A Prank From Across the Void

     "For a moment, Doc, I actually thought it was over. Usually, there's a tingle that I sometimes feel right before that brain jolt of electricity hits a muscle group, but it wasn't there this time. So, I exhaled and let my body drop. Then, my left arm flew across the front of my body and slammed into my ribcage. A little later, a muscle group in my abdominals caused me to collapse like a cheap folding chair. I have to tell you trying to go to sleep when this happens is hell. I took Ambien for years to get to sleep as fast as possible and never had any of these kinds of jerks. But, since I've decided to let that addiction go along with the many others I enjoyed, getting to sleep has really been a challenge. Every time I quit Ambien it was like I'd forgotten how to go to sleep. By the way, I've quit two times before. This was the third. The usual withdrawal for me is two nights of mild terror waiting for sleep to happen until I pass out from exhaustion. Eventually, I find I can go to sleep without that crutch and I'm okay. But, now, I'm getting these jerks that rock me pretty hard. My left arm beats my chest and I do these crunches when my stomach gets into the act. It's been going on for weeks. Do you think it's from not taking Ambien?"
     The doctor looked at me a little more dryly than I would like, dismissed my question and said, "It's called Hypnogogic Myoclonus or Hypnic Jerking. It's a mild involuntary twitch which occurs just as a person is beginning to fall asleep, often causing them to awaken suddenly for a moment."
     "Fall asleep for a moment? How is that possible? I'm awake during the whole stinking event. And, it's a little more than mild. My whole left side of my body convulses!"
     The doctor went on still a little peeved at my outburst, "You are sleeping when it happens. You just don't know you're asleep. It happens too fast for you to realize you've actually 'fallen' asleep. Your body thinks it's falling and it jerks as a defense. If you lose sleep because you constantly jerk awake, you will become fatigued and may develop anxiety or worry about falling asleep. The more worried and tired you are, the more likely you are to jerk awake. The more you jerk awake, the more sleep you lose. Look, I understand your frustration in this and it affects more than just your sleep patterns. It can also affect your heart beat and rhythm. In your case, after hearing your heart I think you should see a cardiologist. Your heart is beating way too fast."
     "Can you prescribe something to help me here?" and the little addict in my head screamed Ambien, Ambien!
     The doctor pulled his prescription pad out of his lab coat pocket and scribbled something on the paper.   "Here is a scrip for a muscle relaxer. This should help."
     At that point all I could think about was how Ambien had been such a reliable friend for so many years and how much I'm starting to miss it. My insurance company began to get nervous with my nightly dose and decided it was time for me to stop. They said there are alternatives and I could certainly try them with their help, but they just don't have the same punch. With Ambien it's like you can step right off the edge of awake and aware and then into a sound asleep oblivion. Still, I had to wonder if all those years of knock me out sleep left me as some sort of neurological waste land. My wife seems to think so and is more than happy that I've stopped taking it. Every addiction I've had I've said I was doing this for myself when I quit. Despite the security in sleep it provided it was the right thing to do. I had that junkie-like state of mind when it came to how much I had, where it was in my drawer; when was I going to be able to buy more and would the insurance company continue to harass me about it? My mind was at peace, but my body was looking for something to keep it quiet.
     I drove home thinking about what the doctor had said trying to convince myself that it was nothing serious. I sat in my favorite chair watching television dreading every time the schoolhouse clock on the wall struck an hour. My fate was seemingly locked in the bong of the coiled bell that announced each hour, then half hour, then hour. I was getting closer to my nightly fight with sleep and I had very few weapons left in my quiver as the countdown progressed. I knew what I wanted since all the old feelings had been stirred up. Of course, I hadn't thought of pushing the issue at the doctor's office. I remembered had I started fooling around with it a little too much. Like, seeing how long I would last before I fell asleep mid-stride. Another annoyance that brought a great deal of pleasure was hunger. I would crave peanut butter, jelly, and Velveeta cheese sandwiches with a big glass of milk to the point where I had gained another 10 pounds. It had to go. It was either give them up or face the fact that my pants weren't shrinking in the closet. My wife had been on my case and then my insurance company decided they would authorize 15 a month. All I could think was, "Dude! You're either on it or you're not. There is no half way." So, I quit.
     I was keyed up and growing more restless. Television offered little in the way of entertainment and the scheduled game was blacked out. Bed time was creeping in and I started to psych myself into thinking I could get past these jerks and maybe get some sleep. Deep breaths centering below the belly button, tongue of the pallet ridge in the mouth, and remembering whatever that was troubling me was something I could handle in the morning. I tried all the tricks and they seemed to be working. I yawned and started sneaking into bed like a thief crawling through the rear window of a house. I would insert myself into this land of sleep and never be caught. The only way I would be caught by the morning light was to ignore its approach. The alarm was set for 5AM.
     I slipped under the covers lying on my back. It was quiet with only the white noise hum of a small fan offering a bit of diversion from the soft-silent sounds of the house. My mind traveled down my legs to see if there was any of that uncertain feeling I get when they start to twitch. There was nothing there. It might be one of those where my body decides to let me sleep. I turned over to my left side, my favorite go to sleep position and I exhaled deeply, my left arm at rest by my face. Then my hand jumped. It opened and closed quickly. Then, my forearm began to jump. It was starting. My left shoulder kicked off with a spasm and I slapped my arm across my chest. This occurred about twenty more times until my left hip decided to join in with the fun. I double up like I was doing crunches so quickly it snapped my neck into thinking I was rear-ended in a car accident. I wondered how I could explain that to a Chiropractor. His bill to my insurance company would generate a form letter asking if I had been injured in a car accident. "No, I did while trying to go to sleep." Nice try. Claim denied.
     Two and half hours later the violence in my bed ceased and I began to feel at peace in my exhaustion when I fell asleep into a deep chasm of rest and slumber. It was a dreamless sleep interrupted only by the sound of my clock radio going off at 5AM that brought me to awareness. I lay still thinking for a moment I could call the boss and feign sickness to recover from this spasmodic jerking plague of mine. I thought better of that tactic and threw off the covers. I made my way into the kitchen and poured a cold cup of Kona from my pot into my favorite mug. 90 seconds of nuking and my brew was ready to go. Don't get me wrong. I like the Keurig coffee maker as well as the next guy, but it's just a little too expensive for me to justify. I've been reheating coffee this way for years and it has never failed me. Satisfied with the burn of the first sip and headed back toward my desk and the computer.
     I opened my email and sifted through the usual links to humorous movies, politically charged articles and cute pictures of dogs sitting on some grumpy cat's face until I ran across an entry typed in Wingdings? What the hell? I dragged the file into my anti-virus program to see if it held any special sauce designed to take over my computer or wipe it clean, but it came up as normal. So, I opened it and couldn't read a thing. The only way to get around this was to make it a Word document where I could better translate this mystery message. After making the transfer I did a SELECT ALL and then transposed the Wingdings document into Ariel. It read:

