Waking up is Hard to Do
Posted: 2004-03-14 02:59am
Waking Up is Hard to Do.
This is declared with a note at the foot of my employer’s four-post bed, written in a five inch tall calligraphic font, the kind that most soccer moms would kill to be able to use. More than a few times I have had to learn what that means the hard way. The first time I wound up getting grazed by a burning hot bullet. After that my employer tried making it easy on me by replacing his favorite revolver with a foot-long Bowie knife. Bad Idea. That thing wound me up getting my arm stitched in the emergency room the rest of that night.
When I first got this job, I thought it would be… easy. Sure, it wasn’t that much pay, but then again, what does a student really need that much money for, right? The ad said: caretaker needed for eccentric recluse. Work Nights. Part time. One Thousand Dollars a Month. I had recently lost my job, and I didn’t want to wind up being one of the Ave. rats again. Something I hate about dealing with tweakers. I would rather skirt death every evening and see my life flash before my eyes before dealing with their drama (actually, let me correct myself- DRAMA… all caps) and animalistic behaviour. Here, instead. I’m prodding a genuine tiger at slumber- a rich lunatic with enough toys to probably burn Scottsdale three times over. But no scary drug habits.
So this is the routine. Every afternoon, usually on the net as I’m doing my homework, I check when the sun is going to set on an ephemeris site. Don’t ask me why, but he insists on being woken up at the stroke of twilight. I swing by my studio apartment, grab a flashlight, a broom handle, and the keys to my Dodge Colt. I hop on the freeway and spend about ten minutes making my way to the city, driving along the north part of central, ignoring the Llama farm and the horse ranch, finally making a left into a little cul-de-sac that hides a palatial mansion.
Right behind a front yard almost completely overgrown with prickly, dry weeds, that has at least two noticeable patches of brown dust. I wander to the front door, turn the key, and wander in. At the very least I have managed to take the better part of his house and clean it up and remove what seemed like decades of cobwebs from his plastic coated furniture. Every now and then a new one shows up… I have to prod the webbing out of my path with the end of the broom handle. I’m still superstitious about spiders, however, so I try and leave them well enough alone.
Making my way down the stairs to the cool, dark cellar, I find a short hall. I have to light a few candles recessed along the walls. Excellent stonework here, it puts a shame to most of the construction you see in the rest of the valley. Then finally I find a fresh oak door, recently replaced from the last time he woke in a sour mood and opened fire with three incendiary rounds. Slowly, carefully, I open the door, careful not to shine my flashlight directly at the bed. The Bowie knife incident also was the one time I made that mistake.
I then take the broom handle and slowly pull back the sheets, poking his foot.
“I WILL RIP YOUR HEART OUT AND MAKE YOU WATCH ITS DYING PULSES!!!” he says as he shoots into an upright seated position for about two seconds, and then flops back onto the bed with a marked thump. I don’t know how he does it, but nine times out of ten he still freezes me in place with this act.
Half nervous, half amused, I shake my head and let out a little snicker. Pulling in my breath I take the broom handle again… and slide the end slowly up his foot.
“FOOLISH MORTAL!!! YOU SHALL PAY FOR THIS WITH YOUR BLOOD!!!” the next thing I notice he is pinning me to the wall by my shoulders… about to bare his teeth when he says. “Oh, hell… sorry about that. Are you alright?”
“Yeah… just need to catch my breath,” I squeak out. The broom handle has finished rolling along the floor. “Anyways, you’re awake now… right?”
“Definitely,” he says and lets go of me. My knees buckle as I regain my balance, having been just dropped by a seven foot tall black man. He shoves a clove in my face, which I gladly put between my lips as he lights it, taking a few breaths, and ashing at the night table. Lighting up his own cigarette (“I smoke them for the taste” so he says… I’m the only one who I remember having a capacity for not getting addicted to anything!) He begins walking towards his own dresser. As I try to make out the smoke rings I just blew in the near pitch dark, his shoes come tapping back at me, a gold business card displayed conspicuously at eye level…
“What’s the errand this time?” I say grabbing the card, shining my flashlight against it to try and read it. I see a wine bottle at the angle I have, but that’s about it.
“Oh, just need a new shipment of my favorite beverage.” He says as he raises a green bottle… swinging it back and forth. “A certain flavor of… Red wine.” He says after taking a generous swig… shaking a bit… and then showing me his flawless grin.
“Any particular vintage?”
“Yeah, I have it listed on the back there… don’t worry if they don’t have the exact vintage, she usually keeps good stuff regardless.”
“Okay… sounds easy enough.”
“For you. My problem is always trying to get her when she’s awake. It’s as if the entire valley is so boring that only the Apocalypse will wake her.”
“Anything else you need help with tonight?”
