Sunday Easter Sunday

                             Sunday Easter Sunday

Ronnie feels his eyes open – or does he? Is he awake? Or is he sleeping? He can’t tell, which usually means he’s dreaming. He finds comfort in that thought. Familiarity. He tries to settle into his slumber, but there’s a creeping sensation that he is awake. His delusion of unconsciousness is being replaced with a fear of consciousness. He’s certain of it – his eyes are open, yet he cannot see anything. Complete darkness. He attempts to move his hands yet can’t. He tries his feet – same result. Panic is surging through him. There is something in his mouth, he clenches his teeth, but they don’t touch. He begins to yell. Nothing escapes him. He is stifled – muted.

  After several moments of frantic, stationary convulsions and a terror of which he has never known, his primal, survival brain takes control. His breathing slows, as does his pulse. His wits begin to return. What could this be? What has happened to him?

 His first thought is some sort of attack. Medical. Stroke. Seizure. Paralysis. Yet, he can feel -- and he knows he’s moving, but not where he wants. Is this how a paraplegic feels? Frustrated? Bound – yes – bound! That’s it! That’s how he feels. And he’s sitting, upright, his feet planted solidly.

  Where was he – what was his last memory? Sitting on his back porch. Drinking a beer -- actually, several beers. Did he get drunk? Fall down? It’s his blood pressure! Did he take his meds? He can’t remember.

 He does remember working in his yard. Cleaning it. Making sure it was perfect. He remembers that feeling of satisfaction. Ownership. His lawn. Pristine. Then what?

 Then there is light. A searing brightness. It’s scalding as it explodes into his eyes – then his brain.

“Mr. Thompson.”

 A voice, deep an authoritative ignites Ronnie’s terror again.

“Who’s that? Where am I?” He asks.

“Are you Mr. Ronald Thompson?” The voice asks.

“Yes – yes – who are you?”

“We will arrive at that soon enough, Mr. Thompson. Do you live at 1508 Hummingbird Lane?”

“Yes – why?”

“I am merely trying to discover if I have the correct subject, Mr. Thompson.” The voice says.

“Subject – what the fuck are you talking about?” Ronnie asks, his fear trickling toward anger.

“Do you own an Echo PB-9010T backpack leaf blower?”

“Yeah – I own two.” Ronnie says with a glimmer of pride.

“Do you regularly operate this device for more than four hours consecutively?” The voice asks.

“Of course – perfection takes time.” Ronnie says.

“Mr. Thompson, I’m now going to show you several pieces of evidence. I want you to confirm or deny that this evidence concerns you.”

Ronnie, who has been twisting his head, in vain, trying to see who has been talking to him, is now confronted with a figure. The blinding white light is at its back, and he can only see a silhouette. The figure is holding a screen, a tablet, in front of him. The screen shows a video. A video of Ronnie, in his yard, working diligently with the Echo PB-9010T strapped securely on his back. He’s wearing industrial ear protection. He got them from his cousin Sal, who works for the airlines.

“Is that you, Mr. Thompson?” The figure asks.

“Yes – yes, it is.” Ronnie answers.

“Do you know what time this video was taken?”

“What time? What do you mean?” Ronnie asks.

“The time of day, Mr. Thompson. Do you know what time it was?” The figure asks.

“No, I don’t. It could be anytime.” Ronnie answers.

“You are right – it could be – but this particular video was taken at 7 A.M., Mr. Thompson.”

“That’s possible. I like to start early. Get it done before lunch. The beers taste better in the afternoon.” Ronnie says.

“Do you know what day this video was taken?”

“No – but hell, it could be any day. Probably the weekend though. I work during the week – and if it’s at 7, like you said – probably the weekend.”

“You are correct, Mr. Thompson – it’s Sunday – Sunday at 7 A.M., and not just any Sunday either. This video was shot at 7 A.M., Easter Sunday.” The figure says.

“Oh, yeah – I remember now – I had all morning to work that day. Me and Gloria, that’s the wife, we didn’t have to go to Aunt Sylvia’s until two. Gloria already had the deviled eggs made, so I spent the morning sprucing up the place. Spring cleaning – you know?” Ronnie says.

“Now, Mr. Thompson, I am going to show you an email that was reportedly sent to you. The only thing I am asking is, did you receive this email?” The voice asks.

The screen now showed an email, but he couldn’t read it.

“I can’t see it; can you move it closer?” Ronnie asked. The Figure complied. That was how Ronnie was envisioning his inquisitor now. Formal.

“Can you see it now?” The Figure asks.

“Yes.”

“Have you ever seen this before?”

“Yes.”

“It is an email sent to you by several of your neighbors – is that correct, Mr. Thompson?”

“Yes.”

“It was the third such email, was it not?”

“Yes.”

“All of them regarding the same topic, correct?”

“Yes.”

