Evan McMahon
Tired Lungs by Evan McMahon
A Short(ish) Story
Dennis Lewner is forty-three and has never slept a night in his life, so understandably, he is a very tired person. The very two things that make him different than your everyday Joe, he was born with: The ability to control his dreams, or as the psychologist he was able to afford only once told him, “lucid dreaming,” and Patent Ductus Arteriosus, or as his dad had explained to him when he was 6, “A bum ticker.” His father kept his distance, and without smiling or frowning would watch Dennis sit on a porch chair and read illustrated Shakespeare, quietly disappointed that his only son would whimper out in short, wet-eyed breaths that he was drowning after even too brisk of a walk. At forty-three, he is sufficiently intelligent, but debilitatingly shy, understandable for a poor boy picked on all his life because he would fall to the ground and pour out strange, short crying gasps after running from home to 1st in a game of kickball. In job interviews and rare first dates his heart would freeze, and he would only choke out simple ‘yes’s’ and ‘no’s’ over the feeling of water rushing into his lungs, even more nervous because Clyde in his red hat wasn’t there to help him. At night, when he was much younger, instead of sleeping Dennis used to soar through skies and time. Now, at night he mostly lies down in emptiness, remembers little nothings, and ignores Clyde’s gentle pleas to do something more interesting. Not long out of high school, he took a Janitors job from his own alma mater, Tom Brown Academy, a large private school with grades K to 12, and saw very clearly what his life was, is, and will be, both waking and asleep. At forty-three, Dennis is tired of mops, of the water that fills his lungs, of conversations with a freckled, imaginary man in a red hat, of persistent experiences of emptiness, of remembering mean little boys, of being tired.
But you wouldn’t know it to look at Dennis right now. Walking through the empty halls of seventh period, there is a rare skip in his step, a whistle in his eyes, an undefeatable joy in the swing of his mop cradled under his arm. He has a thousand dollars, his life’s savings, in his pocket, and in a little under an hour, Dennis is going to kill himself. Every few minutes or so, the swinging mop comes to a screeching stop and the happy tune disappears from Dennis’ face when a trash can seen from the corner of his eye appears to be a cardboard cutout of a little boy, but he becomes relieved, after further inspection, that Clyde is nowhere to be seen, that he is awake, and continues walking down the halls, looking for pieces of trash with the happy determination of a man on death row.
Yesterday, it seemed undeniable providence to Dennis when he saw a poster in the drama building, advertising a musical he had performed in, almost 30 years ago. After eleven years at Tom Brown Academy, he was a friendless tenth grader, plagued by water filling lungs and beat skipping hearts, and tired, though not as exhausted as he would be at forty-three. He hadn’t even thought about auditioning when he saw the poster. How could he sing in a musical when, on stage in front of hundreds, he knew he wouldn’t be able to even breathe? But he wished then that he could have even thought about it. That night, 30 years ago, asleep in name only, he and Clyde auditioned, scored lead roles, scored with the beautiful dancing classmates, and earned standing ovation after standing ovation. 30 years later, Dennis had for a while been toying with this particular way to kill himself, and when he read, “Relive the 60’s and Support Tom Brown Theater,” seeing the play that night seemed a nice bookend to his life. Though, knowing he needed only the littlest sentimental push to go ahead with his plan, he admitted to himself he was really just grasping at straws for an excuse.
At home, after the last bit of the cafeteria was cleaned, he put on his only nice shirt and pants, made a quick, awkward, essential phone call, and drove back to the school. Arriving at the show a little early, and waiting somewhat impatiently for the lights to lower, he was nervous that people would recognize him, the lowly janitor. But no one did, thankfully. The show was decent, a musical about Berkeley’s People’s Park and its “Bloody Thursday,” but the story of the death of two U.C. Berkeley students, and the blinding of another, seemed mismatched with the almost riotous David Crosby inspired sound track, and the cast was trying a little too hard to be Hair.