“No, but, on that subject, as always, thank you for waking me nice and early tonight. You’re a lifesaver. Really”
This is declared with a note at the foot of my employer’s four-post bed, written in a five inch tall calligraphic font, the kind that most soccer moms would kill to be able to use. More than a few times I have had to learn what that means the hard way. The first time I wound up getting grazed by a burning hot bullet. After that my employer tried making it easy on me by replacing his favorite revolver with a foot-long Bowie knife. Bad Idea. That thing wound me up getting my arm stitched in the emergency room the rest of that night.
When I first got this job, I thought it would be… easy. Sure, it wasn’t that much pay, but then again, what does a student really need that much money for, right? The ad said: caretaker needed for eccentric recluse. Work Nights. Part time. One Thousand Dollars a Month. I had recently lost my job, and I didn’t want to wind up being one of the Ave. rats again. Something I hate about dealing with tweakers. I would rather skirt death every evening and see my life flash before my eyes before dealing with their drama (actually, let me correct myself- DRAMA… all caps) and animalistic behaviour. Here, instead. I’m prodding a genuine tiger at slumber- a rich lunatic with enough toys to probably burn Scottsdale three times over. But no scary drug habits.
So this is the routine. Every afternoon, usually on the net as I’m doing my homework, I check when the sun is going to set on an ephemeris site. Don’t ask me why, but he insists on being woken up at the stroke of twilight. I swing by my studio apartment, grab a flashlight, a broom handle, and the keys to my Dodge Colt. I hop on the freeway and spend about ten minutes making my way to the city, driving along the north part of central, ignoring the Llama farm and the horse ranch, finally making a left into a little cul-de-sac that hides a palatial mansion.
Right behind a front yard almost completely overgrown with prickly, dry weeds, that has at least two noticeable patches of brown dust. I wander to the front door, turn the key, and wander in. At the very least I have managed to take the better part of his house and clean it up and remove what seemed like decades of cobwebs from his plastic coated furniture. Every now and then a new one shows up… I have to prod the webbing out of my path with the end of the broom handle. I’m still superstitious about spiders, however, so I try and leave them well enough alone.
Making my way down the stairs to the cool, dark cellar, I find a short hall. I have to light a few candles recessed along the walls. Excellent stonework here, it puts a shame to most of the construction you see in the rest of the valley. Then finally I find a fresh oak door, recently replaced from the last time he woke in a sour mood and opened fire with three incendiary rounds. Slowly, carefully, I open the door, careful not to shine my flashlight directly at the bed. The Bowie knife incident also was the one time I made that mistake.
I then take the broom handle and slowly pull back the sheets, poking his foot.
“I WILL RIP YOUR HEART OUT AND MAKE YOU WATCH ITS DYING PULSES!!!” he says as he shoots into an upright seated position for about two seconds, and then flops back onto the bed with a marked thump. I don’t know how he does it, but nine times out of ten he still freezes me in place with this act.
Half nervous, half amused, I shake my head and let out a little snicker. Pulling in my breath I take the broom handle again… and slide the end slowly up his foot.
“FOOLISH MORTAL!!! YOU SHALL PAY FOR THIS WITH YOUR BLOOD!!!” the next thing I notice he is pinning me to the wall by my shoulders… about to bare his teeth when he says. “Oh, hell… sorry about that. Are you alright?”
“Yeah… just need to catch my breath,” I squeak out. The broom handle has finished rolling along the floor. “Anyways, you’re awake now… right?”
“Definitely,” he says and lets go of me. My knees buckle as I regain my balance, having been just dropped by a seven foot tall black man. He shoves a clove in my face, which I gladly put between my lips as he lights it, taking a few breaths, and ashing at the night table. Lighting up his own cigarette (“I smoke them for the taste” so he says… I’m the only one who I remember having a capacity for not getting addicted to anything!) He begins walking towards his own dresser. As I try to make out the smoke rings I just blew in the near pitch dark, his shoes come tapping back at me, a gold business card displayed conspicuously at eye level…
“What’s the errand this time?” I say grabbing the card, shining my flashlight against it to try and read it. I see a wine bottle at the angle I have, but that’s about it.
“Oh, just need a new shipment of my favorite beverage.” He says as he raises a green bottle… swinging it back and forth. “A certain flavor of… Red wine.” He says after taking a generous swig… shaking a bit… and then showing me his flawless grin.
“Any particular vintage?”
“Yeah, I have it listed on the back there… don’t worry if they don’t have the exact vintage, she usually keeps good stuff regardless.”
“Okay… sounds easy enough.”
“For you. My problem is always trying to get her when she’s awake. It’s as if the entire valley is so boring that only the Apocalypse will wake her.”
“Anything else you need help with tonight?”
“No, but, on that subject, as always, thank you for waking me nice and early tonight. You’re a lifesaver. Really”
~Jason