Dream Interpretation

I know I should have written earlier in the week about what happened at the Indian casino in a bid to win money for Hank's gravestone, but I gave my word to a major player in last weekend's events that nothing would be written until after Halloween weekend, when "everything would be complete."  Boyce assured this major player that no one would read what I wrote before or after Halloween weekend.  I nevertheless remain true to my word.

Therefore, in the meantime I have been asked to interpret a dream.  Problematically, I have not met the dreamer, which always makes dream interpretation difficult.  Sometimes a cigar is a cigar, and sometimes it most definitely is not.  Knowing the dreamer certainly helps.  The dream was given to me by a third party, however, and I have agreed to interpret the following.  All sophomoric grammar errors belong to the dreamer.

the first dream starts out with me and a few friends driving in two separate cars to a log cabin in the woods. the driver of my car is my brothers' girlfriend kelsey. we get to the cabin and arent really doing anything when the people in the other car get mad at the people in our car. all of a sudden the mood becomes chilled to immediate fright. the people from the other car become very hostile so the people from my car run away from the cabin. kelsey gets in the drivers seat and takes off with the other car right on our tales. we take a left out of the drive way and it turns from a wooded road to open meadows. we pass a few indian reservations. finaly we stop at one to try to find shelter and protection. we meet the indians and they hide us in a small house. we hear the other car drive in and start wrecking the place trying to find us. right before they reach our little hut i wake up

now i go back to sleep later that night and the dream starts over. we drive back to the cabin with my brothers girlfriend driving the car. the cabin gets even more hostile this time. ( remember we are all friends so there is logically no reason to be furious to the point of wanting death) so this time as me and kelsey and my friend cameron and allie are running to the car kelsey throws the keys of her car to cameron and we take off with him driving while allie is in the back seat and kelsey apparently gets taken by the angry mob. as cameron speeds out of the driveway i yell for him to take a left as we had done last time but he swerves right. this time we got a little more of a head start and the other car was not directly behind us. so as we are driving we never see the car behind us. we are still freaking out though. we are not sure if they are on another road watching us or if we just cant see them but they know exactly where we are. this road also changes from woods but is now really hilly. we start talking about where we should go for shelter. we talk about going to our houses but we know we are unsafe there. so i said we should go stay at the church where my mom works. we decide to do that but are very uncertain about it. right before we get to the church i wake up.

Although I have not met this person, this is what the dream means. 

the first dream starts out with me and a few friends driving in two separate cars to a log cabin in the woods. the driver of my car is my brothers' girlfriend kelsey. we get to the cabin and arent really doing anything when the people in the other car get mad at the people in our car. all of a sudden the mood becomes chilled to immediate fright. the people from the other car become very hostile so the people from my car run away from the cabin. kelsey gets in the drivers seat and takes off with the other car right on our tales.

One thing here is clearly important: identity.  It's no coincidence the dreamer is going to the woods with his brother's girlfriend, the only named figure.  This doesn't necessarily suggest the dreamer actually wants to have his brother's girlfriend.  What it does mean, however,  is that he is betraying or desires to betray his brother.  Whether this is in a romantic context or not can't be known.  Note the fact that the identities of those in the other car are obscured.  This could mean they were obscured in the dream, or that the dreamer is obscuring them out of shame in his telling of the dream.  Either way, his brother is a part of the other car.  Note the person who drives away the escape car is Kelsey herself, the symbolic object of betrayal.

we take a left out of the drive way and it turns from a wooded road to open meadows. we pass a few indian reservations. finaly we stop at one to try to find shelter and protection. we meet the indians and they hide us in a small house. we hear the other car drive in and start wrecking the place trying to find us. right before they reach our little hut i wake up

Indian reservations could mean a variety of things.  They could symbolize disgrace or gambling opportunities.  Given the clear betrayal from the first part of the dream, the Indian reservations represent the unfair dealings between the natives and whites in previous centuries.  The dreamer's subconscious is trying to make the betrayal of his brother known in the dream by putting him into the bosom of the betrayed.  Of course, his betrayal of his brother only leads to more betrayal--the huts are destroyed despite the fact that the natives were trying to help.  Betrayal is a cancer, and the dreamer knows it.