The moment he had enjoyed the most was when a young, skinny girl, in a long floral skirt and loose brown top came crawling through the audience, and sat on his lap, singing about love or peace or drugs. She pushed her back up against his stomach, slowly and softly, then rested her head against his cheek, only at that moment letting Dennis know her secret. Through the coarseness against his skin, she silently whispered that her long brown pigtails were only a wig. He had closed his eyes, and listened to her as she kept singing, not able to remember any of the words more than a moment, imagining he had known her all his life. If he had wanted to, he could have kept his eyes closed, then opened them to find everyone gone but the pig-tailed girl, who would slowly take off her loose brown shirt in silence, and move his hand to her soft, small breast, as a man in a red hat sat looking on in approval. Years ago, he would have. But the brief thought of it now disturbed him so much that it woke him from his uniquely dreamlike, waking revelry of enjoying the girl’s real wig against his real cheek. He opened his eyes and noticed a butterfly tattoo on her stomach, just in time for her to lift herself up off his lap, and slowly walk away, singing softly, her skirt lingering a few moments longer to sweep over his knees. That night, as he lay in bed, shirtless with both hands resting over his coarse belly, knowing that this was his last night, he ran his hands up and down his stomach, feeling the rough wires of his black hair, and wondered what her hair felt like under the wig, what her real hair looked like. He wondered whether she wanted to act or sing professionally, if she had brothers or sisters, when she had gotten the tattoo of a butterfly he had seen. Never once did she take off her shirt in his imagination, never once did she submit to him, a powerful king or a beautiful dancer. Struggling to keep himself in the only state of rest he ever got, the delirious and skinny line between awake and asleep, he remembered carrying out years worth of conversation with the pig-tailed girl, short blonde hair underneath the wig, and the he last thing he wanted to do, death coming so soon, was to fall asleep.
But Dennis was only human, and after forty-three years of consciousness, he was tired. Clyde spoke to him first, as always.
“You didn’t think I deserved a goodbye?” Clyde asked, sitting on the bed next to Dennis.
“I didn’t want to fall asleep. I’ve been sleeping for years. I’ve only got a few hours left of being awake.” Dennis opened his eyes, “Story of my life, I guess. Less than a day left to live, and here I am, dreaming.” Dennis looked around. He was on his bed, still lying above the covers, but his bed was in the middle People’s Park’s stage. In the audience were cardboard cut outs of various children, all familiar feeling, but he couldn’t remember who most of them were. Clyde was wearing a hippie costume from the play, brown corduroy pants, swirled purple and white shirt, and his typical red hat and freckles covered cheeks.
“I guess I shouldn’t even bother trying to talk you out of it,” Clyde asked. Dennis didn’t even think to look his way; he was intently walking over towards the large handles off stage, the fly system for the theater.
“Not that you’d let me. Part of the job description, I guess, of being a fantasy image for a lucid dreamer. So, last night as god. Any special plans?”
“I haven’t bothered being a god in more than twenty years,” Dennis casually answered over his shoulder, studying each large, metal lever, tracing with his fingers the connected maze of ropes that lead high above to the ceiling. He tried to guess what was up there by the amount of counterweights attached. “Where once was a god,” he continued, distractedly, “now, is just a drowsy old man.” He turned to Clyde, with a smile, “’Methought I heard a voice cry 'Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep', the innocent sleep, Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care, the death of each day's life,’… This one!” he declared, and suddenly pulled a particularly promising handle. Crashing down from above, held up by ropes traveling high up into the sky, came a wooden façade of Dennis’ childhood house, pastel and marker colored shingles and bricks, blue crayon windows, a smiling and waving mom and dad chalked against a white wall.
“Flashing your life across your eyes?” Clyde asked, walking up to examine the painted wood.
“Apparently. Hey dad!” The chalk starts waving at him, yelling silent greetings.
“After 40 years, this is nothing but underwhelming,” Clyde added with a mock yawn, returning to the audience, unceremoniously picking up a cardboard 5th grader in blue shoes and messy hair and screaming face, and tossing him aside so he could take his seat.