“What would that topic be, Mr. Thompson?” The Figure asks.

“They were noise complaints.” Ronnie says.

“Noise complaints, regarding?”

“My leaf blower.” Ronnie answers.

“Did you do anything to address these complaints, Mr. Thompson?”

“Hell no! I just ignored them. Nobody has the right to tell me what I can do on my property. I pay taxes. I pay my mortgage – on time too – not like that relief bum Collins! He has some nerve signing those emails. His place looks like a yard sale. Crabgrass everywhere, dead leaves – and a yard ball—for Christ’s sake!”

“Just to be clear, Mr. Thompson, you acknowledged receipt of three emails, not to mention numerous, non-formal complaints, concerning your usage of the leaf blower.” The Figure asks.

“Oh yeah. Lots of bitching. They’re all slobs! I take pride in the appearance of my property. I’m an example of what a fine, well-manicured lawn should look like. I raise the property values!” Ronnie says, in full throat.

“I’m glad you brought that up, Mr. Thompson. Have you ever used your leaf blower on property other than your own?”

“Damn right! A few times. Ungrateful bastards!” He says.

“You’ve answered all of my questions sufficiently, Mr. Thompson. I will be back to you shortly.” The Figure says.

“What’s this about? Who the hell are you?” Ronnie says but gets no reply.

“Hey – hey – at least untie me, I can’t feel my hands.” Ronnie pleads, and again receives no reply.

  Ronnie sits there, bound and silent. His confusion as to why he is here, is becoming apparent. The voice – The Figure, grilled him about his yard activities – more accurately, his leaf blower usage – and the complaints.

 He had shrugged off the complaints, the emails, the snide remarks, as pettiness and jealousy. He knows he makes them look bad. He exposes their laziness. He imagines all the husbands being raked over the coals, having his yard thrown in their faces. “Why doesn’t our yard look like Ronnie’s?” “Why aren’t you out there making me proud, instead of sitting on the couch watching NASCAR?”

 Ronnie chalks it up to the price you pay for success. His meditation is interrupted by the voice, this time behind him.

“Mr. Thompson, we have established that you are the perpetrator of these offenses. We have also established, that after several civil attempts to mediate this situation, you have steadfastly refused to alter your behavior. I will now offer you one more opportunity to negotiate. Will you take this offer?” The Figure says.

“What are you offering?” Ronnie replies.

“The party you will be entering into negotiations with, are my clients. They have hired me to intercede in this matter. From now on, I am their agent. As their agent, I offer you this. You must be willing to use your leaf blower between the hours of 12 P.M. and 3 P.M., except on Sundays. There will be no leaf blower activity on that day. Also, you may only use the leaf blower for thirty minutes consecutively, and for no longer than one hour in total per day.”

“Fuck that! That’s a hard no!” Ronnie spat. Almost coming out of the chair. He was now fuming, he didn’t care what position he was currently in, he would never agree to those terms. This is America – God damn it!

“Is that your final answer, Mr. Thompson?” The Figure asks.

“Damn straight.”

“You leave me no choice then.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Ronnie asks, but he is met with stony silence. A silence that he will soon long for.

 The blaring white light that had been constant since his hood was removed, was now off. He is enveloped in deep darkness. He can hear low footsteps and slight echoes. He is inside a garage or warehouse. The emptiness creating its own space. He sits like that for five minutes – or sixty – he can’t tell.

 Suddenly, the voice reappears, this time amplified.

“Mr. Thompson, I have come to the conclusion that you believe your actions are not offensive to your neighbors. That you believe that they are being overly sensitive and want to impart their will upon you.” The Figure says, his voice echoing and bouncing around the room like a pinball.

“You got that right, Pal.” Ronnie answers, growing more resolute.

“I will now try to impart some wisdom upon you, Mr. Thompson. I am going to attempt to show you that offensive is a matter of perspective. After this session, it is my hope that you have a new found respect for others, and their sensitivities.”

“What are you going to do?” Ronnie asks, his bravado escaping him.

“I am going to inundate you with various aural recordings, played at high volume, for a lengthy period of time, so that you may understand the suffering of your neighbors.” The Figure says.

“What the hell does that mean?” Ronnie asks, panic overflowing.

“You’ll see, Mr. Thompson.”

 Ronnie is now hit with an incredible wall of sound. He initially can’t identify it, then it becomes clearer. A baby crying. Screaming. At mammoth volume. On loop. It sounds like it has its finger caught in a pencil sharpener.

 This goes on, interminably. Abruptly, it ends, and the voice returns.

“Do you now understand, Mr. Thompson?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you now sense the torment you have inflicted?”

“No. Not really. I raised four kids, twins too, that shit don’t bother me. I tune it out.”

 This is met with a moment of stunned silence, before the voice replies.

“Very well, Mr. Thompson. We will move on to another example.”