Please forgive the intrusion. My name is Reige and I live in the same house as you, but in another place. You have read stories of parallel universes, I'm sure. In this instance, it is more than just theory. It is fact. Now before you think you are being misled I can share some things with you that will prove to you I am real. You've been experiencing some difficulty with your sleep. You theorize it has something to do with spasms that attack you while you are attempting to fall asleep. You call them "Hypnic jerks" which are related to a rapid heart rate, quickened breathing sometimes to the point feeling like you are being shocked and falling into a void. In a way, you are. I have a son, Blim, who loves to play a game you call "Operation." We have another name for it, but it really doesn't matter. What does matter is that Blim has gotten into one of my experiments and has entered your world through the gateway that is built into the game. In other words, just like in the "Operation" game there is a patient and to cure him you must remove game pieces from his body. You, in our universe, are the patient. In "Operation" if you touch the edge of the hole that houses the objective body part a buzzer sounds and you lose points. Somehow, Blim has found you and is using you as his patient. Those jerks you are feeling are from his poor attempts at retrieval of his game pieces. I am terribly sorry for the inconvenience this is causing you. I want you to know that you are not crazy. I have taken the game away from Blim and given him another toy to play with. Please forgive us. We did not mean to interfere with your life in any way. I promise you it will never happen again. You have my sincerest apologies in this matter.
Reige

