Keys In My Hand

Keys in my hand. It’s a process I go through every time. Afraid of losing them, I put my hand deep into the right pocket and choose the one I need by feel. But that won’t do. I have to look at it also, see it to assure myself that it’s there. The end of work. I’m at my front door. Up the stairs, above my neighbors. I feel the key; I see the key; I have the key. I let myself inside.

Now, relaxing. The first thing I do is put my stuff down and make myself a snack that is just short of a meal. An apple, a chunk of cheddar cheese, a bagel. They are in a bowl within five minutes of closing the door. I am sitting down on the couch, lounging. The couch is dirty. The apartment is deserted. My roommates are not here, and haven’t been in some time. My jacket is in my bedroom, on the back of my computer chair, where I always put it. My hat and glasses rest on my desk beside my bed, where I always put them. My sheets are burgundy because Wendy, a woman I never slept with, loves that color.

I lounge on the couch, beside the beer stain that no one ever cleaned up, and on the other side of me are the things I had held in my hands upon entering the apartment: keys, a novel, a philosophy book, a notebook, and a voice recorder. I stretch. I eat. Something nibbles at the back of my mind. For so reason I can never completely calm down now. Not in this place. I live here. Ran into a person I didn’t know on the street home today. The television turns on. The television turns off. I fall into a mellow sleep, too tired.

A scream wakes me. It came from out back. Can’t see what it was. The neighbors playing movies too loud again. Happens every other night. Dark outside. Dark in here. Turn on a light, a freestanding lamp that is focused up so it lights one region of the ceiling very brightly and bathes the rest of the room in reflected lamp light. I hate yellow.

Stand up. The books don’t go on the couch. They go on the bed, or by the bed. I like to keep the notebook by me in case I think of something good. Writings about space stations and inventors who come up with super batteries. Too tired to read tonight. I sit at my desk, after putting away the other books, to write out something. The impeccability, or un-impeccability, of a medium depends upon how much it helps or hinders the transmission. Water effectively hinders the transmission of light, and therefore isn’t a good medium for it, but even pure crystal bends light somewhat, proving that there is no perfect medium.

Too tired to shower now. There is a commotion down the street, lights in the distance. I see them out the bedroom window, between the other apartment 4-plexes. It isn’t a mob. Lay down, clothes and all. No need for covers in this weather. Shut eyes. Go to sleep. Wake up. Look at wall. That shadow isn’t supposed to be there. Jump out of bed. Shoot gaze out window.

Nothing.

The shadow is made by the outside light on the apartment just across from me shining through the tree between us. But there is nothing there in the tree. Nothing shaped like that. It is a gorilla swinging back and forth by one arm, but there is nothing in the tree. Shake head; rub eyes; get hot chocolate. Back in bedroom. There is nothing out there. The lights down the street are closer now, blinking. Nothing in the tree. I reach for my hat and glasses, but they are not there. Where? On the table? They are not on the desk where I put them. Stand up, turn on light—another upward facing lamp—look around.

Another scream. Wish those guys would stop watching scary movies. Only other sound is driers in the washer room behind my building where rude people do wash at 3:30 in the morning. Where are my hat and glasses? Check floor on hands and knees. Shag carpet feels like dry grass. Makes me sneeze. Not there or under my bed. Check on bed and on couch. No. Nothing. Bed is a twin size collapsible. The coffee table is a glass affair with an old bed sheet draped over as tablemat. There are cookies on it since before I moved in. Beside them, my bowl and apple core.

Throw away. Clean. Rinse. There is nothing in the tree outside my bedroom window. While in the living room, I watch the news on TV. Kick back. Try to relax. Try to sleep. Remember when I first moved in. Life much easier. No work. No job. Summer before school. Bright, sunny days.

I hear the wind in the leaves, like the running of a highway. Like an earthquake. On the news, people talking. People happy. Talking heads accusing each other of not knowing anything. Not paying attention. The war is far away. Wars happen and don’t happen. Nothing here changes.

Woman I ran into today. I think of her. Didn’t know her. Never seen before. She was not Wendy. Definitely not Wendy. There is nothing outside my window. There is no mob in the distance. Go out to the balcony? I don’t want to. Another bombing half way around the Earth. Wind in trees. Window in the living room points the same way as the one in my room. Different light in different angles. Wind making everything sway. The lights are closer now.

There is no mob outside my apartment community. The police are not here. Turn volume up. Milk is good. Ax Body Spray will make women follow you everywhere. Oversized diapers allow elderly people to play tennis. The woman. The woman I ran into on the street as I was going to my car. I didn’t know her. She wasn’t being chased. I offered to hold a door open for her. I didn’t refuse to help her.

A scream outside the window. The loudest all light. Jump, rush, open window. “Shut the fuck up!” Something comes through the window. Crash! Break!

I did not lose my hat and glasses fighting against a croud of people trying to get back to my apartment. My right shoulder hurts. Stains on my jacket. Blood doesn’t show on black cloth. There are not people outside my door. They are not breaking in.

Who are these people? Sleeves of tattoos. Good shirts, torn. All skin white and red. Broken bottles. Lamp pole in my hands. Seven feet between me and them. I do not strike them. I do not hit them. The room does not go dark. Smell histamine in my nose. Nose swells, pains. Eyes go watery. Grab. Poke. Prod. The keys are in my hand. Gouge into something. Must get out. The keys are in my hand. The keys are in my hand. Nothing outside my window. No one inside my home. Not the woman. Wendy. Not the woman I met in the street. Keys in my hand. Make fist. Ram it into something. Not people. No one. Keys in my hand. Keys i—