Mis-placed nightmare

THE OTHER SHOE 

 

From a deep unexpected afternoon sofa nap, I wake screaming. My right leg kicks towards the ceiling. I roll off the sofa, hit the oak floor hard. Was I shot? Blood trickles down my chin. My tongue hurts and I taste the redness. Breathing is shallow, labored. I lie on the floor like a  bump on a twisted log and gradually come back to reality that what happened was I had a day-mere.

 

Getting to my feet, I am nauseated, gag, limp to the powder room, barely make it to the toilet and throw up my guts. I am as sure as I can be that the burger I had at Mendie's was tainted and chastise myself for having the sauteed onions on top and maybe too much ketchup. A headache is forming on both temples. 'Lie down, try to relax,' I tell myself and go back to the sofa.

 

A low rumble of thunder follows a sudden flash of lightning. How am I going to relax when any moment rain, hail will probably smash a window somewhere in my apartment? I wait feeling pretty sure this storm will knock out the electricity, there'll be no t.v. for hours and worst of all, how will I nuke my supper? Get up, Bumblehead. I get ready for any emergency, hard boil three eggs, thaw a couple of slices of black bread that I am not yet hungering for, make a pot of coffee that if it comes to the worst, I can add a few ice cubes that may still be in the freezer.

 

Back to the sofa, where I find James Patterson's newest book, 'One, Two, three, stuck between the cushions. I lie back against the leather arm of the sofa and start to read. Patterson ropes me in again. By chapter three two doctors have been murdered and their wives have flown together to Equador.  My eyes start to droop further. I shake my head, blink a few times and try to read again. Either my senses haven't recovered from my day-mare or Patterson has finally written garbage. I let my eyes do what they want to do–droop all the way.

 

In the middle of my trip to Paradise, there is a terrible banging noise.
'Who the devil is banging on my door like that?' I shout. A rough masculine voice answers, 'Where the heck have you been? You've ruined our afternoon. Mackey and Billy Boy have gone home.' I really must have hit my head on the floor. I don't know a Mackey or a Billy Boy and tell it to the caller without opening the door. He bangs again, has to hear me tell him go away or I'll call the police.

 

When the pounding stops I am sure I hear a key go into the lock. I see the knob start to turn, then click and open. Two brawny men dressed in white coats don't say a word to me. One, the taller one, has something behind his back. The other one gets my attention, does a few boxing jabsand that is when the first bozo grabs me, wraps me in something that has buckles in the back. I am tied up but can walk. When I get to the stairs, I try to run but am caught. The white coated men take me outside, put me in a big white car that has red writing on the side. 'What does that say, Mr.' I ask. '

 

He looks straight at me, tells me to keep quiet, my mother has been waiting for me all morning at Bon Chance Sanatarium. She has a lovely room reserved for you.