Dark Horse Diaries: Part I: The Dark Horse
Bill Hollars
Copyright Bill Hollars 2012
Published by Los Publications at Smashwords
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Dark Horse Diaries
My eyes have seen all this, my ears have heard and understood it. What you know, I also know; I am not inferior to you. But I desire to speak to the Almighty and to argue my case with God. – Job 13
Good is the passive that obeys Reason. Evil is the active springing from Energy. Good is Heaven. Evil is Hell. – William Blake, Marriage of Heaven and Hell
Part I: The Dark Horse
North Window…
I peer out from my only accessible window each morning until the bright daylight eases into focus and bleeds into the darkness. It helps to ignore the blathering from my west neighbor. I think she’s feuding with her husband who has been out all night. I can’t really tell but the murmurs are angry and constant. Sometimes she’ll go on for hours. And sometimes she just breathes heavy and sobs.
As my window comes into focus, I see the crisp, green grass below. It is generally freshly cut on Mondays. I can only imagine the smell of freshly cut grass and recall early spring as a child and how it felt so sticky between my fingers and stained the knees of my pants a dark green that always upset Mother.
A busy road lies about fifty yards from the window. Two vehicles speed by every 63 seconds. It’s not always that precise, but so often it is, especially on Mondays. I can’t help but assume they are all singularly occupied with those hastily on their way to work, so eager to beat the clock and their fellow employees. As the week gets on, they become more sluggish and less predictable. But Monday is always a new beginning for them, full of new aspirations and new leaves of grass. And quite possibly I’m wrong but I can’t imagine why they would be on this road at this hour otherwise.
Beyond the busy road sits a thick row of pines that birds dart into and out from. Further back, I can spot a few faint images of tall buildings peeking over the pines, their noses pointed upward toward the clouds—some piercing them. I’m certain all of those singular occupied and hurried vehicles are combing their way through the bushy pines and into the silvery tall buildings hoisted against a dark blue sky. I recall the days I made such similar journeys each day with so many important tasks to be done only to retrace my steps each night at the end of it all.
Oh to have those nights back, my body and mind fatigued with a day's job well done and an honest day's wage to pay for a nice bed to relax in. At night, by the window, the darkness bleeds into the light. I like to watch out the window at night. It helps me to relax and ignore my east neighbors who are constantly moaning. They must be in so much pain, their worn minds, growing more and more weary with loneliness. At night, the grass disappears and becomes a mat of gray. Beams from the streetlights illuminate patches in the grass. The busy road fades and all that is visible is the blur of illuminated red and white dots coming and going in symmetrical pairs, and some even flashing orange or blue. Six pairs speed by every 36 seconds. Perhaps not exact, except on Mondays, but near enough to tell they are in so much more hurry to retrace their steps and get back to their cozy homes paid for by the day’s honest wage. And quite possibly I’m wrong but I can’t imagine why they would be on this road at this hour otherwise.
I would like to stay on here by the window, reminiscing about a life well lived and imagining the cool spring air on my face, lulling me to a comfortable drowsy state, but I hear the increasing sound of footsteps coming toward the south door. So I turn around.
Monday, 4:20 a.m.
The door opens slowly as Mother eases her way into the room. Careful not to step on the progressive Lego fortress accumulating on the floor, she makes her way to my bedside. The dust glitters in the sunbeam before her as she hunkers toward me to feel my forehead. In this moment, she is so loving. Perhaps she feels horrible for spanking me so hard when I spilled last night’s dinner all over myself and on the floor.
I woke this morning with quite the tummy ache and was hoping not to have to go to school. Before Mother came, I had thought about working on the Lego fortress. The more I had thought about it, the more I just wanted to stare at it, intrigued by what it could be and amazed by what it wasn't. I had counted the row of fifteen and two halves red pieces that formed the base of the facing wall. Then I counted the full sixteen yellows that topped the reds, the fifteen and two halves of reds on the third row, and so on up to the tenth row. There on the tenth, third from the right, I had mistakenly placed a blue in the yellow row. I paused and started over until I got back to the blue. Just as I began the third count, Mother eased her way into the room.
Feeling my forehead, she wipes my brow and places a warm mug of cocoa on the nightstand. Then she hand-feeds me a chewable aspirin and says something softly, but I do not listen. Instead I concentrate on the blue one and hope she leaves soon so that I can fix it. As she turns, I try to ease out of bed behind her but cannot make it before she returns with a spoon and bottle of elixir. She spoon-feeds me the thick, red syrup. The cherry flavoring and sugar do little to mask the taste of chemicals. Perhaps she doesn’t feel bad about punishing me over last night’s dinner episode after all. Perhaps she is trying to poison me.
