Read Awake Asleep Dreaming Dead Online
Authors: John Siwicki
He meandered on the up-down trail in a quasi-delusional-delirium unaware, with time idle, not perceptible or changing—just stuck in the moment.
I feel like I’m the only person on the planet, he thought, then scanned the terrain. I’m really in the sticks. Just me, my camera, car, and landscape. It sure looks so serene with the sun coming up, though.
As he drove, warm sunshine fell on his face. Thoughts, images, and ideas changed as fast as he blinked. A rainbow of images switched on and off, reminding him of strobe lights in a dance hall, bodies moving in slow motion fashion, mechanical and machine-like.
Who’s in control, a creator? The environment? Me? he whispered. Is everything just a single solitary moment? Is time eventually used up, then gone forever? Where does time come from, and where does it go?
Gripping the wheel he steered into a stereo kinetic parade of images. He looked in the rear-view mirror. Man, are my eyes ever blood-shot, and I look like hell.
He bulked out a yawn as he studied his weary face. I’m drained.
Fighting to stay awake he inhaled the minimal amount of oxygen needed to sustain human existence, then glanced at the speedometer with a head that bobbed like it had no nuchal ligament.
Eighty-five miles an hour . . . I’m moving at a pretty good clip, he said.
He stuck his face outside, let the wind smack him, and inhaled some cool morning air.
That feels good, he thought
Momentarily refreshed he looked in the rear-view again and focused on his mouth. Words of sincerity tumbled off his lips as the imaginary peal of church bells rang in his head.
When I finish this job, I’m calling to pop the question, and buying her a ring, he said.
He watched the reflection of a blissful grin materialize in the rear-view.
The prettiest one in the store, he shouted out the window, then with satisfaction stared at his reflection in the mirror again. The grin turned into a big fat smile, and to celebrate, he jabbed at the horn, it blared. He yelled out the window again. And—I can’t wait to see the look on your face when I give it to you!
The driver sat back in a hypnotic state. He focused on the disappearing center line, and watched it being devoured by the machine he controlled.
He looked up, and whispered, Why is this happening?
The smiling cast changed to a petrified glare. Every muscle in his body stretched to breaking point like over-wound guitar strings. His vision was binocular—zooming in—following the animal as it jumped from the tall grass on the side of the road.
Harley! he yelled after seeing the animal stop, and plant itself in the center of the road. Then it stood there gawking back at the driver.
In a glint of time, and nowhere to go, the small creature grew in size, filling the windshield. Its marble eyes stunned as it waited to be turned into ground meat.
The driver calculated the options.
A voice in his head screamed, Go left—go right! Go left—go right! He looked in the rear view, and said, I don’t want to be in this . . . place, then cranked the wheel, and slammed the brakes down hard.
Tires screeched—the car whirled.
The scene in the windshield warped into a spinning whirlpool. With a tight grip on the wheel, and strapped in by the seat belt, the force still tossed him like a flag blowing in the wind. Instinctively he slammed the brake to the floor again—hard! His fingers throbbed. He steered the car through a montage of images, color, and what sounded like a concert of reverberating, out-of-tune, musical instruments. Gritting his teeth and opening his eyes broad, he rode the car down into the ditch, then out, and across to the other side.
This is it, I’m a . . . dead man, he said in a voice that faded, and went silent.
Shit, was the last word from his mouth after seeing a fence-line with barbed-wire and split wooden posts.
He waited for impact.
Like baseball bats connected to barbed wire they bombarded the car. One after another the clipped posts flew in the air—twisting—flipping, and crashing into the car. The driver raised his arms to cover his face, and block the flying broken glass, but there wasn’t any—a mysterious force kept the windshield intact. With both hands welded on the wheel, the car changed directions, snapping and cracking like a bullwhip. Finally it waddled sideways, and stopped in the center of the road.
