“Midnight”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-19)

Damn the clock.

I had finished Tuesday with chicken tacos, and salad. A meal somewhat more healthy than my usual hillbilly fare here at the Ice Household. Labatt Blue Light helped make it a feast worthy of celebration. But after watching coverage of the ‘Brexit’ crisis on Sky News, via my Roku, food fatigue took hold. My eyes were burning. I wished for sunset and the cool embrace of darkness. But the schedule was set. A timeline that could not be altered.

I put my iPhone on the charger and went to bed.

Dreams fluttered through my subconscious mind without pausing. I rolled on the mattress, trying to find a comfortable position. Shadow-images crept forward, from oblivion. I was pecking away at the device keypad, trying to call my first wife. Wrong number, wrong number, no answer, wrong number. Frustration made my blood pressure rise. I tried re-starting it without success. Loud music in the background rattled my nerves. I could not concentrate. Next door, someone was practicing guitar. Yowling out stanzas of bear-voiced insanity. While slamming chunks of distorted rage into the night. Birth/death/agony/sex/tacos/gaming/Netflix/skaters/Snapchat/kittens. Roar, roar, roar.

Then, it was midnight.

I opened my eyes to see the wet nose of my Black Lab. He was excited to know that I had awakened.

Such moments follow familiar steps. First, denial. “Shit! I needed to get more rest!” Followed by anger. “Why does this happen when I drink?” Then, recognition. “I am up now. Won’t sleep again for hours.” Finally, acceptance. “Might as well make coffee.” I was glad to find my Invacare cane hanging on the bedroom doorknob. Hobbling, I slipped through the darkness toward a light still burning over the kitchen stove. Already, there were words in my head...

Awake, alive

Words on the inside

That I show to myself

For my own mental health

Friends have value

They know what to do

But most treasured by far

Are words in the dark

After starting the BUNN, I reached for my phone. The Phil Hendrie episode on PodcastOne, #1387, had not been updated. But I listened a second time. He and the ‘crew’ bantered about his long and convoluted career in radio broadcasting. Then, I flipped to YouTube and ‘1PugLife’ for a video about Chris Whitcroft’s woes with a Dodge Ram truck called ‘The Red Dragoon.’

I finished my pot of coffee and PB toast, while Wrangler snored away on the carpet. With typical irony, my being awake meant that he felt comfortable drifting off to sleep. I flipped through more channels on the Roku, finally becoming disinterested with everything. In a moment of weakness, I wished for another drink. Beer or something stronger. Perhaps a Julian-sized glass of Liquormen’s ‘Ol’ Dirty Canadian Whiskey’ as seen on ‘Trailer Park Boys.’ But practicality made me resist the temptation. I decided instead to sit at my desk.

Still groggy, I clicked on an overnight Jazz selection to ease the mood. My Black Lab followed from the living room. Before I knew it, the phone was chirping.

Somehow, it was now 4:30 a.m.!

Middle of the night

Catching ghosts by candlelight

A wordsmith with prose

A pale, yellow rose

Not fed by the sun

Fed instead by none

On this desk I stand

Me, I am

My friend Janis had sent her regular ‘wake up’ text, wishing me good morning as she got ready for work. I struggled out of the chair, stiff with arthritis. A break was welcome as I had been sitting at the computer for around three hours. My legs shook unwillingly, then straightened as I stood. Miles Davis echoed from the computer speakers. Then, Art Blakey & the Jazz Messengers. After a couple of minutes, I was able to wobble back to the kitchen.

I tapped out my own start-of-the-day greeting. Janis did not respond. I reckoned she must have been running late.

My belly felt empty again. I pondered heating up leftover taco meat. Or pulling out one of my guitars. The night had been completely fractured. Unproductive. I had story ideas to write. New shows to watch. Household chores to finish. But a lazy stupor had smothered my ambition. Not with gloom or grayness but a heavy sense of nothing. As my fingers moved over the keyboard, I wandered in thought...

Night or day?

Words to say?

A vacuum of tears

Being alone, I fear

Alone without words

This would negate my worth

I need to speak

To be free

The home office had gotten cold. It was time for bed again. Jazz music, coffee and the companionship of my dog had all worked their magic spell.

This time, I would sleep for real.

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