Cyclops

Cyclops

R. S. Hill

Jeremy finally decided to give this relaxation exercise called free writing a chance. Dana and Dr. Bordeaux had recommended it months ago, but at the time, free writing just wasn't something he thought a man in his position should do. Supposedly, the exercise was useful for solving writer's block, but other lunatics—and certainly all writer’s were either lunatics or alcoholics—had found the exercise revealing and quite relaxing. The idea of writing whatever came to mind seemed arrogant to Jeremy Packard, but then, so were most attorneys.

By the light of his new Macintosh computer during a late evening thunderstorm, Jeremy wrote the following confession:

I seem to have lost my way. Who have I become? I don't remember how I found myself in that brief moment when we met at the gallery and nothing else mattered. I felt alive and aware of so many things I'd taken for granted for so many years. Things like carnivals, cotton candy, birds, trees, and the good ole Blues. Every night I go to bed beside a beautiful, sexy woman hoping to wake into a different person. Why? And there's more. Strange dreams, paranoia. Something I dare not tell a soul. But shouldn't I tell her everything? Losing her would leave me alone again. What am I going to do?

Jeremy ceased his furious typing the instant he felt he was being watched. His chair squealed in the dark like a sick pigeon. The velocity by which he'd wheeled himself around to surprise the inconsiderate spectator blew important files he should have been reviewing all over the floor. No one. Dana was working late at the gallery. Who else could it have been? Could his mysterious voyeur have been the ghost of some poor dead soul come to haunt him? Ridiculous. Yet the shuddering chills and the rash of tingling bumps that raced up and down his arms and spine had been caused by something. It was at that very moment he heard a quiet sigh.

"Who's there!" He demanded. No one answered.

For weeks after that bizarre night of free writing ghosts in darkness, Jeremy searched the house and his mind for an explanation; a motive to attach to the incident and his progressing lunacy. Since free writing was obviously for artsy-fartsy types and not rational men of the law, he'd have to solve this matter through more conventional means. After a chaotic deliberation with himself, he chose to link his uncertainty and unorthodox behavior with his own reluctance to accept the path of life he'd chosen. The pressure of becoming an attorney was obviously at the root of his flighty temperament and paranoid delusions. Furthermore, the handful of senseless nightmares about a ludicrous little dwarf in a funny pointed hat were not significant manifestations of a distant reality with which he'd somehow became involuntarily juxtaposed. This was merely his unconscious mind's attempt to prepare him for the task at hand. The Bar was just a month away. If he didn't straighten up, he'd need a professional head hunter—not a shrink.

Further complicating his life was what his father called an “eternal commitment.” A week after the exam, he was to marry a beautiful art consultant that wanted all he could give her. Dana had already given him more than he ever expected to receive from another person. It had been his turn to give for some time. Making her his wife, of course, was the ultimate gift.

"She's special," his father always said. "Dana? Well she's just great," everyone believed. The families had planned a colossal wedding that would welcome over 500 people, an orchestra, magician, and select members of Congress that had backed his father's firm for years. Before him lay a prestigious red carpet that led to the altar of success. All he had to do was study for the test, take the walk down the isle and stop acting like a college boy.

Another week passed. He still hadn’t opened a book. Then it happened. While staring out the window of his den at a kitten that had lodged itself in the storm gutter of the house next door, Lo Chan appeared for the first time. The silence that followed his appearance was too eerie. Jeremy felt a strange energy all around him. It was like standing in a below zero static chamber. Minutes later, Jeremy experienced that arresting fear followed by a familiar whirlwind of indecision Dr. Bordeaux referred to as a self-induced illusory response to a deeper discontent. He could feel his heart screaming, but his mouth made no sound. Lo Chan was a three-foot. He wore a kooky sorcerer's hat that stood a foot-and-a-half above his head, an elegant festival robe, and stunning shoulder vestments from the Ming Dynasty. He sat on top of Jeremy's PC and waited for something. His impatient demeanor reminded Jeremy of his fiancée. She often wore that same discontented look whenever something was on her mind and she felt it appropriate for him to figure out what.

“Well?”

Jeremy didn’t speak..

“Do you have any tea?" Lo Chan spoke with great disappointment.

