Awake Asleep Dreaming Dead

by John Siwicki

  Light-is-the-key, he repeated while panning the horizon, generating random pictures and rendering the visual ideas, like a painter holding a pallet and brush. He raised the camera to his eye, and focused on a rolling dell that walked off into the horizon forever. These shots will look great! This is like nothing I’ve ever seen before.

  I guess the light show’s over, he thought.

  He put the camera back on the seat, and headed down the valley he’d just photographed. With the car in low gear he coasted into a tunnel of trees that funneled and filtered the early sunshine. It became dark all around with only flickering lights beaming from the sun. Crisp shadows danced on leaves, and reflected in the chrome metallic veneer of the car. The driver looked up to an open spot in the branches above and watched a hawk circle around and around. It seemed to be spinning away into vortex of blue, but fought, and held its ground, floating between earth and sky.

  It’s hunting for food, the driver whispered.

  Being awake all night was catching up with the driver. His heavy eye-lids opened, closed, blinked more and more. The flashes of sunlight trickled through the trees and created a hazy distorted vision as he drove under the green canopy. In the windshield he watched the shapes reflect, then roll up and over the glass. Shadows covered the sky with loneliness, and a cold feeling surrounded him, so he focused on his destination, driving faster. Up and down the looping roller coaster trails, left and right, riding a perpetual Foucault pendulum—swinging back and forth.

  I need more shots of scenery for the magazine article, he thought, concentrating on staying awake, watching the trees, and keeping an eye on the road.

  It seemed to be an unending course as the car penetrated the lofty trees. He drove through wooden walls of nature as scenery melted into a montage of foliage, meadows, and the occasional red barn blotch outline of a distant isolated farm.

  The only decent pictures I’ve taken so far are the ones of the sunrise.

  He meandered on the up-down trail in a quasi-delusional-delirium unaware, with time idle, not perceptible or changing—stuck in the moment.

  I feel like I’m the only person on the planet, he thought, then scanned the terrain. I’m really in the sticks. Just me, my camera, car, and landscape. It looks serene with the sun coming up, though.

  As he drove, warm sunshine fell on his face. Thoughts, images, and ideas, changed as fast as he blinked. A rainbow of images switched on and off, reminding him of strobe lights in a dance hall, bodies moving in slow-motion fashion, mechanical and machine-like.

  Who’s in control, a creator? The environment? Me? he whispered. Is everything just a single solitary moment? Is time eventually used up, then gone forever? Where does time come from, and where does it go?

  Gripping the wheel he steered into a stereo kinetic parade of images. He looked in the rear-view mirror. Man, are my eyes ever bloodshot, and I look like hell.

  He bulked out a yawn as he studied his weary face in the mirror.

  I’m drained.

  Fighting to stay awake, he inhaled the minimal amount of oxygen needed to sustain human existence, then glanced at the speedometer with a head that bobbed like it had no nuchal ligament.

  Eighty-five miles an hour . . . I’m moving at a pretty good clip, he said.

  He stuck his face outside, let the wind smack him, and inhaled some cool morning air.

  That feels good, he thought.

  Momentarily refreshed he looked in the rear-view again and focused on his mouth. Words of sincerity tumbled off his lips as the imaginary peal of church bells rang in his head.

  When I finish this job I’m calling to pop the question, and buying her a ring, he said.

  He watched the reflection of a blissful grin materialize in the rear-view.

  The prettiest one in the store, he shouted out the window, then with satisfaction stared at his reflection in the mirror again. The grin turned into a big fat smile, and to celebrate, he jabbed at the horn—it blared! He yelled out the window again. And—I can’t wait to see the look on your face when I give it to you!

  The driver sat back in a hypnotic state. He focused on the disappearing center line, and watched it being devoured by the machine that he controlled.

  He looked up. Why is this happening to me?

  The smiling cast changed to a petrified glare. Every muscle in his body stretched to breaking point like over-wound guitar strings. His vision was binocular—zooming in—following the animal as it jumped from the tall grass on the side of the road.