now i go back to sleep later that night and the dream starts over. we drive back to the cabin with my brothers girlfriend driving the car. the cabin gets even more hostile this time. ( remember we are all friends so there is logically no reason to be furious to the point of wanting death)

This is comical.  Despite the dreamer's subconscious explaining the betrayal, he still can't imagine why there is hostility.  The bell tolls for thee!

so this time as me and kelsey and my friend cameron and allie are running to the car kelsey throws the keys of her car to cameron and we take off with him driving while allie is in the back seat and kelsey apparently gets taken by the angry mob

This is an emotional fact of life.  Once you betray someone, ridding yourself of the object of betrayal does not return things to normal.  The removal of Kelsey is simply too little and too late.  Also, one can always interpret the dream, but one can interpret the telling of the dream here as well.  Subconsciously the dream-teller is trying to distract me from his original betrayal by only now giving names to the rest of the people in the car.  Both the riddance of the object of betrayal and the distraction through name-giving are attempts to alleviate the original guilt of the dreamer, both within the dream and in the telling of it.

as cameron speeds out of the driveway i yell for him to take a left as we had done last time but he swerves right. this time we got a little more of a head start and the other car was not directly behind us. so as we are driving we never see the car behind us. we are still freaking out though. we are not sure if they are on another road watching us or if we just cant see them but they know exactly where we are. this road also changes from woods but is now really hilly. we start talking about where we should go for shelter. we talk about going to our houses but we know we are unsafe there. so i said we should go stay at the church where my mom works. we decide to do that but are very uncertain about it. right before we get to the church i wake up.

"We talk about going to our houses but we know we are unsafe there."  Do you think?  It's your brother you betrayed!  The fact that his mother works at a church is irrelevant.  What's important is that both mothers and churches are figures of authority, and the dreamer desires to hide under the skirts of both.  The dreamer's subconscious will not allow him to have an easy absolution of his crimes, however, thus he wakes before he can get to either authority, suspending him in fear.  In the end, the dreamer knows what he's done or is contemplating doing, and his moral center will not allow a childish escape by crying to authority.  The subconscious is demanding that he give up the betrayal like a man.

No doubt the dreamer will disagree with my interpretation.  There is nothing new about that.  Dreamers rarely like being told about the things they repress, which is often the subject of dreams.  Very seldom does a dream mean something positive.  That well is long poisoned with the fears and guilt of the townspeople. 

Finding a Code

What can you make of this excerpt from Hank's journal?

YOUUUU AND WHOSE ARMY????  What a luster shine that is I don’t think I can stop moaning.  sleep sleep sleep sleep sleep sleep?  Robin??  In a museum in an Atlanta way back in a corner somewhere.  The here is now woe is me judgment day.  Where is Bulkerson?  Bulkaninni?  We needed Bulkington.  Trouble ahead.  Sleep sleep sleep sleep sleep sleep.  It’s an alarm Tat Nurner.  Reuben, live happily ever after.  King Barlo is a liar… sleep sleep sleep sleep sleep sleep.  Fight.

Sammy is at his best.  He said he’s never been so dedicated to cracking a code in his life.  But when I asked him if he even thought there was a code, he said, “Now what would that matter?”

Thus far he can’t decide if the words themselves are the code, or the letters are the code.  He gave me the above excerpt and told me to try my best.  I looked at it for a while, then said Hank was a smart man, and I didn’t know him very long, but I miss him.  Sammy squeezed my forearm and said he was sorry for my pain—but that's positively not what the journal means.

He’s given excerpts to Boyce, but he’s pretty sure Boyce is just passing them on to Charlotte.  Sammy doesn’t mind though, since he’s sure if anyone can crack this code it’s Charlotte.  Maybe my uncle's old friends could crack the code, since they're generally saying a lot of things that don't make any sense to anyone.  If I had more time I would go out to my uncle's grave and write some of Hank's words on the tombstone.  Maybe someone would write back, "Put it all on double zero!"

I'm sure Sammy doesn't think there is a code, but just to relieve his frustration he ordered a few Russian mail-order bride catalogs for Dr. Keegman's office.  He ordered all of us one, too.  He said it's like a fire extinguisher--every home should have one.

I'm not convinced anyone is reading this blog, but I told Sammy I would give a direct request to any readers to try to come up with a code from the above passage of Hank's journal.

Gambling Codes and Ghosts

I received the following response to my earlier email regarding headstones for Hank.