"I hate tea." Jeremy turned away quickly. Lo Chan's eyes were flames that spun counter-clockwise then reversed direction without warning.

"Jeremy, Jeremy, Jeremy. The Cyclops."

"How do you know my name?"

"Do you have root beer, coffee, Mediterranean tea, or perhaps wine from the vineyards of Emperor Woo?"

"Do I look like the fucking maid?"

"Humility is not something you wear like a garment, Cyclops."

"What do you want from me?"

"I want nothing, but you take without knowing."

"What are you?"

"Don't thank me."

"For what?"

He was gone. He'd dematerialized into a speckled configuration of strange light. Then there was nothing.

Dinner at Louisa's had always been an inescapably romantic encounter. Always perfect, the mood was sustained by mellow Jazz music that kept the spirit nimble and fresh during the long but amiable wait. The expensive wines, five start service and utterly divine crab cakes lightly sautéed in a tangy horse-radish sauce were the best money could buy. And yet, not even the finest seafood in New Orleans could break Jeremy's thoughts away from his encounter with Lo Chan. Dana was trying to be cheerful, but whenever she scraped her nails across the tablecloth like a restless feline caught in the gutter next door, Jeremy knew she was holding back that volcanic anger only he could trigger into a lethal eruption. The caterer had promised china to match the rest of the reception decor and now, a week before the wedding, couldn't deliver. It was too late to change caterers or reorder the appropriate china from another vendor. Everything was ruined.

"Do you think I'm difficult Jeremy?" She asked this question with hope of being told exactly opposite. It was one of those times when he was supposed to know what was on her mind. But Lo Chan's mysterious words—“you take without knowing"—were cemented in his mind.

"Do you believe in dwarves?"

The silence was long and cold. She looked so disappointed, not surprised or the least bit freaked out that he'd asked such a question at dinner.

"Why do you ask?"

"Just did, I guess."

"Just did, I guess." She'd never mocked him before tonight. Her impression sounded so conceited, so confused, so simple, so moronic.

"Why don't you tell me what's going on with you these days? You know, I'm sorry that you got out voted on this big wedding, but it's not like you have to do anything but show up.

"W-wait a minute.”

“And I suppose hell will freeze before you offer to help me with—“

“Back UP! I wanna talk about the dwarf?

"Fine." She was pissed.

"Never mind." He retreated quickly.

"WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO ME?!"

"Do what?"

"You know what I'm talking about."

"What?"

"—Eat your fish before it gets cold like everything else around here."

Later that night, Jeremy woke in the middle of a real live street carnival! Everything around him was alive with a festive spirit that would have brought the child out of any man. He jumped from his bed, leaving Dana behind uncovered. He ran past the Galaxy Ferris Wheel right to the Invisible Man Dart Shoot.

"Step up son!" A bearded man wearing an elephant suite was waving at him. "Strike a balloon, pick your prize!"

Jeremy leaned forward, and like a pro, whizzed his first dart right through the center of the tiniest purple balloon. Fireworks went off. Soon the sky was full of every color imaginable. Indeed there was an overwhelming feeling of joy inside him that forced tears down his cheeks. He'd hit the mark!

"Choose your prize son. I've got things to do?"

"But I want them all." Jeremy whimpered. He hoped the bearded man would cave in to his wishes.

"Then you don't get any, boy."

As the man closed his booth, a hook slipped around Jeremy's neck and yanked him back into the bedroom.

Lo Chan was standing on top of his fiancée. He had a hook in his hand. It got smaller and smaller until it finally vanished into his palm.

"See what I mean, Cyclops?" Lo Chan’s arms were folded at his chest. A calabash filled with smoldering incense that smelled like cinnamon hung from an exquisite gold chain around his neck.

Again Jeremy awoke, but this time he was falling. The floor had dropped out from underneath the bed. His body plunged into a raging volcano that sounded like Dana screaming. She had fallen right beside him; her eyes begging for his help.

In the morning, Dana insisted on talking about the dream that had curled him up into a shivering ball at the foot of their bed. He told her he couldn't remember and that was the end of that.