The driver sat staring straight ahead, trance like, breathing hard, his heart beating like a jack-hammer, pumping his face red. Both of his hands were clenched around the wheel in an iron grip. A calm silence passed through the open windows on a gentle breeze. He caught his breath, leaned forward, and rested his head on the steering wheel a moment, then sat back.
What the hell just happened? he mumbled. What was that? A little farther and I’d have gone off the cliff; right into the bottom of that gorge.
The driver blinked and crushed his wild nerves, that generated a shiver through his body. He cleared his dizzy head, then caught a glimpse of the animal as it pranced away, and vanished into the trees.
It looked just like Harley. Couldn’t have been, though. There’s no way. He closed his eyes and caught his breath.
Man that was . . . close! Not a good way to start a trip, he said looking around and confirming he was okay.
Definitely not a good way to start a trip.
He started the engine, put the car in gear, and pulled over to the side.
I was lucky, he muttered. It’s a miracle I didn’t go over the cliff.
His fingers were curled around the wheel, and he pried them away like they’d been glued there.
He turned off the music, the engine, and sat in silence—breathing in life.
Totaling this car is the last thing I need. I’ve got to slow down.
As he tried to get out of the car, it seemed his legs weren’t listening to his brain, and he had to tell them to move; had to actually say, Move legs!
In the quiet, he leaned against the car and looked out at the distant swell. He watched a herd of cattle graze in the vivid landscape while they slowly moved over the hill.
Looks like a Thomas Moran painting, he thought, then stared up at the blue sky, and those clouds up there, a fleet of ships floating on an upside down sea.
Calm, relaxed, and secure, and back into photographer mode, the driver searched for his camera.
There it is. This’ll be a good shot.
After focusing the camera on the scenery that spread through the rolling hills, up and down the valley, and all around, he realized the total silence. Nothing but quiet filled the void where he stood. No chirping birds, no breeze rustling the trees or leaves, no sounds of nature. Only the silent hush that comes before the applause at the end of a performance.
Panic raced in his blood again. What? That’s . . . strange, he said. Flustered like a shit-faced drunk, he looked left–right–behind, and spun 360 degrees as the car had a few minutes ago.
There’s no . . . sound! Then, as he thought of the sounds of nature, he could hear. The world came to life, birds chirped, the wind blew, and a moment later everything was back to normal.
That was a mind-blower. It must be a side effect from almost crashing, he whispered in a low uneasy tone.
Some sort of delayed shock—
He aimed his camera back in the direction of the rolling hills and horizon, panning, shooting in bursts. He turned to the car to get some shots of it, but stopped taking pictures, and slowly lowered the camera.
Now—that—is . . . weird!
He slid his hand across the hood of the car, and caressed the top of the front fender.
How can that be?
It looks okay under here, too, he said, crouching on one knee. He got up, opened the trunk, and as he looked inside thought, The same as when I packed it, then muttered, Why aren’t there any scratches or dents on the car? The fence posts clobbered it.
The driver heard his cell phone, and it rang again. He listened and followed the sound, then found it under the seat, but too late.
He read one new message.
Trip going okay? Tired? You didn’t sleep at all. I’m getting ready for work, talk later.
Should I tell her about almost having an accident, and the freaky thing about the car not getting smashed after driving through a fence, the driver muttered. Why worry her.
You’re right—I’m tired—stopped—eating the sandwiches you made. I’m okay.
He dropped the phone on the passenger seat, opened the cooler, and grabbed a sandwich when the phone buzzed with another message.
Call you later :-)
He set the phone down, and grabbed an old highway atlas from under the front seat.
Now, let’s see. Where I am?
He traced the map with his fingers searching the twisted lines, and printed figures.
Here’s the road, Fort McRoy, and there’s Wild Cat Mountain State Park.
He sat back and ate the sandwich.
For some reason this road and place feels and looks so familiar. I drove it when I was a kid, but that was years ago? Feels like a dream or something.
He started the engine, stepped on the gas.
