When we got back to Seamus’ place I unloaded the contents of
my pockets on the coffee table and paced, waiting for him to retire. Hearty,
relaxed breaths were hard to come by and every time I stood still, whichever
knee I placed weight on trembled a touch. My guts kept pinching themselves,
leaving me in a spot where I didn’t know if I oughtta double over to counter it
or hustle to the toilet. His couch begged for me in such a loud whisper that --
for a second -- I wondered if it was audible outside my head. One second I’d
strain an ear listening for the sounds of his bedroom television to come to
life; the next I rubbed my face and checked my watch.
At last I
heard the murmurings of voices -- perhaps from an episode of Law and Order -- and flopped onto the
sofa as though it were my Battle Royal opponent laid out on the mat. I pried my
shoes off with my toes and sunk my face in the throw pillow, fantasizing about
the huge piece of sleep that lay before me.
But a
moment passed; then another. Before long it was five, 10, then 25. It’s
possible I dozed between the 25- and 30-minute marks, but a full-body twitch
launched me right back awake.
“Fuck,” I
said, rolling onto my back. Seamus’ ceiling was that weird white, textured
surface, and in it I could find no patterns. When I’d had no success seeking
shapes, I switched to symbols and drifted into that cosmic window where I
remained dazed for so long that -- when I looked at the clock -- I couldn’t
remember what time it had been the last time I checked the time, or even at
what hour I’d laid down on the couch. When I went back to the bumps and
splotches of the ceiling, I remembered the summer of ’73, which had been when I
got to know Abel.
We were 10
going on 11. Or at least I was.