“How about this one?” Dennis pulled another lever, and his young home went flying up, and crashing down came the painted outside of his apartment building. Trap doors spring open, and cardboard trees and mailboxes fold out of the floor. A two dimensional pigeon flies over head in a straight line, A paper woman, pleasantly round and always smiling, the splitting image of the girl Dennis saw often in his elevator and wished he could talk to, was carrying paper groceries and was pulled across the stage by fishing line. Sounds of honking horns and talking men played out of the speakers.
“Better, Still not much.”
“Tough crowd. How about… this unpleasant fellow.”
Dennis pulled the lever, and the stage lights began to glow brighter and brighter, until he was blinded by a solid white light. Dennis looks around, his eyes began to adjust, and he slowly revealed to himself that he was outside, on a kickball field. Clyde was sitting on the bleachers behind home plate.
“Here!” Clyde laughed. “All we ever do anymore is come here. I guess you think tonight, I’ll apologize.”
“I had hoped.”
“I don’t care if you keep living your miserable, exhausted life 1000 more years… You know what, I hope you do! And even then, I still won’t apologize. You can fly, become invisible, control minds, make a whole god damned universe, but you cannot make me apologize for calling a weak, sickly little baby exactly that”
“You’ll have one more chance tomorrow.” Dennis bent over and felt the red dirt covering the lane between 3rd and home. He lay down on the grass and looked over to see the buildings of his old school a few hundred feet away, busy with activity.
He looked back up at the sky and standing above him were eight children, looking down on him with loathing. Seven of them were identical, exact clones, except each time he looked at one of them, they all were a different boy. The eighth boy was particularly mean; a rip on the left knee of his jeans, his eyes shaded by a red baseball cap.
“What are you crying for, you crummy little punk?” the red hat boy demanded, punctuating his question with a swift kick to Dennis’ side. Seven identical blonds watched with cruel interest. Dennis, his lungs suddenly full of water, couldn’t answer, but gaped like a fish.
“You’re a weak, sick little baby,” the boy’s freckles glowed red, a shadow dimming over his eyes so dark that they became black. The seven identical boys, dark brown hair and empty white eyes, laughed at once the same laugh. They all began to walk away in disgust.
“Wait!” Dennis managed to scream out. He stood up, the water draining out of his lungs and hanging heavy in his stomach. “Wait!”
“What?” asked the adult Clyde, sitting on the bleachers, the boys having disappeared.
“I’m not a baby!” Dennis wiped the tears from his eyes.
“Prove it”
“How?”
“Swim across the pond,” Clyde hoarsely yelled, his voice sounding more tired than just moments ago. Dennis walked over to the bleachers and sat next to Clyde on the hard, cold metal, noticing that they were now facing the holding pond at the edge of the school grounds. It stretched on like an ocean, reaching the horizon unapologetically, the water choppy and threatening. Clyde and Dennis sat silently, watching a line of dozens of boys throw stones and yell at a young Dennis, who sat, cross-legged on the shore, crying, too terrified to even put his toes in the water, convinced he would drown if he did.
“Baby! Freak!” The Boys yelled out. The red hat boy boomed out louder than all the rest, turning slightly to look at the older Dennis, “You’re a miserable coward, too scared to even kill yourself without my help.”
“It’s your last night in heaven,” Clyde spoke after a few moments of silence.
“Heaven?” Dennis responded, with disgust.
“It’s your last night here, whatever you want to call it. Are you sure this is how you want to spend it?”
“Listen, Clyde… I’m not going to say it hasn’t been fun sometimes. But, you’re as much in my head as I am. You know how tired we are.” Clyde had bags under his eyes and deepening wrinkles on his skin, he was becoming unrecognizable transformed. And Dennis was feeling the effects of his other self sitting on the ground and bawling, his breath becoming shorter and shorter. “At least, don’t make me feel like this isn’t the right choice.”
Clyde didn’t respond, but just laid down on the bleacher and crossed his arms over his chest, aging more and more every moment, his hair graying and growing, his cheeks sinking in deeper and deeper, tired and dirty.
“Goodnight Clyde. I’m sure you understand when I say that, if there’s a god, I’ll never see you again after tomorrow. But then again, I guess if there is a god… well then there really is no rest for the wicked. Wish me luck, help me go through with it.”