Mr. Winterbee,

Thank you for your inquiry.  In regards to the sinking of the headstone, that’s really dependent on weight.  The granite headstone is heavier.  We do not recommend putting a headstone where it is likely to sink.  As to your second question, yes you can bury ashes where you like so long as you are not trespassing. Finally, we don’t recommend putting a headstone on property not assigned for the purpose, or on property you do not own.

 They didn't say anything I wanted to hear.  I was hoping to get an email that went, "What charming questions, Mr. Wetherbee.  May we offer you a 50% discount on a headstone?"  That means I don't have enough money to get Hank a decent headstone.  That means a-gambling we must go.

When I told Sammy and Boyce that we needed to head to the casino again, Sammy said he had a brilliant idea for how to place our bets.  We never ended up burning Hank's journals, and Sammy took them home.  He said he's convinced that Hank put a code into his journals from beyond the grave, and if we could just figure out that code, then we would know how to bet.  Both Boyce and I pointed out that this would assume either: a) Hank wrote the journals knowing what we would do with them, and knowing how the numbers would come up whenever we bet, or b) Hank is going to change the journals from beyond the grave to fit what is going to happen before we place our bets.

Point of order, Sammy said.  There are other options as well: c) Hank's hand was moved by none other than God himself, who existing outside of time knew what would happen at the casino, d) one of the unknown consequences of Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease is to see through time, e) visitors from other dimensions, charmed by our lives, felt like helping us out and exchanged Hank's journals with ones that will align with the numbers that come up.

At this point Boyce was convinced there were at least fifteen more possibilities, and said: f) Hank's ghost, wanting to help us for the decent thing we did with his ashes, would make the numbers come up to fit whatever code we come up with, g) Hank's ghost, wanting to help us for the decent thing we did with his ashes, tells us to forget gambling in the first place and directs us to a treasure chest in the trunk of the brand new Mustang he made for us that runs on the sound of Led Zeppelin music.

By this time I was so agitated I threatened with going to the casino alone.  Neither wanted that, so we came to the compromise that I would bet using my system, and Hank and Boyce would bet with their system according to whatever code they find in Hank's journals (I agreed to provide one-third of their seed money).  All winnings would go to Hank's tombstone.  We also agreed that if the "ghost code" made more money than I did, we would include some variation of, "Thanks for the ghost code, Hank!" on the headstone.

I once asked Rachel about ghosts, and she didn't have much to say about them.  She said, "How am I supposed to know that ghosts are real when I can't even convince myself other people are real?"  Sometimes she said weird things like that, but she would say it smiling.  I don't believe in ghosts, though.  In fact, I don't think Sammy believes in them either.  I think he just wants to try to have a story to tell people, so he's going to try to find a code in Hank's journals.  Boyce believes in them, because he believes Charlotte.  I gave Charlotte all those bird songs to write out as music, and it took her about a year to do.  When she got to the blue jay though, she told me that after her mother died she kept seeing several blue jays together, either on a branch or in the grass or on a fence.  She said those blue jays were her mother telling her not to feel alone.  I told her she might as well say that the fence was her mother.  But then Boyce got upset at me and said, "When is the last time you saw a bunch of blue jays hang out together?"  And I had to say that I'd never seen that.

If I were to believe in ghosts, however, I do appreciate them appearing in bird form.  If I came back as a ghost, I certainly wouldn't choose a translucent, wavy version of myself.  I'd be a Great-Horned Owl.  And when people saw me they would say, "Oh my god, it's an owl!  I thought it was a ghost."  But I wouldn't say, "I am a ghost.  It's me, Cyrus!"  Instead, I'd just fly away, because I'm an owl and I don't really care whether they know I'm Cyrus or not.  I got flying to do.

