Jim Krusoe - The Sleep Garden

One night, after an especially late dance practice thanks to a few extra sessions at the barre, Ballerina Mouse is walking (no, limping) home, because at that hour the buses have all stopped running. Her foot hurts more than usual, and she’s only about halfway home, passing through the part of town that is mostly vacant lots, when suddenly she sees a bright light in the sky overhead. It comes closer, and as much as she would like to hide, it seems as if she’s somehow paralyzed. The next thing she knows, she’s being pulled upward. .

No, this is stupid.

The audience in the Masonic Hall is quiet, no doubt engrossed by the thought of another native eaten, this one by a tiger, not a bear. This is going well , the Captain thinks. He can almost feel his Death Quotient dropping by the minute, to what — maybe seventeen, or even twelve?

“And at last, after what seemed a long time, Ali Khan spoke from a sort of twilight reverie. ‘Cher Captain,’ he said, ‘I have recalled my entire family tree (as I believe is the term used by you Westerners), on the sides of both my father and my mother, and I am sorry to report that all the fruits of its various branches are at present engaged in important business; otherwise I am sure they would be only too happy to help. It is an honor, to be sure, to be a member of such a talented and educated family, but it unfortunately means there are no available deadbeats —a curious word, if I am using it correctly — who can be pressed into such a service as you demand at a moment’s notice. I myself, as you can see, am kept constantly busy by the pressures of my office. Nor, for obvious reasons, is it permitted for you to complete the forms yourself.’

“As he spoke, I could see the pleasure these words gave him. Meanwhile, I reached into my sea bag and removed a bottle of liquor similar to the one that was already open, but one whose contents were of a slightly less reprehensible hue. I placed it next to the first on his desk. Saying nothing, Ali Khan ran a finger over his narrow mustache, as if the bottle had arrived on his desk of its own accord and he was now waiting to see what it would do next.”

What, if anything, might have prepared Raymond for his residence in the Burrow?

Basements, certainly, and closets. Swimming underwater. Reading by flashlight a book under the covers. Linen chests. Caves. Cardboard boxes. Crawling inside cardboard boxes and closing the flaps behind him. Crawling inside cardboard boxes and closing the flaps behind him, then sealing them from the inside with packing tape. Crawling inside cardboard boxes and closing the flaps behind him, then sealing them with packing tape and shutting his eyes. A baby duck he once had as a pet when he was young.

What has prepared Heather for her life in the Burrow?

Sleep, being hit over the head once in sixth grade and losing consciousness for a minute, waking up to find out someone had pushed her off the swings.

A life made of air.

The Captain winks at the audience to let them know that they don’t have to worry about the outcome of this particular battle of wits. As usual, after his speech and the subsequent Q & A, there will be some kind of program, an installation of new officers, the handing out of trophies, and certificates of merit, and plaques — a whole industry based solely on vanity — and as usual, he’ll sneak out before that gets started.

The Captain returns to his story: “‘I understand you entirely, Ali Khan, and it was precisely because of the rest of your family’s talent that I had hoped to find a suitable person to fill in the forms in question.’”

He pauses to let his audience absorb this thought, then continues. “In response, Ali Khan gave me an insincere smile and poured some of my gift into a fresh filthy glass. The man filled it halfway, studied it, and topped it off with more liquor from the bottle he had been drinking from earlier. For what seemed an eternity, the two of us watched the color change from green to light blue. Then Ali Khan placed one of his slender fingers in the liquid, removed it, lifted it into his mouth, and kept it there, evidently appreciating the intermingling of the two alcohols with his own sweat and God knows what else may have been beneath the nail of that unspeakable digit. At last he removed his finger from his mouth and wiped it on the blotter of his desk, which was marked, I could see, by many similar stains.

“Seeming to ignore me, Ali Khan returned to his drawings, adding several more bombs, and also three more lighter-than-air craft. These new bombs, I observed, appeared designed not to kill or maim, but were apparently aimed solely at groups of large-breasted women, with the bomb’s sole mission being to remove their blouses. I watched as Ali Khan filled sheet after sheet with undressed women. Meanwhile, I knew the ice atop my fish was melting.”

The Captain pauses and takes another sip of water, not because he is thirsty — he’s endured far worse than this — but to let the drama of the slowly ripening cargo of fish sink in. He guesses he has four, maybe five more years of making a living this way and then he’ll have to think of something else. Maybe a blog: “The Captain’s Table.”

And Junior? Is he doing some project with his crossbow about now, or what?

He is not. Not at this moment, anyway.

Likewise, it is also possible to think you have touched a thing when you have not, and to believe you have remained untouched when this is not the case.

“At that moment,” the Captain says, “Ali Khan looked up at me. ‘My dear Captain,’ he said, accompanying his words with a sort of smirk, ‘forgive me, but I just remembered. It seems I have a certain successful cousin whose specialty is surgery of the brain, and most important, in terms of our current problem, he is at present under disciplinary suspension for neglecting to wash his hands before he operates. I have known my cousin — Piggy, as I call him — since we both were children, and in addition to being a surgeon, I can promise you he excels at filling out government forms. What do you say I ring him up and see if he has any free time?’

“‘That would be excellent,’ I told him.

“‘In that case, there is one small matter we need to discuss,’ said Ali Khan.

“I pretended I didn’t already know what he had in mind. ‘What is that?’

“‘It is this,’ he said. ‘While I am sure your initial estimate of one or two hundred dollars an hour is more than generous for an ordinary person — indeed, it would seem a fortune to a person such as myself — for my cousin, who is a professional man and whose usual fees are far greater, he would surely consider such a modest amount to be an insult.’

“‘How much do you think he would consider fair?’ I asked.

“‘To take just one example,’ said Ali Khan, ‘his fee for a simple lobotomy, which takes only about thirty minutes, start to finish, is the equivalent of five hundred US dollars and, even as quickly as Piggy works, it is my professional opinion you will need a minimum of five hours to complete such paperwork.’