't going to start for 90
days after my first day on the job which meant zero health insurance for me for 90 days. I decided right then and there that I was going to have to be extra careful over the next 90 days and not lop off a finger or smash a toe or get into a car wreck. I would be royally fucked then without health insurance if a major medical problem came up. It's true.
"I don't imagine... it will be a problem. Will you be paying cash?"
"Yes."
"OK. Wait one moment." She typed some more on her computer. She looked confused about something. Whatever it was, she didn't tell me. Figures. "Thanks Mr. Burchwood... I mean Simon. Have a seat in the waiting room." She flashed me a bullshit smile which told me she knew something I didn't know which probably meant I was going to be in serious trouble when the bill for this visit showed up in my mailbox. Shit! Or as good ol' Sammie would say: Shmit.
The waiting room was spacious with big, poofy couches and a coffee table covered with a mound of crappy gossip magazines. Here I was in a fine goddamn business establishment and they had a pile of bullshit celebrity magazines wasting space. Nothing was lower on the publishing scale of importance than gossip magazines. It's true. Well, I would imagine those novelty rolls of toilet paper with one-liner jokes printed on them may be lower but not by much. With all the fine literature in the world (including literary masterpieces by yours truly), why anyone would buy this crap about some actress' cellulite on her ass or some actor's worthless marriage to a costar or some TV celebrity's gay skeletons in his closet or some singer's drug-fueled rampage is beyond me. It was really a goddamn shame, a waste of dead trees. It's true. The only thing gossip magazines were good for was reading in the can because you didn't have to think too much while reading them. Thinking too much in the can will make for a long sitting.
As soon as I got myself comfortable on a poofy couch, a middle-aged woman entered the office, dragging an over-sized purse on the ground and holding the hand of her booger-eating little boy. He couldn't have been older than five years old. He immediately locked his beady eyes with mine as he waved a red lollipop in the air with his free hand like a magician's wand. I knew that little bastard was going to cause trouble. I could just tell. His mother released his hand, demanding that he be good, and he made a beeline for the coffee table. He slid a portion of the magazines off the coffee table and stuck his gooey lollipop on a copy of People Magazine, right on top of Oprah Winfrey's face. Bullseye!
The Spectacular Simon Burchwood Page 8