Sammy Has a Dream

After yesterday's dinner rush, Sammy took a break from Arby's and brought me a dream he'd written down from the previous morning:

some family and i were hiking in montana. tried to get the world cup finals to come in at camp, moving rabbit ears and stuff. soon after finally getting the game, i was transported to being IN the game! played defender. the teams weren't countries... more like combinations of random people. the other team's goalie was the patriot and brewer samuel adams (and behind the corner kick flag he was keeping, and refreshing, his players with a huge wine stockpile). as the tie game neared the end, our team was given a penalty kick. the crowd was like a million strong i thought. cameras flashing all the bit. our penalty hitter hit the crossbar as the crowd gasped but i followed it in as samuel adams lay dejected.  i knew that scene i was in would be the cover of all magazines. but i had to go play defense for the last 6:11 on the clock. the field morphed into somewhat of a hotel conference room look. i and some pirate were guarding a closet like goal. with about two and a half to go i swung and missed at a ball heading across our goal and the pirate was so disoriented by my miss he picked up the ball with his hands (penalty kick!). they tied it up and we went to overtime.  during this time, the pirate and i were sneaking wine from samuel adam's stash. then, after a long time, we saw a little pop up tent type goal for them that was supposed to be manned by little bo peep (she was INSIDE the tent) was open and a teammate knocked it in, setting off a less that exhilarating win (were there still fans there?). i woke up.

An impressive dream by Sammy.  No doubt he wanted, as he wants all his dreams, to mean, "You will be a professional athlete and everyone will marvel at all the smart writers you quote in your interviews."

Unfortunately, this is what I had for him:

some family and i were hiking in montana. tried to get the world cup finals to come in at camp, moving rabbit ears and stuff. soon after finally getting the game, i was transported to being IN the game!

This is most likely due to Sammy's feelings of inadequacy toward electronics and other masculine things.  He attempts to fix the television in a very masculine environment (Montana mountains) with people we all must impress (family).  Yet, some part of him admits that he doesn't know how to fix things, and this is performed through his mixture of “fixing” and “getting sucked into t.v.”

played defender. the teams weren't countries... more like combinations of random people. the other team's goalie was the patriot and brewer samuel adams (and behind the corner kick flag he was keeping, and refreshing, his players with a huge wine stockpile).

Note here the lack of geography.  He started in Montana, then warped to another location.  Then note the non-geographic players in the game.  Yet he does have Samuel Adams, who obviously represents the East Coast.  He is the only person here clearly from somewhere: Sammy came from  Montana via a television, the players have no countries, and a pirate, by definition, is without country.  Samuel Adams also represents the past.  Given Sammy's constant harping on his ancestor Charles Brockden Brown, as well as his family background from New England, as well as the fact that he and Samuel Adams have the same name, I believe Samuel Adams is another Sammy in the dream.

as the tie game neared the end, our team was given a penalty kick. the crowd was like a million strong i thought. cameras flashing all the bit. our penalty hitter hit the crossbar as the crowd gasped but i followed it in as samuel adams lay dejected.  i knew that scene i was in would be the cover of all magazines. but i had to go play defense for the last 6:11 on the clock.

Theoretically he has a wonderful moment here.  But theoretically I married Rachel and we live in a bird sanctuary, and call a modest pagoda made of $100 chips our house.  His wonderful moment comes against himself, what we will call the Samuel-Adams-Sammy.  This Samuel-Adams-Sammy is who he wishes he could be, as is evidenced by his “life-giver” role by giving out wine.  Samuel Adams may have been a brewer, but wine in dreams is an archetype for reproduction and immortality.  Even Sammy's dream knows this victory against the other team is hollow, as seen in the fact that the game is still over, and eventually goes to overtime.

the field morphed into somewhat of a hotel conference room look. i and some pirate were guarding a closet like goal. with about two and a half to go i swung and missed at a ball heading across our goal and the pirate was so disoriented by my miss he picked up the ball with his hands (penalty kick!). they tied it up and we went to overtime.

Again, note the lack of geography.  Even the playing field has been upturned, which is to say in this battle between Sammy and the Samuel-Adams-Sammy, he feels lost.  The pirate is the ultimate nomad here, and he’s playing on Sammy's side, and he helps let in the goal against the self Sammy wishes he was, that is the Samuel-Adams-Sammy team.

during this time, the pirate and i were sneaking wine from samuel adam's stash. then, after a long time, we saw a little pop up tent type goal for them that was supposed to be manned by little bo peep (she was INSIDE the tent) was open and a teammate knocked it in, setting off a less that exhilarating win (were there still fans there?). i woke up.