     I sat back in my chair and pushed away from my computer. I reread the email several times over just to soak it all in. I typed up a few questions just to make sure I wasn't losing my mind and sent it back. My reply was returned as undeliverable. This has to be a joke of some sort. I picked up the phone and called a buddy of mine that knows more about computers and how they work more than anyone else. 
     "Hey, Tommy, it's me."
     "Hey, man, what's up?"
     "I got this email, today, and I need you to tell me where it came from. It doesn't make any sense to me."
     "What? Can't you read? You want me to read it to you, dawg?"
     "Naw, man, C'mon. I'm serious here, dude. Can you help?"
     "Sure. Send it over."
     "Thanks, man."
     "Sure. I'll get back to ya."
     Several days passed waiting for Tommy's findings. Thankfully, my sleep issues were quiet. I had no jerking and managed to string together several good nights of restful sleep. Then, Tommy called.
     "What the hell, dude? Where did you get this?"
     "I told you. It was sent to my email address a couple of days ago and it came in a Wingdings font."
     "Uh, did you say Wingdings? Who the hell writes in Wingdings?"
     "Well, did you find out where it came from?"
     "I searched through the email code that lives behind every send and checked out the server paths. I followed it through Chicago and then to a server farm in Las Cruces, New Mexico. From there it came from another farm near Minsk in Russia. It seems the source of it all came from a machine at an internet cafe in Hong Kong where it was first entered into the internet with an anonymous IP address. But, none of the code makes any sense and it looks like it's been parsed to make it through our TCPIP protocols to make it work. So, no, I can't really say where it came from."
     "Bummer."
     "Say, what's this all about, anyway?"
     "Ah, nothin' much. Just curious, ya know?"
     "Weird shit, man. Weird shit."
     "Yeah, I know. Well, hey, thanks. I owe you one."
     "OK, dude. Later."
     "Yeah. Bye."
     I hung up the phone and pondered this a little more. Then, I decided to get on with life. I slept well that night. In fact, I slept well in the following weeks and the rapid heart rate I had experienced had melted away along with the jerking. I felt so much better than I had in months. My fear and frustration with this Hynogogic Myoclonus became a bad memory of the past. Thank you, Reige, wherever you are.
      I just lay down. My stomach muscles just contracted so hard my knees almost hit my chin. My eyes flew open and I stared at the ceiling. I am really hating on this kid, Blim right about now.

How John Junas Got Closer to Home

   In the wake of the passing of Robin Williams by his own hand the media events he created brought on a flood of emotions from another warm August night. The difference was on that night I lost a friend in a white hot flash of light and a concussive whump to the chest as if from his own hand. Ironically, the classic rock station I had on the radio followed up the news update of Williams' death with Grand Funk's "I'm Your Captain (Getting Closer to my Home)." It brought back the all too vivid events of August 18, 1971. I can still hear it in my head and feel that sudden pressure in my chest that made it so hard to gather a breath. As the report droned on a tear started to form in my right eye as I thought about how life can be altered so much in a stark moment and reality can make such an indelible impression on so many. 

   In my introspection I realized I have never considered entering into a physical or sexual relationship with man. However, that does not mean that I have not experienced affection or love for another man.  Such was the case with John Junas, ex-Army and finally home from the hell of Viet Nam jungles. He had a bearing about him that women found irresistible and the younger guys admired. His ability to meet and bed girls usually within the first hour of meeting them was legendary amongst us. Average height, blond and blue eyes that reflected an interior pain that proved mysterious and irresistible, he represented every brand of torment that would pull on the hearts of women and girls. One look from him with his eyes awash with torment and a hard to fathom troubled sadness the panties would drop like so many multi-colored snowflakes. You could hear their motors start to run from the moment he walked in the room, lit up a Marlboro and said, "Hi. My name is John." I still can't figure the attraction, though. He wasn't that good looking of a guy, but for some reason his charisma would fill a room. He might have been able to fill a dance hall if the mood was right. It seemed women just wanted to breed with him. Men just wanted to be in close proximity of him with the hope they could catch the fallout from those not chosen.

