The Call
It’s 8 a.m. and you wake up. You grab your phone and pause for a second before turning off the alarm. You thought about snoozing it but you know that traffic will only get worse. You’re committed now, no turning back, if you fall asleep again you won’t wake up.
You lift yourself up, breaking free from the remaining strands of sleep. Your bones protest the sudden movement, and the gelatinous mass of flesh that hangs onto your frame pulls you down. Fuck, you’re out of shape for 27. Time to get ready for work.
You make the mistake of turning your computer on. The horrors of the world proceed to walk through, filtered through the opinions of morons. There is a small window of seconds where you begin to react before the kill switch in your mind numbs you to the news. Another mass shooting, a hero’s death, the betrayal of a species, the doomsday clock strikes 11:59:59, the confederacy of dunces meets, fires engulf the world. Which one will be your first talking point of the day?
It’s 11 a.m. and your work is piling up. The system works against you, challenging you to be productive in the face of bureaucratic sloth. Still, you toil against the machinations of the corporate agenda if only to prove even in uncertain odds you can still get shit done.
It’s noon and you give up. You position yourself next to trays of food. You know that if you open your mouth at just the right angle, and activate your black hole generator 5000 you can consume the maximum amount of matter in the shortest amount of time. Did you get all the nutrition you needed? It’s in there somewhere I suppose. You take a brisk walk around the parking lot to make sure the meal is packed into the bottom of your stomach as densely as possible, there will be more to come. You bring up the mass shooting.
It’s 6 p.m. and where has the day gone. You quipped, bantered, and sauntered it away with your co-workers. In the process, somewhere in the muck of the day, work got done. You’re not really sure how or why. Forces conspired in your favor, but only now at the tail-end of the day does a spark of real inspiration strike. Now, your real masterpiece comes forth, unfettered by the system – the beast sleeps at 5 – you can breathe life into your creation.
It’s 8 p.m. and you’re dead. There is but a thread of life left and its only function is to make sure your corpse alternates between pushing the gas and the brake pedals. It strives to reach the promised land, the home it was promised after the day has ended. The voices coming from the radio remind you that perhaps you are not as deceased as you thought, or perhaps they are the only thing keeping you from doing so.
It’s 10 p.m. and you’re exhausted. Still there’s time for one last tv show. You try to guess at the relevancy of the episode. What part of society will it deconstruct, and will you have seen it before? Perhaps it will be a character study, or an educative romp. You’ll watch it and let your dreams digest it. It shall become part of your ethos in due time. After it is done, you take one last breath as you prepare for tomorrow’s marathon of existence.
12 a.m. and your eyes dart open. There sitting in the darkness of the room, there is complete silence, and yet… you hear it. The call. The beckoning song of the night. Your body extends out into the domain of the moon. There is a pull, gentle at first, chaotic at best. You start to hear the frenzy build in you head, a manic saxophone, and bearing it no longer you leap out of bed. You gather your nocturnal instruments and depart into the realm of shadow. The air is cold and you need a drink. You walk down the block and all you hear is the shuffling of your boots on the cracked asphalt. Sometimes you skip a beat to dodge a root bursting forth through the concrete in defiance of the masters who have asked it to remain low. Slowly you approach life. The city is alive at this hour and the dim thumping of the bass guides you, sandworms in the night.
You order your favorite drink, who cares what it is, do you even know? As the tentacles of the alcohol creep into the edges of your vision you start to ruminate. What do the words that come to you even mean: horrible, tragedy, worst, history, terrible, despicable, disgusting, fascist. The words are worn hammers, and we’ve been using them too long. If you throw a piece of shit into a cesspool you just have a bigger cesspool. Have you ever tried to yell into a hurricane? Your words get ripped out of your throat, flung to the far reaches of the universe, drowned out forever by the cries of the infinite and after you’re done your voice is gone.
Your melancholy thoughts don’t stop you from hearing the music. It’s not your style though, so you walk out. You’re on the hunt for the self-expression you desperately crave, expressed by another. You cut through the darkness, pausing at the entrances of temples to hear the oracles produce their visions. The musicians tap into the collective consciousness of the city and produce an interpretation of the impossible. A trumpet here, an electric guitar there, drums, synth, beats. The music scores your movement, are you the puppet or the puppet master? Whoever you are it feels great. The people around you seem to enjoy it too, and perhaps you feel a sense of kinship but it’s false. Your muse is a reflection of your soul and they have different ones.
The whole world around you is vibrating on the same frequency. You try stand perfectly still so as to not get caught up in the motion. You didn’t sign up for this, so you finish your drink and slip back into the nothing. Still feeling the need to escape deeper, you do, down into the earth past the fossilized remains of the city that was. A man at the piano is explaining humanity in 88 keys or less. You exhale deeply and sacrifice a bit of yourself to this night.
As the notes on the piano fade away, so too do the last vestiges of the call. The moon’s fingers retreat across the sky, signaling the beginning of the end. Thoughts start creeping into your head that you’d rather not have. The dread sinks in, did you stay up too long? You look at your watch and it’s almost 4 a.m…4 hours of sleep will do you suppose.