The Wee Hours

Ron awoke. He worked hard at the saliva, pushing and pulling it, spreading it thin to each corner of his sleep-dried mouth. Soon, the unrelenting parchédness forced an earlier-than-usual refrigerator raid. Through the latched bedroom door, into the thick wall of hot, humid air, down the interminable hallway of the all-but-vaulted ceiling, drunkenly lumbering along. The gooey mouth of morning stench of unbrushed cheese and crackers. At long last, the pearly white gate, the long-handled white door of airlocked cool, wherein lies the thirst-quenching elixir. Ron's bare back, bristling with temperature changing goose pimples and pelt fur. Only, he called them "goose bumps" and "man fur". Chugging. Chugging. Chugging the elixir; one part hydrogen, two parts oxygen, nine hundred seventy-three parts sugar. Kool-aid, indeed. Somnambulant. In the buff, exchanging pleasantries with the house plant hanging from the corner. Ron's mind began to stir with its first thoughts of the day.

Meanwhile...

The business of the bank at 2:00 p.m. was a steady, white affair. Keys were being pecked at in every direction. Phones rang and were being answered quickly and politely. There were suits, ties, skirts and blouses--all dancing around as if in a fixed little bubble of whirring, preordained maneuvers. Except, every now and again, a stapler needed refilled or the floor rewaxed. But, by-and-by, intelligent design was not without the foresight of such circumstances. And extra cogs, gears, and pulleys were duly put in place long before any stapler was ever out of staples. And so the tellers, with their pert little curls, manicured nails, and cherubic faces could call with confidence from their machicolated workspaces, the next customer. There were turnstiles, counters, compartments, right angles--everywhere, the axiomatic certainty of a geometer's proof.

But this was a new bank, a new machine, not yet tried and tested. It was but a few days and five hours old, when, at 2:01 p.m., the yonder stirrings of Ron's mind became the murmurs of a little chubby lady teller taken with the view of a naked man-beast outstretched toward the ceiling, talking to what seemed to be a house plant. A man waiting for his first car loan almost heard her as she turned to her co-workers, all in a line at the drive-thru window, and in a hushed tone, with a red face, delivered them a taboo.

"Don't look in the window up there." Whispering even more quietly--but emphatically, "He's naked again."



© 2005 George Czar