Part of Sammy's mind realizes he wants Samuel-Adams-Sammy to win.  He is, after all, drinking from the latter's live-giving preserves.  Thus Sammy and the pirate give up the goal.  However, another part of him must battle this Samuel-Adams-Sammy, perhaps for the faux-masculine reasons that began the dream.  Sammy's mind then comes to a compromise.  He won’t let Samuel-Adams-Sammy win, nor will he let himself beat him.  What he can destroy, in a kind of rage, is the most “real” Sammy Clifton: the little child who is scared and hiding about something he knows he’s lost (in his case, honesty, in her case, a rogue sheep).  This also explains the “less than exhilirating win,” because, how could it be anything else?  In the end Sammy didn’t even know what he wanted, so he chose to self-loathe.

As usual, the real interpretation to come from all dreams: maybe everyone else is as unstable as me.

A Marker for Hank

This morning I sent the following email to a headstone company.  I will let you know any details when I receive an answer.

Dear Artisan Memorials,

I am hoping you can answer a few questions.  First, I see the bronze headstone is more expensive than the granite.  However, which is more likely to sink into the ground if the area around the headstone is moist and prone to puddling?  Second, I understand you cannot bury a body just anywhere.  But I assume it is not illegal to bury ashes anywhere.  So in a situation where a person was cremated, but then the subsequent owner of those ashes wanted to see the person buried, can you bury the ashes any place you like, since it's essentially burying dust and debris?  Third, if I can just bury the ashes anywhere, could I also put the headstone there as well?  I understand that if one doesn't own the land the rightful landowner could remove or destroy the headstone, though we can probably all admit that would be a jerk thing to do.

Thank you.

Cyrus Wetherbee

#8

Boyce called me at 4:33 in the morning last night.  He sounded like Ernie laughing and every time he tried to speak he just started laughing again.  He finally had the composure to ask how many times I was punched in junior high and high school.  I said, "You know good and well.  Eleven times.  You were the first."  And then he burst into laughter again.  Then, after he told me to "Wait...wait...wait...wait..." he finally asked me the name of the kid who punched me in the stomach in the bathroom.  I told him, "Jeremiah Rawlson," and Boyce laughed like Ernie, and told me to tell him the story again.

Jeremiah Rawlson would go to the school bathroom in order to have a bowel movement nearly every single day.  He did this, however, in between classes when the hallways were filled, like some kind of sociopath, in one of the busiest bathrooms in the school.  Once, he walked out of the stall and I told him, "You know, what you're doing is one of the most private things a person does.  Don't you even want to do it when people are in class?"  He just sneered and ignored me.  Then, one day he walked out of the stall while I was washing my hands, and I said, "Given the choice, Jeremiah, even a dog wants privacy." Jeremiah punched me in the stomach.  I half fell into the trash can, but eventually rolled under the sink to catch my breath. 

Boyce laughed through the whole story, and when I finished he told me I was the best and then hung up the phone.  It was 4:36.

Hank's Burial

It wasn’t until we all got together in Boyce’s van that we realized we had no idea where we were going to scatter Hank’s ashes.  The only place I ever saw him was at the Sleep Center and the hospital, and Boyce pointed out that he didn’t even know the color of the man’s eyes.  Sammy said they’re a brownish-gray, and shook the box a little.

We went to a park to dump the ashes there, but there were a whole bunch of teenagers around and I didn’t want them to roll on him while having sex.  Boyce was obsessed with the idea of blowing a handful of Hank’s ashes in someone’s eyes, so he kept suggesting we go to a bad area of town to try to get mugged.  None of us really knew how Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease works, but since it’s like mad cow disease, we were afraid someone else might get it if we threw Hank into someone’s eyes, or put him in their coffee, or sent him to Dr. Keegman's office in a jack-in-the-box.  So we kept driving, and once we stopped to eat at a diner.  Hank sat next to me.

Sammy and Boyce said what we did with Hank was up to me, and I said that I didn’t like the idea of scattering him anywhere.  I liked to visit graves and talk to the headstones.  When I first told that to Rachel she said there wasn’t anything more human than needing to talk to the deceased, and since death didn’t sting anymore I should go ahead and talk to my father.  Well, in Hank’s case, his brain liquefied so it’s hard to say if there was a sting or any kind of pain, but I still wanted him to be buried somewhere.  Sammy said that if my mother was buried at a Ruby Tuesday’s, maybe we could bury Hank at a T.G.I.Friday's.  I said Hank was better than that, so Boyce said Applebee’s.  But I said Hank was better than any restaurant lawn, and he was going to be buried some place nice.