She leaves again, and again I try to escape from the bed. I can hardly move and do little more than lift my head before slipping back into sleep and dreaming of blue.
Monday, 5:59 a.m.
The alarm explodes to the sounds of Jazz 98.1 at 6:00 a.m. It transforms my peaceful reality to transitory brightness. I choke to life, tap the button on the clock to stop the music, and turn on the television with the remote that I keep on my nightstand. The initial reality shock of waking is stunning, but it’s the music that gets me on my way. No bells or buzzers for me. They just intensify the shock between realities that resonates throughout the entire day. It’s that chaotic blend of melodies and rhythms of jazz that really puts me in the mood to get on. But I have to admit my disdain for their catch phrase, “You’re listening to the sounds of Jazz 98.1” in that deep soft monotone. Christ, I need to be waking up, not being lulled back to sleep. But if I don’t piss around too long wiping the sleep from my eyes, I won’t have to hear it, so I generally don’t let it go too long without turning it off.
At 6:20 a.m., I stand in a tub with warm water pushing the soap off my skin. I towel off lightly and air dry as I brush my teeth, comb my hair, shave my face, and apply deodorant. I dress in khakis and a solid color Oxford shirt over a white tee, always leaving the top button undone and fastening the outside cuff buttons.
By 7:15 a.m., I back from my drive and begin the 10.6-mile journey to work. I pass a group of kids waiting for their bus and turn right at the first traffic light into the mass of others going about a similar routine. I have a difficult time with the next light where I have to turn left. I’m stopped there for 38 seconds, which allows me the opportunity to count the cars whizzing away from my right and comparing the numbers to those whizzing away to my left. Two more lefts and I enter the parking lot on the right.
At 7:35 a.m., I walk through the front doors, flash my badge, and stop at the cafeteria for a bagel and coffee, or sometimes juice. Today, my routine is interrupted by Matt who stops me on the way to my office.
“Hi Tom,” he belts in his loud, cheerful voice.
“Hi,” I mumble and look away. I’m having a difficult time looking at him because he has on a goddamned striped golf shirt—horizontal bar of red at the collar, then a bar of blue, then red, etc. until it fades into his khaki pants. His aura is loud enough; why must he have the fucking shirt to match?
“Game of chess tonight?” he asks.
“What?” I say still thinking about his shirt. “Oh, yeah. Sure. Sounds great. But change that shirt will you? For crying out loud, you look like Ernie.” I smile, and he belts a chuckle as he repeats, “Ernie.” He turns and allows me on my way.
Once I’m settled, I begin sifting through piles of copy as I sip coffee and nibble at a bagel. Mark has submitted several proposals for the spring catalog cover, and Judy has completed several pages of copy that will make up first section of the catalog. As I get to the eighteenth page, I find that Judy, in a panic, has submitted handwritten copy on lined notebook pages. Maybe she did it in the car on the way to work. I don’t care. There is no excuse for such sloppiness! I start counting the lines and then stop to look away. I immediately go to her cubicle. "What the hell are you thinking?" I ask in quite some anger as I wave the pages at her. She pulls her glasses through her silver streaked hair and looks up at me as I speak. I think she attempts to cry, but I turn away before I have to see it and leave her to her corrections.
At 12:15 p.m., I return to the cafeteria for a tuna fish sandwich and diet soda. From 12:45 p.m. until 4:58 p.m., I continue editing the first section of the catalog. By this time, Judy has revised the last pages of copy and transferred her ideas to type on crisp copy paper. She does such remarkable work. I would like to tell her that, but I will wait for her review.
At 5:03 p.m., I am entering the mass of others blazing their trail homeward to the safe and cozy dwellings their daily business affords them. I too retrace my 10.6-mile journey and ease into my drive.
Monday, 5:37 p.m.
At 5:38 p.m., I warm last night’s Chinese take-out in the microwave. I have previously set the timer as high as it will possibly go so that I don’t have to reset it that often. I figure that by the time I pour my drink and grab the New York Times from the coffee table, the lo-mein and seasoned broccoli will be adequately warmed. Generally, after dinner I would watch the 6:00 p.m. news, read a portion of some random novel, get ready for bed while the 10:00 p.m. news repeats the 6:00 p.m. news, and fall asleep. But tonight that precious routine is interrupted. I have to meet Matt for a game of chess.