ALONE
Of late the figures in the
shadows had become more real yet more fantastic. Demonic monsters with fangs
now approached his windows where once the specters had merely floated across
the surface of the brick wall opposite his bedroom: dogs, children, sometimes
only clouds.
Joe B had no clue to the source
of the shadows, not even the light which cast them there in the mid-hours of the
night. It was as though he lived in a
cave, a prisoner to some fiendish jailer and his own conscience. He was fearful each night when he threw back
the comforter and climbed into bed, but each morning he told himself that it
was nothing more than his nerves which caused these phenomena and that the
visions would cease to appear when he got his life in order. For the past year he had lived here in this
apartment. The shadows had begun a few
months after he moved in but had progressed to their current form only
recently. He supposed that, perhaps, the
drinking might have something to do with it.
He knew he had been doing a bit too much of that, but it was only
because his life had become such a tangle.
Once he got things straightened out he'd get control of himself.
His daughter had mentioned it to
him, asked him if he wouldn't cut out the drinking. But what did she know about it? Hell, he'd been doing it for thirty years and
it had never held him back. Still, he
had to admit he'd gone a bit overboard this past year. He'd do something about it. In fact, he hadn't had a drink now in three
days -- except, of course, just before he went to bed. Then he'd take a couple of stiff ones. His sleeping pills.
That hadn't changed things
any. He was as unhappy as before and the
ogres of the night persisted. He looked
over at the lighted clock on his radio.
It was one-thirty. The shadows
were still there on the wall across from his windows, but now they were
moving. Where was that God-damned light
coming from anyway? It couldn't be the
moon. Next door, beside the building
with the haunted wall, was an apartment complex with a large garden behind; it abutted his
building in a T. Could it be that there
were lights in that yard? He couldn't
see. The end of his
room on that side was closed off, no windows, only a cruel wall.
He switched on the table lamp on
the night stand beside his bed, rolled from beneath the comforter and
stood. He went first into the bathroom
off his sleeping area and relieved his bladder then scuffed his toes into
slippers from the closet between the bath and bedroom and shuffled out into the
room where he spent most of his time these days.
It was a rather large room
divided into three areas, a dining wing, a kitchen separated by a ribs-high
counter from the third, an expansive parlor.
In the shadowed darkness he went to the kitchen, switched on an overhead
light and, from the cupboard beneath the counter he took his half-gallon jug of
vodka. He held it up to the light and
saw that it was half full. A good omen,
he thought, for he had bought it on Friday and there was this much left on
Sunday.
He took a glass from the overhead
cupboard, dropped in some ice from the refrigerator and filled it halfway with
the clear substance from the bottle. He
first sipped, then gulped, then drained the glass. As he poured another four fingers into the
glass he already felt the settling effects of the potion.
With the second drink and the
bottle in hand he moved to the parlor area, switched on the TV and settled into
the sofa. Perhaps, he thought, there is
a late, late movie or even a bit of porn.
No, it was Sunday night -- correction, Monday morning -- the porn was
only on Friday and Saturday. With the
wonderful little steering devise he held in his hand he rode the highway of TV
channels. Most carried nothing more than
station signals but a few had programs: some very old situation comedies or
even more ancient movies. Finally, he
switched to a channel with a motion picture in color. In his weary, hazy mind he recognized James
Dean so he pegged it as "Giant."
The grandiose music in the background affirmed his suspicion.