I don’t know any place nice, so we went instead to the Roger Malvin Country Club which is also a bird sanctuary.  There are sandhill cranes there, along with a whole bunch of ducks, and some mergansers, too, all because of the water on some of the holes.  Once I went there to see the birds but got kicked out by a marshal who drove around in a golf cart.  He asked where my clubs were, so I asked him the same thing.  He said he was there working, and I told him the same.  Then he told me to get the hell out of there, and I told him to do the same.  Then we stared at each other for a long time because he didn’t know what to do.  Later, a man who sold beer from the back of a golf cart came by and warned me the police were coming, so he gave me a ride out of there.

One of the greens at Roger Malvin had some woods on one side of it and a marsh on the other side.  We took Hank’s ashes there and buried them real deep a few yards inside the woods.  Then we went and sat on the green.  It’s October so they didn’t turn on the sprinklers, and we had a nice view of Hank’s gravestone we made out of rocks, as well as the marsh on the other side. 

It didn’t take long before we heard a night heron in the marsh.  Boyce and Sammy were quiet so I could listen to him.  I told them he was hunting.  We wondered if some animal dug up Hank’s ashes and ate them if it would go crazy.  Sammy said since Hank hallucinated about robins, maybe a robin would hallucinate about Hank.  Probably though the earthworms would eat Hank’s ashes, and then the robin would eat the earthworms, therefore it’s hard to tell if the robin would hallucinate about Hank, earthworms, or something else entirely.  We all agreed that the next time we saw a bird fly into a window we’d all think of Hank Gradowski.

Eventually the night heron found something to eat, and I promised I’d come back to Hole 14 with a better tombstone for Hank.

Box of Hank

Nothing ever appeared in the newspaper about Hank's funeral.  Then, in the middle of the week, Boyce called and said he and Sammy managed to obtain a few phone numbers for me.  They gave me Hank's ex-wife's number, his still-living mother and father's phone number, as well as both sisters.

I called them all up, beginning with his parents.  Every time they said the same thing to me: "There is no funeral."  I explained at each phone call that this was stupid, and if it was a matter of paying for what food I ate at the services I could do them one better: bring plenty of Arby's for everyone.  That pretty much ended the conversation with everyone but Hank's ex-wife.  She said, "I know it's stupid.  I don't know what's wrong with those people.  Wait, what did you just say about Arby's?"

Hank's ex-wife told me that his family decided not to have a funeral with Hank.  She told me they cremated him, and she had no idea what they were going to do with the remains.  She didn't think they would do anything with them at all.  I asked her if she could get them for me then, and she asked me again who I was.  Then I asked her again, and she asked me if I was going to do something weird with them.  I told her that the last coherent thing Hank said was to apologize to me, and he was my friend, and the least I could do in return is put his remains somewhere.  She told me Hank was a good man, that she never thought Hank wasn't a good man, and I told her I know he was.

Last night Hank's ex-wife called me and said she had a whole box of stuff that his family gave her when she went asking for it.  She brought it to the Sleep Center since I worked on Saturday, and then I called Boyce and Sammy.  We spent some time behind the Sleep Center going through some of Hank's stuff.  His remains were in a small box, and we all thought that was weird.  Sammy thought it was weird that such a small box could hold a person's remains.  Boyce that it was weird that if we dropped it we couldn't tell Hank from the rust on the side of the dumpster.  The only thing I thought was weird was that Hank's voice was somewhere in that dust.  I didn't mind that his brain and teeth were in there.  His voice shouldn't be in there, though.

Other than the small box of his remains, Hank's ex-wife pointed out that there were a couple journals in there, too.  We read a couple of his last entries, but they were mainly just jagged, deep marks in the paper with random words like, "Wheel" and "Chariot" and "Martian."  Sammy pointed out that among the jagged marks was the word "ROBIN" over and over.  It could have been a person's name, but I think Hank was one to appreciate the American Robin even if other people take it for granted.  We decided not to go through the journal, but instead to burn it when we get rid of Hank's remains, which we're doing tonight.  I'm waiting right now for Boyce to come pick me up.  I actually have Hank's little box of voice and lung right here in my lap.

It's been ten minutes since that last sentence.