  Harley! he yelled after seeing the animal stop and plant itself in the center of the road, it stood there gawking back at the driver.

  In a glint of time and nowhere to go, the small creature grew in size, filling the windshield. Its marble eyes stunned as it waited to be turned into ground meat.

  The driver calculated the options.

  A voice in his head screamed, Go left—go right! Go left—go right! He looked in the rear view, and said, I don’t want to be in this . . . place, then cranked the wheel, and slammed the brakes down hard.

  Tires screeched—the car whirled.

  The scene in the windshield warped into a spinning whirlpool. With a tight grip on the wheel, and strapped in by the seat belt, the force still tossed him like a flag blowing in the wind. Instinctively he slammed the brake to the floor again. His fingers throbbed. He steered the car through a montage of images, color, and what sounded like a concert of reverberating, out-of-tune musical instruments. Gritting his teeth, and opening his eyes broad, he rode the car down into the ditch, then out and across to the other side.

  This is it, I’m a . . . dead man, he said in a voice that faded, and went silent.

  Shit, was the last word from his mouth after seeing a fence-line with barbed-wire and split wooden posts.

  He waited for impact.

  Like baseball bats connected to barbed wire they bombarded the car. One after another the clipped posts flew in the air, twisting, flipping, and crashing into the car. The driver raised his arms to cover his face, to block the flying broken glass, but there wasn’t any—a mysterious force kept the windshield intact. With both hands welded on the wheel, the car changed directions, snapping and cracking like a bullwhip. Finally it waddled sideways, and stopped in the center of the road.

  The driver sat staring straight ahead, trance like, breathing hard, his heart beating like a jack-hammer, pumping his face red. Both of his hands were clenched around the wheel in an iron grip. A calm silence passed through the open windows on a gentle breeze. He caught his breath, leaned forward, and rested his head on the steering wheel a moment, then sat back.

  What the hell just happened? What was that? A little farther, and I’d have gone off the cliff; right into the bottom of that gorge.

  The driver blinked, and crushed the wild nerves that generated a shiver through his body. He cleared his dizzy head, then caught a glimpse of the animal as it pranced away and vanished into the trees.

  It looked just like him. Couldn’t have been, though. There’s no way. He closed his eyes and caught his breath.

  Man that was . . . close! Not a good way to start a trip, he said looking around and confirming he was okay.

  Definitely not a good way to start a trip.

  He started the car, put in gear, and pulled over to the side.

  I was lucky, he muttered. It’s a miracle I didn’t go over the cliff.

  He is fingers were curled around the wheel, and he pried them away like they’d been glued there. He turned off the music, the engine, and sat in silence—breathing in life.

  Totaling this car is the last thing I need. I’ve got to slow down.

  As he tried to get out of the car; it seemed his legs weren’t listening to his brain, and he had to tell them to move; and had to actually say, Move legs!

  In the quiet, he leaned against the car and looked out at the distant swell. He watched a herd of cattle grazing in the vivid landscape while they slowly moved over the hill.

&nb
sp; Looks like a Thomas Moran painting, he thought, then stared up at the blue sky, and those clouds up there a fleet of ships floating on an upside-down sea.

  Calm, relaxed, and secure, and back into photographer mode, the driver searched for his camera.

  There it is. This’ll be a good shot.

  After focusing the camera on the scenery that spread through the rolling hills, up and down the valley, and all around he realized the total silence. Nothing but quiet filled the void where he stood. No chirping birds, no breeze rustling the trees or leaves. No sounds of nature. Only the silent hush that comes before the applause at the end of a performance.

  Panic raced in his blood again. What—? That’s . . . strange, he said. Flustered like a shit-faced drunk, he looked left–right–behind, and spun 360 degrees as the car had a few minutes ago.

  There’s no . . . sound! Then, as he thought of the sounds of nature, he could hear them. The world came to life. Birds chirped, the wind blew, and a moment later everything was back to normal.