   I started working at a record store in order to fill out my record collection at the age of 20 after being fired from another do nothing job. Hard rock had taken hold and FM radio was king. Psychedelia had moved out of its feedback and Theremin days into longer musical jam sessions with seemingly endless guitar and drum solos becoming mandatory. I had taken up residence in an old house with a huge front porch perfect for a rocking chair and slide guitar on a hot summer's evening. You just feel the blues dripping off it. A couple of guys that worked at the retail store that was once popular in the Midwest, E. J. Korvettes, had rented it a few months earlier and were looking for a third roommate to help out with the expenses. I had been asked to leave my house after coming home smelling of beer and sex one night. My step-father, with his sense of conservative outrage had decided this was the one incident that could get me out of the house and away from his wife, my mother, forever. It worked out well for him. Me? Not so much. So, I moved in.

   They were an odd group that includes an 18 year old named Russell that somehow managed to move in with his train set and slot cars. His parents were co-signers on the lease so, his oddities were overlooked. His personality was decidedly nerd-like with a non-existent coolness quotient. As a means of entertaining ourselves it became our objective to enlighten him on the ways of the world as seen through our eyes. The objective being that he, too, could enjoy the fruits of the many girls that were to pass through our beds and into passion's history. One night we were joking around and kind of picking on him in front of one of the girls that starting hanging out with us after the first week of my arrival. She was bored and wanted something to do other than sit around drinking beer and smoking pot. I threw out a suggestion that we should race slot cars for clothes. The loser would have to give up something and the winner could choose. The race was on and he experienced his first night with a girl as a result.

   The other guy, Kenny was a run away at 16. His previous residence was a tree house he had moved into when his family kicked him out of the house for too many curfew violations and his ever-present and sticky hands on his girlfriend. The kids who lived in the house adopted him like a pet and had sneaked an extension cord up the trunk for him to use for a lava lamp, a toaster and a radio. That illegal arrangement lasted a week until he was found out. The kids' parents just couldn't entertain so much passion happening in their back yard despite the amusement it gave to the children. Being good Christians they decided to take him in for awhile to get him back on his feet as long as Marcia kept her distance. That request lost out to youthful hormones and an endless supply of testosterone-fueled lust. It was then decided that if he was going to get this girl knocked up it would not be under their roof and he was asked to leave. Marcia at seventeen was a lethal irresistible package of jail bait packaged in Daisy Mae shorts and a push up bra. She had a body that men would remember the rest of their days wondering just how firm those breasts were. All she had to do was show up to put us all in a sweat and send Russell to the bathroom. 

   Soon, it became apparent that an urgent need to expand our financial base was necessary. Russell didn't make much money at the store and all Kenny wanted to do was to pump away at Marcia and get high. Our pot bill was quite high and we were becoming increasingly popular with Marcia's friends and the girls at E. J. Korvette's as word spread. That's when I brought in Rich. He was a guy about my age with an insatiable appetite for weed and had some good connects with some deals in the city. He had a steady job and could be counted upon at the first of the month.

   The lifestyle eventually got to be too much for Russell's psyche and he decided it was time to move back home to Mom and Dad. By this time I had turned 21 and could sign the sublease to keep the party alive. Kenny was arrested one night for being out past curfew and collected by his parents. Marcia was heartbroken, but continued to hang out at the house. Every time I looked at her the words statutory rape and contributing to the delinquency of a minor rolled through my head. My strict Baptist upbringing kept me from testing the stretch of her t-shirt. Rich and I knew there was no way we would be able to sustain our lifestyle without another roommate. Thankfully Kenny returned a month later after going AWOL from the juvie home and took up where he left off. That's when John came into the picture. 

   He arrived on our doorstep as the friend of a friend. He worked as a glazier for a glass shop downtown and showed the right kind of team spirit by offering up a joint of Colombian red top as a down payment. After an hour or so of trying to remember how to breathe and listening to German electronic music he reached into his duffel and pulled out an album by Grand Funk with the song "I'm Your Captain/I'm Getting Closer to My Home." He said, "Now, this is music." We agreed and it went into heavy rotation on the house turntable. Then, the stories of Viet Nam's terror would be told as we sat in hazy attention. He told us of his first kills and the immediate horror he felt. It was later rationalized into a necessity of it was either him or them. Alcohol usually drowned the pain, but it was the heroin that killed it. Or so he said. 