Clyde had turned to dust and had blown away, his ashes scattering over the water. It was just Dennis, a deserted red hat resting on the bleacher, and the young boy crying on the ground. The line of boys had turned into silent, still, cardboard cut outs, jeering with painted faces. Dennis picked up the hat, sat down on the sand next to his young self, and wiped his tears with his shirt. The young boy stopped sobbing, but kept breathing heavy as he looked silently over at his older face. Dennis smiled at him, trying to reassure the poor boy. But soon, he was just another cardboard cutout, and Dennis, alone, stared at the water for hours, bending the bill of the red hat back and forth in his hands. Then he took off his shoes and waded in.
#
Dennis didn’t know when his lucid dreaming began. As an infant, he dreamt, he was sure, just like any other infant, fantasizing about milk. But once it started, whenever that was, it never ended. When he was asleep, he just knew, his skin felt different, his thoughts felt like mirrored reflections of rationality, there was no mistaking it. Five years old he would tell his busy and disinterested parents about all the amazing things he had done the night before, and they wouldn’t know he had actually experienced them, and he wouldn’t know that no one else could do what he did. Dennis didn’t even understand at first that he wasn’t doing these things, that he wasn’t actually riding bright green dinosaurs or fighting silver, box shaped robots. When he figured out that he never actually left his bed, that he really laid on his baseball quilt, paralyzed, dreaming became a lot less special and a lot less fun. Until Clyde. Clyde who yelled at him to swim in the pond, and he couldn’t, even though Dennis knew that if Clyde could have just come and see him at night, his tears of pain and frustration on the kickball dirt because he knew that Clyde would be his friend if he could just see what Dennis could do. That night, Clyde and Dennis were stars of the kickball team, and took a long celebratory swim across an ocean, and were friends at night forever.
For 20 years, it was enough. Dennis lived to sleep, taking naps throughout the day, sneaking sleeping pills at night. Dennis would fly though cities, his side kick Clyde helping him fight crime. Older, He would indulge in orgies with beautiful young women, Clyde either joining in, or watching Dennis with respect. At school, he just got by, he made no friends because he couldn’t, and they weren’t as good as Clyde anyway. He would be ruler of the world, friend to all, Clyde always impressed. After the childish fantasies had grown old, he would simply be articulate and witty at a house party, and never once would nervous water fill his lungs.
But waking up became harder and harder as dreaming became more and more unfulfilling. Witty repartee was unsatisfying, burdensome to motivate when floating in the back of his mind was the pesky reality that he would soon wake up and the net result of this masturbatory fantasy would be Dennis, alone, friendless, effectively dead. Even Clyde was as much a cowardly self indulgence as flying over a city in a red cape. He awoke most mornings, dreading the sudden and sharp realization that he had not dreamed his job as a janitor at his old school, that he had not dreamed this empty life he had let happen, that what was real, was painful. And he would resolve, slowly and tiredly munching on toast and orange juice, that today things change. But years of imagining he was a suave go-getter in no way made him one, and the paralysis of fluid filled lungs and twenty years wasted was too hard to break. As he grew tired of being awake in his sleep, and defeated by reality, consciousness became an unending drain. He couldn’t stop, his mind too keenly aware of every telltale sign of the dream state to ever just switch off and passively accept the sensation, letting Dennis achieve some kind of rest.
“What do we do now?” Clyde had asked him, once.
“Nothing.” Everything faded away, and they floated in blackness. Dennis even destroyed the memory of everything. But he couldn’t stop perceiving even the nothing. They floated for hours, barely speaking, Dennis’ mind devastatingly active.
“This is a real fun time,” Clyde mumbled to himself.
“I wish I could fall asleep.”
Sometimes, on the worst nights, asleep for only 6 or so hours, Dennis would experience years of time in dreaming. He would wake up in the morning, as tired as a man who hadn’t been able to sleep a moment in fifty years, and with no looking forward to rest.
“I heard of a patient once,” the one shot psychologist had told him, “who dreamt every night that he was in a room, with no doors, that were closing in on him.”