At work, he drew pictures of Lo Chan and his horrible hook. By lunch, he'd advised one of the partners that he wasn't up to researching the history of state legislation involving malpractice suits. He just said he was sick and that he needed to go home at once. No questions were ever really asked of the senior partner's son anyway. It all meant more than just career pressures and bad dreams that happened while he was awake. He needed help.

When he arrived home Dana was more than surprised to seem him. He'd caught her listening to Bob Marley's Redemption Song, while she worked on a new oil painting that looked like strange flames. It was at the art museum, he suddenly realized! That was where they'd seen the vestments from the Ming Dynasty that Lo Chan wore! He tried to tell her, but instead he talked of poor sleeping habits, work, and stress, but not Lo Chan and the horrible hook that had transcended the border between fantasy and reality.

"Maybe we should wait," Dana said without looking at him. "If our getting married is a problem for you, let's postpone it. We can get most of the money back."

"M-Maybe s-so," he stammered, but just like that she agreed. She left the room to call the minister. Almost instantly, Lo Chan appeared. In one hand he held a stick of cotton candy that was as big as he was. In the other, he clenched a huge bag of shelled peanuts.

"You must build marriage on trust, not fear." He seemed disgusted.

"LEAVE ME ALONE!"

His shouts brought Dana running back into the room as Lo Chan quietly faded into a beam of sunlight just before she entered the room.

"He-he-he was right there."

"Who?" She grabbed his shoulders. He couldn’t speak. Paranoia crawled up his back like ants on candy. It picked at his sanity, determined to munch and munch until it was gone. Very gently, Dana reminded him of his therapy and suggested he go back and see Dr. Bordeaux. She also announced her plans to move out. When she mentioned that the last time they'd made love was over two months ago he grew cold. He wanted to embrace her frustration and gently massage the pain away as he had in the past, but he couldn't.

“I-I c-can explain.”

“But you won't. Talk to someone Jeremy. Don’t worry about me."

How he could tell a professional stranger he'd met with a handful of times before and not his own fiancée? Two hundred and fifty dollars an hour couldn't have made that much difference.

"Strange delusions." Dr. Bordeaux observed while sipping from a pink coffee mug that read: INSANITY IS OFTEN LIBERATION. She looked tired, bored, and a little irritated.

"What is wrong with you!" She barked suddenly.

"Excuse me? His lip quivered.

"There is absolutely nothing wrong with you mentally or physically. I can't help you until you learn to express yourself. You'll never feel at peace with yourself until you wake up and take notice of the world around you and not the world within you."

"B-but how?"

"Start by ignoring fantasy and accepting reality, Cyclops."

Jeremy bolted out of the office. He raced down the stairs to the street. Rain was falling hard on the concrete, splashing up onto his shoes like tiny lava spills from ten zillion volcanoes. Just as he reached the French Quarter, there was Lo Chan waving at him from across the street. Jeremy ran after him like a mad man, knocked over a umbrella vendor, then cut across the street in front of a taxi that almost claimed his life. It didn't matter anymore, Dana had been gone for two weeks, he missed the bar exam, the wedding had been cancelled and his father wasn’t speaking to him. It was just him and Lo Chan.

Days passed.

Someone kept calling, but he'd turned off the recorder and changed the locks on all the doors of his apartment. The next day somebody knocked hard on the door Whoever it was kept shouting his name. It was hard to tell who it was from the closet. Tears crept down his face in the darkness. He rubbed his scraggly chin. He hadn't showered in days. A throbbing sickness in his stomach swirled into his head. He hadn't eaten in days, but vowed to finish his last bottle of Jack Daniel's.

“The wedding, my God,” he mumbled. “I better hurry I’m gonna be late.” He burst into hysterical, painful laughter. They'd planned a honeymoon in Maui with champagne and a midnight boat ride. All that seemed so far away as his face collided with the hardwood floor.

Like steam rising from a silent tea kettle, his essence drifted into the air. He could see a pathetic lump of flesh sprawled out below him in the spacious closet like a pile of smeared dog shit. In time, he was flying above mountains, deserts, and pounding surf. In a instant, he was staring at his reflection in a mirror. His face was a ghastly white, lucent and feeble, but him nonetheless.