Ten minutes since that last one.  Boyce is late.  I don't mind.  Boyce and Sammy got Hank's family's phone numbers by calling Rex Tugwell and telling him to go through Hank's file.  Rex told them to make me do it instead, but Sammy pointed out that Boyce was, at that moment, stripping bark to gather earwigs.  Then Rex got them the numbers.  Sammy and Boyce are my friends.

Ten  minutes since that last one.

That's, Boyce!  Bye, Hank.

Hank Gradowski (1968-2009)

Hank is dead.

He died Sunday night and I did everything Rachel told me to do for people who are dying, but it didn't help.  I am yet to see it work, and though I am not an old man, I have seen too many people die.  When I was a little boy and my mother told me to get that "damn dead bird" out of the house, I had already had enough of death.  Rachel said sick people like to be read to, and the best thing to read to them is poetry, because it's generally short and you can stop after each poem to see how they're doing.  She used to read poetry to sick people, and she said the most unread, hateful person would listen to those poems like it might save them.  She said the only people in the world who are convinced they're going to die are poets and sick people.  So I took the collection of bird poems Rachel gave to me and read them to Hank.  He died anyway.

At first I couldn't see Hank.  The nurses asked me who I was, and I told them that I had recently been sketching Hank's hallucinations, and I'd like to update him on their progress.  I had all the sketches with me in a tube, and had some pencils too in case Hank had some new ones.  After the third time I said it the nurses understood I wasn't playing a joke on them, and they told me Hank was in a coma and he wouldn't be able to speak to me.  They said only family could see him, and his family had already visited. 

I sat out on the curb of the hospital sidewalk and called Sammy and Boyce.  They both came out to meet me at the hospital, and we tried again.  Sammy is good at talking people into things, but when he's around Boyce he's even better.  Boyce is generally a quiet guy, but when he needs to, he can be really convincing, and the two of them have a great track record of talking people into things.  One summer, Boyce and Sammy made it a month never paying for a soda at a restaurant.  They just always talked the waitress into floating them something for free.  The formula generally goes:

a) Be polite, but not too polite.  Smile, laugh, and when the seductee speaks lean your head in slightly.
b) Separate yourselves from the unwashed masses.  This includes nodding, saying "Really?" and "Seriously?" when the seductee complains, and looking at one another as though to say, "Can you believe this, Boyce?...I cannot, Sammy."
c) Tell a story that resembles any complaint of the seductee.  This works especially well if you set up the other person.  For instance: "Sammy, didn't that happen to your mom once?"
d) Never make an overt request.  Ask with your eyes and awkward pauses that are redeemed through your eye contact and smiles.  Always let the seductee feel they are acting graciously out of their own willed kindness, rather than being guilted or seduced into an obligation.

 When we got up to Hank's floor though, the nurses saw me with my tube of hallucination sketches and said, "You and the architect can turn right around.  No visitors."  Sammy and Boyce didn't even get a chance to start their formula.  When reacting against such vehemence, however, they adjust the formula by scrapping all bells and whistles and getting straight to the point.  Boyce said, "Look, this is Mr. Gradowski's good friend, and you and I know both know he's not going to live much longer."  They would have none of it, though.  Family wasn't even allowed at this time of night.

On our way back out through the lobby, however, I saw Randy Bart, who was custodial staff at the Sleep Center years before, and had put in a transfer for the hospital.  Randy is nearly seventy years old and very religious, and when I said hello to him he said God bless me for visiting someone.  That's when Sammy and Boyce took over, renewed by a new target.  In twenty minutes--fifteen of which were given to let Randy talk about the new carpet at his church and his grandkids--we were inside Hank's room.  It turns out Randy Bart is adored by the nurses because he doesn't ever complain, so when he vouched for me they agreed to let us see Hank.

I tried reading some poems to Hank, and when I got tired Sammy took over.  Hank didn't  move though.  It's hard to look at a person in a coma and not imagine them suddenly coming out of it, kind of like I can't follow the directions scribbled onto my uncle's grave and not imagine him jumping out of the ground when I stand on his tombstone and scream, "FREE DRINKS FOR THE UNDEAD!"