The hollow room is now filled with the grating, shrill noise, of what Ronnie assumes, is nails on a chalkboard. After a few minutes of that, Ronnie speaks.

“Hey, buddy. You’re gonna have to do better than that. I was famous for that trick in the 8^th grade.”

 Again, he is met with silence.

 The Figure is perplexed. He realizes that he has a hard case. He needs to up his game, quickly. He is working on a flat fee, so time is money.

“I see Mr. Thompson, that you are a serious man. I am now going to add a second stimulus to the presentation.”

“Oh Jesus – not that car battery!?” Ronnie whelps.

“No – no – not that -- too cliché.” The Figure replies.

 The room is now lit up with a large screen TV. The image is a close up of a man’s face. He is chewing. Voraciously. His mouth open, and particles of food are flying outward. The sound is perfectly synched to match every movement of his jaw. Squishing, noshing sounds fill the air. This proceeds for several minutes, before Ronnie interrupts.

“That ain’t working. I lived with my Aunt Nora when I was a kid. She had mismatched dentures – they were her mother’s. She ate like a garbage disposal – smelled like one too.” Ronnie says.

 The video stops. The room goes still. A new image appears on the screen. It is two men standing behind podiums. The announcer pipes in.

“We would like to welcome you to the 2020 Presidential debate, featuring the Democratic nominee, Senator Joe Biden, and the Republican nominee, President Donald Trump.” The sound is muted as The Figure interjects.

“Excuse me, Mr. Thompson, but I have to leave the room for this one.”

  After an hour The Figure returns. Ronnie knows it was an hour because he has it memorized from his own personal recordings. He knows that at the one-hour mark, Chris Wallace, the mediator, dodges Trump’s perfect volley.

“Well, Mr. Thompson, would you care to continue, we have the Vice-Presidential debate next.” The Figure threatens.

“Hell, yeah! Bring it on! My man Pence kicks ass in that one!” Ronnie says.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me?” The Figure spits. He is agitated at his lack of professionalism, but this man is some specimen. He has only met one other like him, but that man broke, eventually. He has no doubt that Mr. Thompson will too. He will succumb to this last measure. He’s only had to resort to it once. Thank God. Even for a seasoned, hardened, interrogator like himself – it seems cruel. But he has a job to do, and his Yelp ratings are dependent on his results.

“Mr. Thompson, I will give you one final chance to come to the negotiating table. I hope I have made an impression as to what you have subjected your neighbors too.”

“They’re a bunch of pansies! Tell them to toughen up.” Ronnie says, feeling confident that he has withstood all that The Figure can dish out.

“You leave me no choice, Mr. Thompson. I’m certain you are familiar with the 1980’s Irish rock band – U2.” The Figure says as he dons his own protective airline grade ear protection.

 The entire building explodes with the sound of wailing, and monotonous melody. The video screen is showing the smug, pompous face of the band’s singer, Bono, in his ever-present diabolical sunglasses. The ghastly, hollow lyrics of “Where The Streets Have No Name” repetitively pounding, and softening his brain, like a meat hammer.

 Ronnie begins to thrash and twist, desperately trying to free his tied hands, so that he can cover his ears. Tears streak down his face, and his stomach bile retches upward, filling his mouth. This abuse continues, perpetually, until, mercifully, Ronnie loses consciousness.

 He is awakened by a cold blast of water, as The Figure stands in front of him.

“Mr. Thompson, we have one more round of treatment. Having determined your threshold of disgust, I must now ascertain a level of guarantee from you.”

“Anything! I promise! I will never use the leaf blower again. I’m cured. I will rake from now on.” Ronnie pleads.

“I know that you are sincere, Mr. Thompson, but my clients require a more substantial assurance.”

“I promise – I swear – I’ll burn the Echo!” Ronnie says.

“You may forget this episode; therefore, I will instill in you a permanent association.” The Figure says.

 At that Ronnie is once again assaulted by deeper and longer cuts from the band, interspersed with clips of interviews with Bono. These clips are then in tandem with recordings of Ronnie’s leaf blower. Over and over. Ad nauseum. Until the mere starting of a leaf blower causes Ronnie to cringe and palpitate in anticipation of The Edge’s woeful guitar.

 Finally, it’s over.

 The hood is reattached. Ronnie goes dark, and when he comes to, he is back on his porch.

 Three weeks later, The Figure drives by Ronnie’s house, on a Sunday. He is pleased to see Ronnie languidly working in his yard. No sign of the Echo 9010P, only a long-handled rake.

 The Figure pulls to the stop sign, puts on his ear protection, hits play on his phone, and 30 on the volume knob. Bono’s warbling hitting a manic note, The Figure watches as Ronnie drops the rake, hands covering his ears as he sprints to the front door.

The Figure smiles and drives on, confident of his pending five stars.