It's On Me

“Hey! It’s you.”

“Well, yes it is. And it’s you.”

“I should apologize; I can’t remember your name.”

“Don’t be foolish. Half the time I can’t remember it either.”

We laugh. He believes most things these days. I told him I owned the diner and do all the cooking. I pretend I can’t remember either. It seems to make him more comfortable. I don’t run the diner or cook anymore. Only cooking I do is in my mind. Just this morning I made eggs Benedict. Tasted just like I thought it would.

I used to cook; this was my diner. One day I was doing something, forget, and went to… and my wedding ring fell off my hand into the deep fryer. Without thinking I reach in to get it. I wasn’t much of a cook after that. Hard to wield the blade with a hand that looks like a birds foot.

Zeke was, is, my friend from when we were kids. He started forgetting things years ago already. I kind of look after him when I can.  He comes in here cause it’s familiar. We go through the same dance every night, but then he gets something to eat and I have something to remember.

“Please, join me. I hate eating alone. Something that reminds me of how things have changed. How old I’ve gotten, how my friends are leaving.”

“Yeh, I know what you mean. You find yourself with fewer friends, but then I suppose someone will be saying that talkin about us some day.”

“Please, sit. I know if we talk a bit, I’ll remember you. You look so familiar, and your name is right on the tip of my tongue.”

“I’d love to, but I can’t sit on counter stools. I had this dream.  One of those reoccurring ones, where the stool begins to spin like a corkscrew. I go down and down and down, spinning into the floor. I smell burnt cookies and then someone throws a cream pie at me, but they miss. Then this clown jumps up from behind the counter and asks if I was planning on eating the whole thing by myself. I look, and there is this row boat with a banana resting in it. It’s covered with ice cream and chocolate. Then this clown reaches in his pocket and pulls out a handful of nuts and sprinkles them on top. Then he laughs, takes a lighter from behind his ear and lights the boat on fire.

I find myself afloat on this lake made of syrup, and as the boat burns and the ice cream melts, these fish that look like marshmallows with tails, swim up to the top and start to serenade me. Then I catch on fire and have to dive into the chocolate lake. I find myself drifting down, and when I look to see where I’m going, there is this giant octopus looking up at me. It’s holding a plate with two of its arms and the rest all have knives and forks. When it opens its mouth, I look inside and there is this man who looks just like my dead grandfather playing this pipe organ. The Octopus smiles, and starts tapping on the plate with all the silverware. Then I wake up.”

“We can sit in a booth if you prefer. Do you have dreams like that often? I know you said a repeating dream, but that can mean so many things. I dabble a bit in Freudian Zen. They used to teach it down at the home, but the instructor, nice lady, decided to run off and join the circus. No one actually believed she joined the circus, but then we saw this flyer someone put up advertising the show, and there she was. She was balanced on high wire above a net less sawdust floor. She was blindfolded, and her arms were tied behind her back. She was holding the balance pole in her teeth. There was a monkey and a kangaroo sitting on the ends of the pole playing the cutest little tambourines.

When the home caught on fire they told us it was probably not a good idea to go to the circus. We were to be relocated they said, but they wouldn’t say where or when. That is when I left, stole away in the night. I expected they would, hoped actually they’d find me, but so far nothing. I called the emergency number for the home and asked for myself. I was hoping to find out why no one was looking for me. They told me I was occupied and couldn’t come to the phone, and could they take a message. Apparently I was, “Not to be disturbed.”

I didn’t really have much to say, so I hung up. I slept in the basement stairwell last night, but then it started to rain and I began to have that same dream you were describing. Except my lake was filled with pudding, strawberry with yellow and blue sprinkles on top. My companions, not the monkey or kangaroo, but a giraffe singing, or humming, it was hard to tell. It sounded like the theme from that new musical, “Hang Up, I’ll Call You Back When You are not Busy.” It’s supposed to be a really good play, but most plays are too intense for me. Something about sitting so close to people pretending to be someone they aren’t, that gives me the creeps. I know I shouldn’t be that way, but after about fifteen minutes I forget what is real, and what is not. That ever happen to you? 

Oh, and the baloney here is out of this world. Tell them to fry it though. Plain it tastes like wet cardboard and when they deep fry it, it resembles cardboard that has been wet and left in the sun to dry, but still tastes like cardboard. Not the rumpled kind, but that smooth thin cardboard oatmeal comes in. But fried, it’s to die for.”

“Should we find a booth then?”

“You know, I’m not really that hungry. I think I’ll go home and make some popcorn and watch an old black and white movie. Something about black and white that makes it easier to sleep dreamless.”

“You know, that happens to me as well. And when I can’t dream I don’t know who I am or where I’m supposed to be. So I come here. Is that why you are here?”

“No, I stopped to apply for the job. Signs in the window. I expect it to be dishwashing, or something equally mundane, but then that is what I’m looking for. There is something about cleaning things that makes my life feel more complete. Problem is, it doesn’t work so well at home. I find that cleaning other places has a therapeutic effect, where as cleaning my own things leaves me wondering. If I do a good job, won’t someone be more likely to want to steal my stuff? Can’t be too careful, even with imaginary things. You notice how it’s getting harder to imagine and even harder to find the things you imagined.”

“Would you mind not using the word, imagine. Something about that word that makes me tilt to the west, like a setting sun. It tends to scare people. I noticed it didn’t bother you none though. You must be one of those people who can keep everything balanced, like that high rope walker I was telling you about.”

“Well if you have to leave, don’t let me keep you. I can make you something to eat anytime you like.

I find talking to strangers, sometimes even people I know, relieves the pent-up aggression I feel. I just get so upset I want to get my gun and just start shooting.”

“Thank God. I thought I was the only one. What kind of gun do you have? I got mine from this guy who sells guns out of his car. He says there is less overhead that way, and he can sells guns cheaper. Course the serial number and brand name have been filed off, but can’t see how that would make a difference on how it would shoot.”

“You ever think about doing something crazy, like robbing a bank or maybe even an all-night diner?”

“Everyday of late. I think it has something to do with the meds they are giving me. They say it will help keep me calm, but all I want to do is run down the street screaming. I used to do that all the time, even when I wasn’t takin my pills. So I don’t see how me taking them now would make a difference.”

“You got your gun with you?”

“Never leave home without it.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Didn’t.”

“I should tell you about the time I dreamed I was robbing a place; just like this one here.”

“Were you involved in a huge gun fight, and your outlook partner didn’t make it?”

“I don’t think I caught your name. You got one I suppose. Most people do. I’m going to go stand by the back door and keep an eye out. You do what you got to do. Just pretend I’m not here. Would you mind if I don’t remember to remember you? I feel closer somehow to people I don’t know. Ever have that feeling?”

“Yes. There is nothing worse than knowing what you are supposed to do, or who you are supposed to know, but can’t remember. What color hair does your dream clown have? Mine is bald.”

“Bye the way! Where do you buy bubbles for your gun? That dollar store down on the corner says they ain’t selling them anymore. Something to do with environmental degradation or regulation. But then they did say if you shoot someone right in the eye, they will see things in a different kind of light. Worlds a funny place. Hungry?”

“I could eat.”