  That was a mind-blower. It must be a side effect from almost crashing, he whispered in a low uneasy tone. Some sort of delayed shock—

  He aimed his camera back in the direction of the rolling hills and horizon, panning, shooting in bursts. He turned to the car to get some shots of it, but stopped taking pictures, and slowly lowered the camera.

  Now—that—is . . . weird!

  He slid his hand across the hood of the car, and caressed the top of the front fender.

  How can that be?

  It looks okay under here, too, he said, crouched on one knee. He got up, opened the trunk, and as he looked inside thought, The same as when I packed it, then muttered, Why aren’t there any scratches or dents on the car? The fence posts clobbered it.

  The driver heard his cell phone, and it rang again. He listened, and followed the sound, then found it under the seat, but too late, and read one new message.

  Trip going okay? Tired? You didn’t sleep at all. I’m getting ready for work, talk later.

  Should I tell her about almost having an accident, and the freaky thing about the car not getting smashed after driving through a fence, the driver muttered. Why worry her? he said, and sent a reply.

  You’re right—I’m tired—stopped—eating the sandwiches you made. I’m okay.

  He dropped the phone on the passenger seat, opened the cooler, and grabbed a sandwich when the phone buzzed with another message.

  Call you later :-)

  He set the phone down, and grabbed an old highway atlas from under the front seat.

  Now, let’s see. Where am I.

  He traced the map with his fingers searching the twisted lines and printed figures.

  Here’s the road, and Fort McRoy, and there’s Wild Cat Mountain State Park.

  He sat back and ate the sandwich.

  This is a good sandwich, he thought, and she’s a good cook, then washed it down with a slug of water.

  As he watched and looked around in wonder, nature’s breath caressed the trees and stroked the tall grass.

  This place feels so . . . tranquil.

  Well I guess I’d better get back on the road, then looking around at the scenery the driver said, This place looks so familar; I seem to know it. He started the engine, pushed in the clutch, and put the car in gear. Why does it look so familar?

  He let out the clutch, and slammed the accelerator to the floor. A cloud of smoke from the rear tires floated up to the sky like an offering to God. He shifted into second, third, then fourth gear.

  I feel free.

  SILENCE

  In the rear-view the hidden sun emerged from behind a hillock. It climbed, bled warmth across the horizon, then touched and penetrated the flora, feeding the rousing world. The broad, circular, burning glow braced slowly, stirred the day, and like a mother gripping a child, surrounded and embraced every living and lifeless thing to its bosom. The warmth fell leisurely, floated downward on a dancing mist, caressed the sleeping, and released a welcoming breath on all things. Birds warbled on the largest open stage ever known to man, then scores of other creatures joined this natural performance. Squirrels scurried up and down trees, frogs croaked on lily pads and jumped into ponds. High above, ducks in arrowhead formation called as they flew across a blue backdrop mottled with pallid bulging clouds. With a little help from the breeze, ringlets of midnight dew dropped from the moist leaves. To show they were awake, creatures appeared giving praise with their own voices, and their scent of life was carried on the wind. This invitation spread across the valley, bending grass and trees, moving earth, and waking the living world.

  The driver scanned the left and right boundaries of the road. He was on the lookout for animals that might jump into his path as he made his way down the twisting valley trail and out of the trees. He turned the radio on and checked the airwaves for a station. He looked ahead at an intersection where the road forward no longer continued: He hit the breaks, and screeched to a halt. No sign, so which way do I go? He thought. After looking in both directions, he turned left, and headed down a straight flat highway.

  Glad to get out of the trees, maybe I’ll find something worthwhile to photograph around here.