Then for a moment he spied a hill to the right where an oddly familiar broad full sized oak stood, and its shadow floated. As he drove closer his eye caught the movement of a figure walking near and around the tree, then it disappeared again into the shade of the tree.
Where did he go? Who’s that? he whispered.
Hooked by curiosity, and his attention captured, he had to know who it was, and what was going on.
Maybe he needs help, Sam said, and pulled the car over to the side of the road. He turned off the engine and sat quietly for a time watching, then got out and stood on the road next to the car. He waited there looking up the hillside, then saw the shadowy figure again.
It’s an old man, Sam said.
He watched the guy walk around, look up, and gesture to the tree, branches, and leaves. The old man moved without logic. Back and forth, sometimes his arms waved slowly, then quickly. Sam walked to the bottom of the hill to get a closer look, and to find out what the guy was doing up there next to the tree.
Hey, Sam shouted. Do you need help?
There was no reply at first, but when he shouted again the man’s head jerked up. Sam cupped his hands around his mouth like a small megaphone and yelled once more, slowly, one word at a time, Do-you-need-any-help? Are-you-okay? He waved and shouted again, Hey! You okay? The old man stood motionless, arms down at his side, staring at the tree. Sam knew the old man had heard him because he looked his way a few times.
Why isn’t he saying anything, waving, or signaling. Maybe the old guy wandered away from a nursing home, and needs help. He could just be lost?
As Sam maneuvered through the three-strand barbed wire fence along the roadside, his shirt caught tearing a big hole when he pulled away, he grunted angrily. I hope this is worth doing.
He made his way up the hill, slipping, then fell a few times, and a few more times.
What the hell am I doing this for?
A torn shirt, hands and pants covered in dirt, he finally stood at the top.
Made it! Now, where is this old guy?
Breathless, Sam rested a moment, then scanned the area and walked closer to the tree.
There he is, Sam said. Hello, fine day isn’t it?
Now with a clear look at the man, he saw they were about the same height. He looked in good shape, and stood exceptionally straight for an old-timer. His long white hair and beard blew free and graceful in the breeze.
He looks like a wizard from mythology. All he needs is a pointy hat and cloak, Sam thought. Maybe he’s an artist or a painter? He could be painting landscapes. There’s a nice view from up here. Don’t see a canvas or paint, though.
Sam looked toward the bottom of the hill to the road below.
My car looks like a toy from here. Looks like I could pick it up, and hold it in my hand.
The old guy looked at the Sam, grumbled, and said, Fine day for you maybe, but not for me.
What? Why is that? Sam asked, then walked closer. Having some trouble?
Trouble? Do you know what trouble is? What real trouble is?
What’s wrong? Maybe I can help?
You can’t help me.
Why not?
This tree is dying.
Tree is dying! Are you kidding me? What’s this old guy talking about? What’s he on?
The tree looks fine to me. Are you sure it’s dying?
Damn right, I’m sure! Why else would I be here?
I don’t get what you mean?
Of course you don’t understand. It’s hard for me to comprehend, but this tree—you—me, and everyone’s the same. All the same. It’s just that some of us get to choose the time and place of our departure. Trees can’t.
I don’t get it. Departure? But, well, I guess we’re the same as trees in some way, but different in other ways. I don’t think people are trees. Anyway, what are you doing here? This guy looks familiar to me, Sam thought. But why?
No, they’re not, people and trees are exactly alike, and made of the same simple and basic stuff. There are a few exceptions. A few special ones; the big old Sequoia in California, and cedars in Japan on Yaku Shima. Those trees have lived a long time, and for thousands of years, but people aren’t around that long. Only their memories live on if they do something great.
How old are you? Sam asked. I know this old guy, but just can’t place him.
I don’t really know.
You don’t remember? You look like you’re about in your sixties, Sam said to be kind, but thought, This guy’s at least seventy-five, or eighty.
Not as old as this tree, the man said. Not as old as a Sequoia. They live to be thousands of years old, and are filled with glory and history.