by Robert John Miller
Gregory Samson
awoke one morning to find himself firmly rooted in reality. He scratched his
soft, fleshy belly, yawned, rolled over and stretched his legs, pushing his
feet -- first one, then the other, two in total -- away from his torso, and
wondered if perhaps one morning his legs would just plumb pop off while
carelessly doing things like this. He turned on his side and pulled the
comforter up to his chin, feeling the cold rush into the lair he had built with
his blanket, his feet now out in the morning chill, and wished that one morning
-- this particular morning, especially -- he had awoken and found himself
transformed into something -- perhaps a gigantic bear -- so that he could just
sleep through the rest of winter. He smacked his lips as his mind crept back
into a dream state, this one filled with thoughts of salmon and wild honey. His
alarm clock rang a second time, his eyes opened fully to take in a view of the
ceiling, and he lay, supine.
From
a crack in the blinds Gregory could see the snowflakes falling in the fresh
light of dawn and hear the wind blustering against his window. He recalled days
like this 10 years ago -- 10? now 20, more than 20 years since he had started
school -- when he would have been elated, a snowy morning meaning extra sleep,
a hot chocolate, possibly sledding. But now, of course, short of the
possibility of an ursine transformation, the weather only signified danger, discomfort,
and the importance of car insurance.
His
clock nagged a third time that the morning hour was upon him and Gregory
pressed the button to turn off the alarm for another 24 hours -- or, at this
stage, 23 hours and 30 minutes -- the thought of which made him question the
reasoning behind getting out of bed at all. He was safe, and he was
comfortable, and should everything go as planned his great reward was to be in
this same position at this same time, tomorrow. Well, he thought, it seems I've
already arrived; I can just continue lying here. But, then again, what's the
use of lying idle in bed, he said to himself, still slack. Tied between two
equally delicious bundles of hay, a hungry but perfectly rational donkey once
starved.
And
so it was for Gregory, much like our pitiable donkey, that he was attacked by a
phantasmic, paralyzing apprehension. It started by squeezing tight his stomach,
continued by wrapping itself around his body, then slowly shrouded over his
mind until his thoughts ceased, and finally sunk into his lungs and breathed
his oxygen. He was smothered; he was suffocating. The tyranny of possibility
was upon him, the anxiety of choice. He was in chains; he was awfully free. And
suddenly his only certainty was nothingness.
He knew that, for example,
very suddenly, he might turn into a bear. Perhaps he would force himself to
turn into a bear. Possibly he was a bear already, he could not say. His mind,
released after much resistance, was now racing. He wasn't sure what to think,
so he thought everything, all at once. He was thinking, therefore, something,
he thought, though he had no idea what, and didn't think it mattered, but he
thought, therefore, something, and no other uncertainties mattered,
which was absurd, as maybe everything is absurd, but this one thing, this
something, he can suppose, he was sure, he concluded something, which
was enough, was even more than enough, and he breathed in uncontrollable
giggles, and they exploded out of him, and finding his sudden enthusiasm
unwarranted (for what had really changed?) an even heartier laugh burst forth
(for he thought unwarranted enthusiasm was always something to get excited
about), and he quickly groomed, and prepared for work, and put on his hat, and
grabbed his briefcase with his paw, and scurried into the cold outdoors,
growling a barbaric yawp.
© 2010 Robert John Miller.
All rights reserved.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
