Raging 8th Nerve

This is a true story, one of my own.

MIND GRIP

Did you ever try to wake up from a dream or a nightmare, but for some strange reason, could not quite bring yourself to the world of consciousness? You are almost awake, struggling to open your eyes, desperately trying to move an arm or a leg, but your body is frozen stiff. You use all your might, trying to break out of this mental state, but nothing gives; no, not until you relax, accepting your fate, whatever it may be.

* * *

My mind, stoned and drunk, was in a spiraling daze. . . again. Am I coming or going? One minute, I’m having a rollicking good ol' time at a Fairport pub. Next thing ya know, swoosh; flying, spinning, floating on air, I’m summoned back to my hometown, Diamond Flatts, located some hundred-fifty miles away. I moved away from Flatts two years ago. I have been revisiting this nightmare scene, dropping into this dark creepy old bedroom of my childhood friend, Mud, maybe three times a week. Just being here feels so eerie and creepy. The sweat pouring off of my mop is drenching my Led Zep tee.

But hey, this is Mud’s turf. Here in his room, we play by his rules. I can barely make him out, sitting in the dark corner, listening to the original ‘live’ '69 Woodstock album, playing the same track over and over again.

"Give me an F. . . give me a U."

I softly call out his name, but Mud never answers anymore. Nor does he acknowledge me with that familiar bellow of his, "Hey! Jimmy! How's ya doo-in?" No, he just sits there, stoicly spinning that same Woodstock track, day and night.

"Give me an C. . . give me a K."

Oh my freak! I don’t understand what is happening! Is it my nightmare. . . or his?

I edged over to the window, peeked through the curtains from his upstairs bedroom; down below is Mud’s old ’64 Plymouth Fury; now with a modified rooftop.

"Um, hey Mud," still speaking softly, "I’m heading downstairs to see your folks in a minute. Why am I summoned up here, anyways? Ya never are allowed to speak anymore."

It’s as if he can speak, but it’s prohibited. In every nightmare he never answers; just keeps on spinning Woodstock, his head bobbing to the tune.

"Give me an F. . . give me a U."

Well, it’s his gameboard; if he don’t wanna talk and explain, he don’t haveta.

Finding my own way down the winding stairway, "Hi folks, sorry to be dropping in on ya this late, but for some bizarre reason I’m s’pose to be here."

Everyone is just kind of on edge, sitting around the parlor. Sisters, brother, parents, each one every once in awhile stealing a glance toward the upper front corner section of the house, his bedroom. They never question why I am here, nor how I mystically surface out of thin air. It feels awkward.

From the misses, "Jimmy, aren’t you returning home to Fairport? It’s a three hour drive! You’re going to miss work tomorrow."

"No prob, Mrs. K," stealing an upward peek of my own. "I’ll be back in Fairport at the blink of an eye," another nervous upwards glance.

Hmmm, thinking to myself, wonder if he’ll stay up there tonight. This house has a vibe all of its own, Mud’s isolation. For some odd reason, he’s not allowed to leave that bedroom, not for supper, not for company, and not for any reason. He just doesn’t belong downstairs anymore. And nobody speaks of him either. Somehow, I know it is taboo to even think of mentioning his name. The subject just never comes up.

Geez. . . here I am, in his home, he doesn’t talk to me anymore. It’s like he is not even living here. . . but he is! Why won’t his family acknowledge him anymore?

One scary thought always lurks in the back of everyone’s mind. What if he does come down, descending those winding stairs? All the laws of physics prohibit it; time will stop; up will be down; good shall become evil.

* * *

Wiping my eyes, blinking a few times, daylight is breaking. What a weird nightmare. The bedsheets were drenched in sweat. Glad it was finally over. That spinning journey always gives me the creeps. It was a restless sleep and the coming day will be the worse for it.

The hangover won’t help either. Been doing that lots lately. A sixpack is not enough; a dozen go down pretty easy. . . burp! Heck, this past year alone I’ve probably been thrown out of every bar in Jefferson County. Just can’t seem to help myself anymore. Lately, life has been an out-of-control slow downward spiral; still haven’t hit bottom yet. My body feels all banged up from the drug and alcohol abuse.

Did I even take time for supper last night? Can’t remember. Perhaps I should punish myself with a three-mile jog this morning. Nowadays, gutting it out seems to be my style. Kind of like I’m pushing myself to the limit and from two directions, at that! On the one hand being physical with the jogging, and on the other, drowning my sorrows with alcohol.

When and where shall it all conclude? Somehow, I’ve gotta defeat that ghoulish nightmare in Diamond Flatts, too!

Pulling on my sneakers, gonna be a nice easy jog this fresh sunny morning. Nah! If I run hard enough, maybe my nightmares and taunts will be left in the dark.

"Can ya see the light? Run to the light, Jimmy, run to the light!"

Darn squeaky voice, just won’t stop haunting my mind. It hints of that time as a young boy, climbing with my pals, through the long storm sewers beneath the NYS Thruway. We had climbed a ladder in the storm pipes, then had to make a short hop into the next sewer section. I was afraid to make the jump. Losing patience, my friends started to leave.

"Come on back. . . please don't, don’t leave me behind."

Who would wanna be abandoned there, alone in that dark, dank storm sewer? But that is where I find myself now; somehow lost, in this dark sewage of emotion.

It was scary enough, being deserted by my best friend; one who often helped me deal with my hearing loss and the emotional train wreck that comes with it. Some days are bad, really sinister. I often end up having disagreements with friends because I didn’t hear all the facts. At times, it can make me look like a real jerk. People don’t wanna hear excuses, so I just take my lumps, then move on.

Except for Mud, there is nobody who listens anymore. I can’t hear every word and my friend, Mud, can no longer help me hear. So I’m gonna run for the light. . . and run hard, at that.

* * *

The next night, 3 o’clock, I mysteriously find myself on my feet, standing beside my waterbed. Wiping my sleepy eyes clear, gee, gotta take a whiz. After the long drain, I snuggle back under the warmth of the blanket. Hmmm, nice and cozy and, hey! What the heck was I doing standing on my feet in the middle of sleep?

Remembering the nightmare now, on an eerie moonless night, stark naked and cold, there I lie, inside a coffin, set down in an open grave. It’s a plain wooden coffin. One like ya see in old western flicks, but with no lid on top. As I lie there, I stare upward at the glimmering stars.

What the heck is that? Ouch! Crawling on my neck! Something bit me! And now on my feet, my face, everywhere! Ants! Centipedes! Spiders! Thousands of them! Swarming all over my buff-bare bod!

Can’t move. . . my arms. . . my legs. . . straining and straining. . . nothing!

What’s wrong? I gotta get outta this hell-hole! Why can’t I move? All my physical strength is centered on motion, trying to break out of this frozen state, a mind grip.

After tensing for what seems like an eternity, in one swift heave, I spring up out of that open coffin hole, landing on my feet. . . next to my waterbed.

Hmmm, rubbing my eyes, so long as I’m up, might as well drain ol’ willie.

* * *

Jimmy's nightmares continued for well over a year, with no escapement. He was helplessly trapped in his mind grip, yet distant from truths and answers. Only time could heal his mental anguish. Mud was one of the few always willing to help him hear. They had been friends for so long as anyone could remember, and now Mud was dead.

Ate his shotgun. . . while sitting in an old ’64 Plymouth Fury.

"Gimme an F. . ."

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