   There were the times he would disappear for days, but we never really gave it a second thought. John was untamed and his own man. We could only dream of the escapades he would experience on a daily basis. He would pull out of the house in his Mustang Mach 1 and disappear for parts unknown. Often, when he returned there were bags of weed and other fun stuff he handed out like party favors such as pills that made you happy or just plain stupid. Black tar hashish and Thai sticks were popular with his Army buddies and often found their way into out pipes as an added stoner bonus. His stated his network was still established and we often yielded the results of that arrangement. What did we care?  We were enjoying those fruits from the moment we walked into the house until work the next day. He would say he had just done few odd jobs up in Wisconsin with some buddies from his old unit and this was his way of celebrating with his friends and roommates. His wad of folding money would always be larger than anything we could imagine much less match in size. We were impressed, but questioned nothing.

   It was a hot Saturday night in August when he came into the house with a worried expression. He said a brief hello while stepping over Kenny and Marcia going at it on the floor. He had a large bag that was about half filled under his arm and he went straight for his room. We took little notice and continued our lives of dissipation on the couch while a strong electric blues played on the stereo. A moment later he walked out of his room with the bag under his arm and lifted the tone arm off the turntable. The size of the bag was smaller, now. In fact the bag looked almost empty. We had no idea of its significance. He then made the following announcement, "Guys, I'm a little fucked up, right now, so you're going to have to bear with me. I did a job up in Racine, tonight with my buddies and I scored a lot of money. It's in my room and if you find it after the cops get here it's yours." We all looked at each other in confusion and wonder trying to comprehend what he just said. He bent over looking through the stack of records and pulled out Grand Funk. Of course, it was his theme song. He laid it gently onto the turntable and with the expertise of a practiced audiophile gently lowered the tone arm to the vinyl surface. The opening notes started to play as the front of the house suddenly lit up with a white light with a sound of a circling helicopter overhead. No, there were a bunch of white lights and a helicopter circling overhead lighting up the house with the power of xenon.

   John stood in the center of the room and told us to get out there and through the back door as fast as possible. It didn't take more than a nanosecond for me too process that information and I was out of the house. Fortunately for me, the police hadn't completely surrounded the house, yet and I made it to the cover of the neighbor's shed. Once I saw that I hadn't been noticed I made my way made my way out the shed and innocently walked around to flank our house amidst the cover of some tall bushes like a bystander. The front porch was awash with cruiser spotlights as the light bars continually threw red flashes around the front yard. All I could think was "Holy shit! Holy shit! What has he done?" One of the squad cars came alive with the impersonal voice of authority, "John Junas! Come out with your hands up! You cannot escape! Come out now with your hands in the air."

   John yelled back to the cop, "Hey, I've got a coupla people in here that need to come out first. They're not hostages and they are not a part of this, okay?" The cops looked at each other for a second and told him to send them out. Kenny and Marcia came to the door eyes squinting from the brightness of the spot lights while the red spots continued their cycle around the trees and houses in the neighborhood. It was a good thing Rich was at work. They stumbled a bit down the stairs as an officer came up and grabbed them and led them away behind the cars. It was about then that I noticed that more than a few of the policemen had their weapons drawn and pointed at the front of the house. The helicopter circled one last time killed the spotlight and peeled off leaving the area much quieter. The police radio chatter filled the void at times and then there was the sound of a few uncaring crickets calling to each other. Damn! They're carrying on a conversation with each other while this life and death scenario is unfolding in front of us all. It just didn't seem right at the moment.

   "John Junas...this is your last warning. Come out of the house with your hands up or we will storm the house." I was paralyzed with fear for John. Kenny was sitting in the back of one of the cruisers by himself straining to get a good look at what was going on. I figured he was probably handcuffed. For what, I didn't know. Marcia was in the grip of female officer in the back of another car. She was crying hysterically and calling out Kenny's name between sobs. 