For a while the three of just talked amongst ourselves, wondering if Hank could hear us.  Sammy said his brain is so shot that if he did hear us, he wouldn't know our voices from his own memories.  We figured if that were true though, we should just say some great things and maybe Hank would think they happened to him.  So for an hour we just told stories to each other about fun things we'd done in our life.  We talked about going to Vegas, Atlantic City, Reno, and all those riverboats and Indian reservations.  Boyce told the story about when we were in high school and tried to tip over the vending machine for a free coke, but it fell onto Sammy instead.  And even though Sammy hurt his ankle real bad being pinned under that thing, when the gym teacher found him he still had the presence of mind to say, "Remember me as a peacemaker."  And Sammy told the story about how he got Boyce back for running away when the vending machine fell on him by spelling, "MOVE PLANE, I CAN'T SEE GOD" with bleach on his family's front lawn.  And then Boyce told the story about how his family talked for the next ten years about what that was supposed to mean.

None of Hank's machines ever blipped like I hoped they would.  I said goodbye to him and that I'd visit him again if I could.  But when I called the next day, Sunday, they said Hank was dead.  I asked the nurse when the funeral was, and she said she didn't know, that it was up to family, and that I should contact them.  I don't know how, though.  Sammy has been checking the paper they get at Arby's, but there hasn't been anything there.  Boyce told me to just look up his file, but I promised Rachel I'd never do it again.  Both Sammy and Boyce think she'd accept this as an exception.  Even Charlotte agreed.  I won't do it, though.

I Got a Letter

I got the following letter in the mail this morning.  I wouldn't generally post a letter on this blog, but seeing how not a single blog reader worried if I was dead a couple weeks ago, I figure it's the same as posting it in my bathroom.

Dear Cyrus,

I just wanted to send you a note apologizing for what happened last week in the classroom.  Obviously I never intended to keep you and Boyce Jr.'s father from speaking, but given the content of our first speaker, I thought it best to simply stop all talks that day.  If you can believe it, it's actually the second straight week someone said something strange to the class.

I would invite you back to the class, but I've indefinitely suspended bringing in outside speakers.  I appreciate the fact that you were so willing to teach the kids about birds.   I wish I had some way to learn about birds like that!

Sincerely,
Andrea Felton

It's not often I get communication from people, except when I get angry notes in my mailbox which assume I am the owner of the old Camaro that's been parked in front of my house for almost three years (a common one: "DO YOU KNOW THERE'S NO ENGINE?").  I read the letter to Boyce and Sammy.  Boyce said he's completely comfortable with me marrying his son's teacher, and Sammy said no one remembers the meal, but everyone remembers the party.  When I told them I had no intention of contacting Miss Felton except to inform her of a certain local bird-watching group that I am currently banished from, they both got quiet.  Finally, Sammy said it wouldn't be anything disloyal to Rachel to go on a date with Miss Felton.  Because they've been my friends for so long, I let Sammy call me a mule and a coward and Boyce remind me she was hot, and because I've been their friend for so long they let me change the subject.

So instead we talked about Hank Gradowski.  He was at the Sleep Center last night, and one of the other doctors besides Marcel, Dr. Chesnutt, told me it was the last time Hank would come.  Hank is so far gone that there's really nothing the Sleep Center can do for him.  Hank is only forty years old, but just in the last two weeks he looks like he's aged twenty years.  At some point Hank went to the bathroom, but demanded to go by himself.  Things didn't go well in there, and when they dragged him out he was saying, "I'm sorry, Cyrus.  I'm so sorry."  I tried to tell him that I once messed myself on the floor of an Atlantic City Casino due to a poisoning attempt by an evil cocktail waitress, but the caretakers were snobs and told me to back away for God's sake.  The ambulance came to take him away pretty quickly.  Dr. Chesnutt said he hadn't said a coherent thing all night.  I pointed out to him that Hank apologized to me for the bathroom, but Dr. Chesnutt just said he hoped he doesn't die that way.

I've been working hard to finish all of Hank's hallucination sketches.  Having a friend with Creutzfeld-Jakob Disease would have its distinct disadvantages, but the weird stuff they'd tell you would make up for some of it.  Hank told me a couple days ago he saw his father as a young man again, and that alone was worth all his problems.  I told Hank I'd love to see Rachel again, so maybe I could eat his brain after he dies.

Another advantage of having a friend with Creutzfeld-Jakob Disease is when you say horrifyingly offensive things, they--unlike a certain local bird-watching group--will forget what you say.