  Below the wide gleaming sapphire sky the driver followed a river of asphalt that seemingly had no end. On one side of the road, broad level fields of corn stood head-high, and across the road, golden wheat waved in the breeze. In the distance, sketches; outlines of farms, barns, and silos. Cattle grazing in pastures on rolling side hills made him wonder if he ought to stop and snap a few shots. As he drove farther down the trail he saw some ragged cars parked in the tall grass next to a giant sign with a quart basket of strawberries painted on it. At the top it said, “PICK YOUR OWN IF YOU LIKE”. Every so often he saw heads bobbed between the rows of the patch. On the right next to a clump of trees was an apiary. A guy stood amidst a cloud of bees that were buzzing around the net that dangled from the hat he wore. Occasionally he waved a smoker around to tame the riled ones. Beyond that was a lonely dull gray rectangular corrugated metal building with a couple of small square windows in back. The structure rested near an open field, and in front what looked like a fairway on a golf course, the grass cut tight to the ground.

  I wonder what that building’s used for, the driver thought, then realized it was an airplane hanger. Just then a plane swooped down from nowhere, and soared over the car. It climbed into a landing pattern, made a final turn, dropped on a grass strip, then coasted and stopped in front of the hanger.

  As the driver watched the plane, he thought, Maybe I can get him to fly me over Alan Roger’s school. Some aerial shots might good for the magazine layout. There’s the road, he said, and turned onto a bumpy trail chased by a cloud of dust. The dirt road had a tight, straight barbed-wire fence on both sides, and it zigzagged at ninety degree angles. The driver finally pulled up next to the hanger and parked. He watched the plane stop, the pilot get out, and go into the hanger. He came out and ran his hands over the wings of the red and white bi-plane. He moved the ailerons, and pushed on the tires with his boot. I wonder if he’s getting ready to take off again. I’m going to ask him to fly me around, the driver, thought, waved to the pilot, then walked over.

  Hi. Nice day to fly.

  The pilot looked over, and nodded. Yeah, sure is a great day.

  He was average height, looked about fifty, dressed in jeans, and cowboy boots.

  You live around here? the driver asked.

  Yes I do. You?

  I’m from Four Corners. I’m on my way to Ellsworth. Is this your plane?

  Yup! You fly?

  No, no, I can’t, but I’ve taken pictures from planes. I was wondering if you could take me up to get some aerial shots for a magazine article I’m covering.

  You a photographer?

  Yeah, and when I saw you land, I got the idea that it would be nice to get some aerial shots. I don’t know if they’ll be used in the article, but you never know, might if they look good.<
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  What kind of shots?

  Shots of Alan Roger’s architectural school. Heard of him?

  Sure, he’s famous in these parts. Lot’s of people visit that place. They think it’s interesting.

  Can you take me up, and fly me around? And what would you charge me for that?

  I can fly you there, but won’t charge anything. I don’t need the money.

  But I can pay. You need to cover the fuel charge.

  It’s okay, don’t worry. It’s a short flight, and I like flying.

  That’s great, but don’t think it’s right letting you do it for free, though. When would you be ready to go?

  I’ll fill the tanks, check the plane, and we will be on our way. Go get your gear.

  Okay, and my name’s Sam. I really appreciate you doing this for me.

  Call me Al. I think you’ll get some great shots today.

  I hope so.

  Ever fly in a small plane before?

  Like I said, I’ve had a few jobs shooting from planes, flew a little, but no real solo flight time.

  Then this’ll be a piece of cake for you. If you like, once we’re up, I’ll let you take the controls.

  Okay, sounds fun. This is turning out better than I imagined.

  Put this head-set on, and we’ll be able to talk without screaming at each other. It gets noisy in here.

  Okay, ready? Here we go! Tally-ho!

  The pilot pushed in the throttle, and the plane cruised forward down the bumpy field, bouncing and jerking as it picked up speed. He pushed in the throttle more, pulled back on the yoke, and the plane was airborne. They climbed slow and straight, then banked left.

  The school’s not far from here, so it won’t take long to get there. Better get your camera ready to shoot. Open the window, the draft will keep it up, so you don’t have to hold it open.

  Yeah, I know.

  Do you want to be a famous photographer?

  I’ve thought about it, and it would be nice, I guess.

  What do you think happens when a person becomes famous?