"Jack and coke god damnit!" He slammed his hand on the smooth wood. A long moment passed before a man wearing tight jeans and a cowboy hat appeared holding a bottle.

"We drink tequila in these parts. Straight."

As the bartender poured a double shot into two cloudy glasses, Jeremy noticed something strikingly familiar about the soft spoken man behind the bar.

"Do I know you?"

"Alotta people do."

He seemed so sure of himself, but content not arrogant. He looked so damn familiar. Certainly. YES. That was him, The Legend.

"You're Jimmy Lee Boyle, the Blues guitarist!"

"In the flesh."

"Wow!"

"Drink up son so you'll know you're alive."

Jeremy threw back a double dose of Jose's fire. Before he could put his glass down, his favorite musician filled it again.

"Let's drink to Dana," he said.

"No." Jeremy slammed his hand down again. "Leave her outta this!"

Jimmy Lee pulled out a pack of wooden matches. He struck one on the counter, then touched Jeremy with the lighted match. He didn't feel a thing.

"My God. Am I dead?"

"Not yet." Jimmy Lee's smile was scary. He was hiding something. He knew something he wasn’t telling.

"Where are we?"

"Riiight there." The living legend pointed to Jeremy's forehead and laughed.

"What's funny?"

Jimmy Lee shook his head and lit up a Marlboro Light. He started humming some tune that sounded a little like Dixie.

"Look Jeremy, I gotta job to do then I 'm outta here. Just the way I want it."

"What kinda job?"

"To wake your ass up."

"Lo Chan. He's doing this, right?"

"Who?"

"You know, the little dwarf with the big sorcerer's hat."

"Oh. You mean Birdie.”

“Birdie.”

“Lo Chan? Is that what he told you his name was? What a card."

A peaceful silence followed, then Jimmy Lee started talking about his life. Jeremy listened in awe to crazy tales about women, drugs, guns, cars and guitars. He showed Jeremy his hand crafted Fender Rhodes that had been autographed by Muddy Waters. He was flying to San Antonio in the morning for a big Blues festival with a roster of talent Jeremy could only wish to see. He planned to retire after the show and return to New Orleans were a loco French-Indian belonged.

"Congratulations on your retirement. You're the greatest, man!"

"I guess. But ya know, I have one serious regret in my life."

"Really"

"Amanda."

"Is that your wife?"

"Should have been, but let's just say, I messed up."

Jimmy Lee packed up his guitar and slammed what was left of the tequila. He put a wicked-cool snake-skin jacket over his shoulders and shook Jeremy's trembling hand.

"Been good drinkin with ya bro." As he stepped out from behind the bar Jeremy noticed tears the size of rain drops welling up in the legend’s eyes. How could a man so great be so sad?

All at once, like drifting into a terrifying nightmare, two men wearing blue and white uniforms were beating Jeremy senseless. He could hear Dana screaming at them; trying to help. Everything went blank, then he realized he was on his way to the hospital in an ambulance. He watched as only Dana remained by his side in the hours that passed. It had been the combination of alcohol and starvation that had placed his body in a serious comma. Nobody knew if he would live or die. All he could do was watch and hope he could get back inside the only body he had. Suddenly, he understood what humility was all about.

Seconds later his eyes opened. He was back in his body and Dana was right there. The look on her face and the warmth in her heart told him things about their love he'd taken for granted. Poor Jimmy Lee, he'll always regret.

An hour later the entire family arrived, but Jeremy asked them all to leave. He wanted to be with the only person who ever really mattered. Together they made a pact to take life one day at a time, and to never keep secrets from one another. When he finally told her about Lo Chan she tried not to laugh, but the understanding in her eyes brought tears to his own.

She reached over and kissed him. It was a tender kiss, a special kiss, a kiss that sealed his fate forever, a kiss he didn’t mind one bit. Before she left him to rest, she turned the radio on at his request. The news was on.

. . . Early this morning Blues guitarist Jimmy Lee Boyle was killed when his private jet bound for San Antonio crashed in the dessert. Boyle was to give his farewell performance at the Silver Bullet Blues Festival this evening after announcing his retirement just two weeks ago. He was 55 . . .