Jim Krusoe - The Sleep Garden

Viktor:

That’s the Duck Man, all right.

Jeffery:

But doesn’t that strike you as odd?

Viktor:

That he likes ducks? You should hear what Madeline has to say on that subject.

Jeffery:

No, I mean where do those chunks of wood come from?

Viktor:

I don’t know. I guess somebody. . or maybe not. Maybe. Listen, I have to go.

Jeffery:

But wait. There’s one more thing. Have you ever heard of the Witness Protection Program?

Viktor:

The federal one? Of course I have, but what does that have to do with anything? Now, I’ll just take my bagel back to my room and get to work. Have a good night.

Jeffery:

Thanks. You too.

JEFFERY is left alone in the kitchen, holding his bagel.

So instead of chewing over the story of the mutiny once again, maybe the Captain should tell his audience about the day he shot the rope that was holding the beautiful young native girl those devils from another tribe were taking away to be a hostage, or worse. The girl — what was her name? — Rima? Kojima? Bulima? She couldn’t have been more than fourteen, but was already surprisingly well-developed. Also she was remarkably calm, seeing as how she was being led away to nearly certain death by vicious members of a rival clan. For a while he was sure that they must have drugged her, but then, once he had severed her rope tether with a single shot from the Walther, she took off like a rabbit until she got to the grassy edge of the river, dived in, and climbed on board the ship, while the whole time the Captain covered her escape with a deadly accurate volley of bullets he kept firing into the bushes from the moving deck. And then, talk about a twilight individual finding surprising ways to show her gratitude! On second thought, it’s probably not such a good idea to bring this up in public, chiefly because of the issues of a statutory nature, but also he doesn’t want to make it seem as if he is gloating. Those were the days , he thinks, but since then what does he have to show for himself?

Other than a series of fish-related endorsements and some lectures, not all that much , if he’s being honest.

Ballerina Mouse is dead, her head caught in one of those traps where the metal bar descends to snap a poor mouse’s spine so rapidly the creature caught beneath, if it’s lucky, dies instantly. If not, it gets caught by a part of a leg, or even its nose, or somewhere else, and has to suffer for as long as it takes to be found, or it finally and agonizingly dies. But Ballerina Mouse was lucky, because in that split second, the pain of her foot, the humiliation of her ballet lessons, the mendacity of Mme. Suzette, all of it, became only the extrusions of one final flush of consciousness, already forgotten, gone into the air, the flowers, the grass, the trees.

No.

To the St. Nils Eagle

Dear Editors,

Awhile ago I announced in the pages of your paper the formation of my organization (FQO.org) dedicated to the distribution of crossbows to needy servicemen and women, and since then I have received exactly zero donations. Far from being discouraged over a lack of public generosity, I am forced to conclude this is the case because practically no one reads what you write. (In point of fact, I myself have never seen anyone actually reading the Eagle besides myself.) For this, and other reasons relating to my present cash flow, I am now officially canceling my subscription.

Do not mistake this for a “cry for help” because it is not. I am fine, and if anyone needs help it would be those individuals who continue to publish a paper no one reads. Meanwhile, keep those crossbows coming.

Sincerely,

A Former (and for all I know, your only) Subscriber

Tocar : to touch.

Suppose a person is a genius, Junior wonders, maybe so far in front of other people that he never sees anyone, or speaks to anyone, or has any dealings with anyone, so for him, the petty needs and wants of others do not even exist, then how is that different from being dead? And even if this individual in question speaks with people once in a while — when he is in a store and has to ask where the bathroom is, for example — for those other parts of time when he’s not speaking to anyone, is that the same as being dead? Or if two people live far apart and never say anything to each other, is that the same as each of them being dead?

Anyway, where did this thought come from? Does this have something to do with his father? Sadly, he can’t quite work out that answer.

Or, Junior thinks, if a person is a genius, and surrounded by others who are also geniuses, maybe a think tank or something, and they all speak to each other, and see each other frequently, practically on a daily basis, and share their experiences with each other, how can they be sure they are geniuses?

To answer such a question, Junior would need to be a philosopher.

But Junior is not a philosopher. Not in the least.

Junior is a psychopath, and he is confusing himself with all these questions, one after another.

Roy is a good name, Junior thinks. He would like to have been called Roy.

But no, he had to get Junior.

Living here in the Burrow, what does Heather miss? Sunsets, kittens, grass, having a friend she can tell her secrets to. Feeling special.

What does Jeffery miss? Waterfalls, wind, spending money on things he doesn’t need but feels like buying.

What does Viktor miss? Mud, seeing the sun go down, lying in warm mud.

What does Raymond miss? That’s easy: ducks, geese, and coleslaw, which for some reason they never get in the Burrow because, Madeline says, no one ever leaves cabbage.

Madeline misses flowers, the sound of the ocean, the ability to go to a store and pick out her own groceries. Also a good stove would be nice.

What did Louis miss?

No one will ever know; he may as well be dead.

Instinct . That was what Dr. Barry Schwartz, her mentor in the Professional Practices Program, told her to heed. “Picture it, Tammy,” Dr. Schwartz had said, “there you are in your rented office, no one else around, the security guard — if you are lucky enough to have one, which I doubt you will be — is either down the hall or out for coffee, and you are alone with a man, a patient, but still a man who is telling you his innermost secrets, ones he’s fought to keep inside for years, and now you are prying them out of him bit by painful bit, coming closer and closer to his most guarded treasure, the secret of all secrets. Think about it: as you approach, his heart rate increases, his blood pressure rises, the identical physiological signs that would have exhibited themselves in his primitive past when he was hunting a deer or planning to carry a woman off to some glade for sex. So this man is stimulated; he’s confused; he looks around. What does he see? A lovely, vulnerable attractive woman like yourself, my dear, the kind he has always desired, maybe even preyed upon at some time or other in the past because, after all, he’s crazy, and now you are alone with him — just as the two of us are at this moment — in your rented office or maybe a spare room of your house, the use of which you are deducting from your taxes, and your legs are crossed, and your hair smells good, like strawberries, maybe a hint of clover too, and there is nothing between him and you but a yellow legal pad and the fat, expensive rollerball such as the one you are holding between your fingers now to scribble your notes.