“What happened to him?”
“I’m not sure. I can only assume he learned how to make a door… or he was crushed.”
Dennis took his sleeping pills one night, and tried to kill himself. He held dozens of pills in his mouth, but his lungs filled with water, and he was too terrified to swallow. He knew that he’d never have the courage to really, lastingly do the one thing he wanted. He couldn’t do anything real, anything decisive, anything great without Clyde there to hold his hand and give him courage. That night, Clyde came to him in his dream and placed a gun in his hand, smiling silently.
“To be or not to be” Dennis whispered.
BANG!
“That is the question.”
BANG!
“Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,”
BANG!
“Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them.”
BANG!
“To die: to sleep.”
BANG!
“For in that sleep of death what dreams may come?”
…
…
BANG!
#
Last night, just before seeing the musical, Dennis did what he had been thinking about doing for months, and had resolved to do that day. He called Clyde. The real Clyde. He hadn’t been hard to find, never having left the town or having changed his name.
Water filled his lungs as he dialed the number, but he was resolved to try.
“Hello,” a thick voice answered.
“Um… uh…” Dennis struggled to find his voice, but knew this was his one chance, and he forced the words out. “Is this Clyde Barker?”
“Yeah… who is this?”
“Hi… I’m um… Well that doesn’t really… I… I’m Dennis… Were you… Did you go to Tom Brown?”
“What… who is this?” the voice sounded angry, and nothing like Clyde.
“You… uh… you probably don’t remember me… but I need to ask you a favor.”
“Listen pal, I’m really busy. If this is a joke…”
“No… no, I… I need you to meet me tomorrow… at Tom Brown.”
“Listen, whoever the fuck you are, I don’t have time for..,”
“I.. I can pay you… … … a thousand dollars.”
Clyde agreed to meet Dennis, after school, wearing a red hat, and do what Dennis asked. As long as he got the thousand dollars first thing. And with a skip in his step, and his life savings in his pocket, Dennis walked out to the parking lot after school let out, eager and excited. Clyde would pull up in his red hat, right out of his dream. And they would walk to the holding pond together. And Clyde would apologize for all the things he had called him. And Clyde would tell him he respected him, and that if anyone could swim across the pond, it was Dennis. And Clyde would leave, and Dennis would drown himself, just like he practiced in his dream.
“Are you Dennis?” Dennis had been so lost in expectation he hadn’t noticed the man walk up to him. And it wasn’t Clyde. This was a fat, tired looking man in a ketchup stained shirt and no red hat. This was not the kind of sidekick that could fly across the sky.
“Yes.. uh… ye… Who are you?”
“I’m Clyde.”
He had to be lying. No one changes that much.
“Where uh… then where is… um.. the hat?
“Oh shit… I forgot the hat. Uh… It’s just a hat right, no big deal?”
Dennis wasn’t as sure anymore what he had thought would happen. Did he need Clyde to give him the courage to jump into the pond. Or did he need Clyde so that he could trick part of himself into thinking he was sleeping, so he could jump into the pond. But Dennis knew, looking at this tired looking stranger, that Clyde wasn’t here, and that he wasn’t dieing today. And he thought, maybe that’s why he was even able to call this strange man in the first place. He knew, somewhere in his mind, that this was just another dream, that the real Clyde wouldn’t show up, that it was insane to expect the embodiment of his own invented fantasy. He knew that he wasn’t really killing himself.
“Listen.. uhgh…” Water began to fill his lungs, “Never mind… I don’t thing we can… do… this anymore.”
“What just because of a stupid hat? You told me you’d give me a thousand dollars to come out here for some playtime bullshit, take time out of my busy schedule, now you’re backing out?”
The water was so high in his lungs that he could barely breathe. He fished his life savings out of his pocket, handed it over, and silently walked to his car, each step sending a knife into his heart.
That night he sat at the edge of the pond, his Clyde by his side, perfectly still, like a cardboard cutout.
“You were right,” Dennis said to him, “you’d never apologize.”
“I’m sorry. For all the things I called you. If anyone can swim across the pond buddy, it’s you.”