   Suddenly, John appeared at the screen door and started to open it. The sound of Mark Farner's voice singing the chorus of "I'm Getting Closer to my Home" rolled out like a bad soundtrack. It was loud and distorted. It was loudest I had heard that old stereo play and it was damn eerie. The cop on the P.A. told him to open it gentle like and without any sudden movements. John obliged and stepped into the lights with his arms held tightly to his chest as a group the cops flicked off the safeties on their weapons. It looked like he had something in his hands, but I couldn't tell from my angle. The P.A. cop told him, "Put your hands over your head and do not resist." John shook his head and revealed his package. Every cop on the front lawn stepped back with an audible gasp as they realized what John was holding. It was a hand grenade. He stood on the front porch effectively controlling the situation by freezing everyone in place. No one dared to move or speak. Grand Funk ended their song with a fade out. The tone arm automation took over and the tone arm was lifted and returned to its place of rest. The crickets took the opportunity to start back up with their chirping. John then looked at the police and gently said as if to a lover, "The song is over and now it's time for me to go home." At that moment I thought we made eye contact, though in retrospect it makes me wonder if it was possible. His blue eyes glistening with the beginnings of tears and he looked as beautiful as any angel I could imagine. Then, he pulled the pin with a gentle tug and let the spoon fly. I heard someone yell, "Grenade!" and saw the cops fall to the ground. A moment later there was a bright flash followed immediately by a sharp concussion wave that struck my chest with a powerful fist. The top half of John's body disappeared in a pink and red mist that spattered the front of the porch. One of his legs still stood supported still by a black motorcycle boot. I believe I actually saw the top part of his smoldering skull near one of the Adirondack chairs to the side of the front door. Oddly enough, the front window was still intact, but the door was now red. There was a rush by the police to the front of the house to get to the smoldering body before it could start a fire. Fire extinguishers covered the front porch with white fog as the cops went about their hurried business of crime scene security and preservation punctuated only by the interruption of the detached female voice of their dispatcher.

   My knees gave way and I dizzily sat on the ground stunned trying to understand what had just happened. Then, as the tears of my anger and sadness welled up I began to cry. Slowly at first and then fell into large sobs. John's foolishness had pushed me to a new level of reality and madness. I couldn't put it into any semblance of explanation. So, I decided to run. I stepped out of my cover and heard someone yell, "Hey you! Freeze!" Adrenaline kicked my flight reflex into high gear and I fled into the night vowing I would never again go back to that house. The thought of being there without John was too much to bear. As I ran the idea of betrayal by his decision and anger by his aggression unfolded in my mind. The idea of suicide had always been particularly offensive to me even during the darkest days of the ensuing depression this event created. I felt as though he had attacked me with as much violence as he had released on himself that night. There was no other way to explain how I felt and after years of therapy and anti-depressants. I still find it difficult to find a way to forgive him. Not only had he handed me his own case of depression he also gave me cause to live with it. 

   Of course, I had to return to the scene to collect my things. I found the house empty. My roommates had the same idea as me and found other places to go and stay. We would never again be together as a unit. It was obvious someone had taken great care to clean the place up. The front porch had been sanitized and painted. It looked impersonal as if no one had ever lived there much less enjoyed the atmosphere of such a wonderful rambling front porch. It was like someone had washed all the blues away leaving a nice suburban home in its place. Of course, we as a group would never return to this place or relive any of the memories that were now just moments in time. The shadows that once graced the walls with personalities and experiences had been erased. Those that once lived here now were gone as was the horror from that night.      
   The only thing left was the sadness John's void left behind.

I know the betrayal of suicide and how it robs the survivors of their innocence. Is it ever possible to forgive the perpetrator of such a heinous act? The perpetrators never seem to realize that are the ones who are left with the bill to pay. We are the ones that must live with their sanctimonious decision. When the violator of this life gives in to the impulse of depression's mockery of reality, when the thought of taking another breath is lost in drowned hopes, when the decision to end it all is made without regard to the consequences of such treachery and the total disregard of how it will affect the survivors is sentencing those loved ones to sadness and sorrow every time their name or circumstance is mentioned. Yes, I suppose there is room for forgiveness, but there should never be a condition of condoning the act. Admittedly, Williams' transgression against his family hasn't affected me like John's crime against me, but I am certain I know how they feel.

September 3, 2014