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The metronome in Imaginary Keith’s brain functions poorly.  Yesterday I found myself poking my friend with a rather large stick, hoping that the physical discomfort might even the beat of his thoughts somewhat.  I wish that I could report this morning that rhythm had been restored, but it would be a bold, outright lie.  And I seem to remember something about wishing for less of those things in my life.

When poking didn’t work, I tried listening in Imaginary Keith’s ear, seeing if I could hear the unfortunate beat that was dictating his day.  Or should I say days?  Or should I say years?  I don’t know.  But whatever it is, I found myself ear to ear with Imaginary Keith this morning, listening for some sort of clue.  Anything that might explain this lump of man lying around the house.

I have to do something.  He’s too thick to make a decent rug, but not quite large enough to become a beanbag chair.  I could feed him more, plump him up, but then I remembered that beanbag chairs never were that comfortable to begin with.  All the work of plumping would be wasted when next summer I rolled him out onto the front lawn for a yard sale and sold him for a buck.

So I smashed my ear to his and listened really close.  It was early and the house was quiet.  No washing machine, no computer whirring, no phone or dishwasher, and no sound yet upstairs from the neighbors, getting ready for work.

Ear to ear, I could hear nothing except that low hiss of air that you hear when you listen to a seashell.  That low hollow sound that everyone pretends to believe is the sound of the ocean, somehow trapped forever inside the swirls of a thin, little shell. 

Could this be the case with my friend?  Could Imaginary Keith somehow have an entire ocean trapped in his head?  It was hard to believe, even for me.  Wouldn’t some of the water have to get out?  Wouldn’t I catch him crying once in awhile, letting some of that pressure out?  And wouldn’t he be salty with so much ocean trapped inside?  With an ocean raging around in his head, wouldn’t I see signs of it on the outside, like maybe salt deposits built up around his cheeks or something where battles were fought and won against the strength of a high tide?

But I saw nothing like that, nothing that would convince me that the ocean sloshed around inside of my friend’s big round head.

I will listen closely today and let you know if I hear anything.  I have managed to slip the big lug into a pair of jeans and work boots, push him out the door and into the work van.  At first it seemed a little irresponsible, letting him drive, but then no one around this city pays much attention to driving.  I showed him how to bonk his head against the steering wheel, in case he needs to use the horn, and how to use a cinder block to hold down the gas, in case his foot grows too weak to push the pedals.  I didn’t bother telling him about the turn signal, but I did point out the gear shift lever.

Put it in D, I told him.  D means direction (I think).  And everyone needs direction.

So I pulled the lever into D and dropped the cinder block onto the gas pedal.

I think Imaginary Keith will be just fine.

With his injured back, Imaginary Keith has nothing better to do then sit in the recliner and think up questions.  I can’t pass through the living room without some sort of assault.

“They should invent sincerity prositutes.  No sex or anything.  I should be able to buy myself an hour or two of sincerity whenever I’m in the mood.”

“I think it’s called Oprah.  It’ll be on in an hour or so.”

“No, I’m serious.”

“So am I.” Imaginary Keith has his mind set on talking, not listening.

“Of course, you couldn’t call them prostitutes.  You do that and . . WHAM . . everyone’s thinking sex, not sincerity.”

“Yes, I think you’re right.  Sincerity, mankind’s second oldest profession.” The recliner is too comfortable.  Less comfort would mean less thinking, more wincing.  The way life was meant to be.  Pain and suffering.  Few Christians know this, but Satan’s second trick, after Eve and the apple, was to lure Adam into a recliner.  Nothing would have made God madder then to see Adam sitting there, butt-naked in a recliner, doing nothing.  I give Imaginary Keith’s recliner a little nudge.

“Aaayyy!  Knock it off!  You trying to kill me?” See, I think.  Now life is getting back on track.

“I should be able to pick up that phone, dial a number, and watch sincerity come strolling through that door within the hour.  That would be civilized living.”

“I’d call it therapy.  It’s only a phone call away.  Except we can’t afford it right now, so you’ll just have to talk to me.” I give the chair another bump.

“Aay!  Are you doing that on purpose?”

“No, of course not.”

“You’re trying to make me lose my train of thought, aren’t you?  Go ahead, but I think I’m onto something.”

“Are you sure this isn’t just about sex?”

“Sex?  No, no, no.  Of course not.  I’m talking sincerity.  Sex is different.  You know that.”

“You mean it’d cost extra.”

“Fuck off.  Can’t you see I’m in pain here.”

Imaginary Keith slept late this morning, so I just sat on the edge of the bed and watched him dream.  Dreams about college and running long distances.  One dream about getting in an elevator with five women, where he found himself stealing glances so he could rank the women in different categories.  Biggest hair, most mysterious, innocence, tallest to shortest, most comfortably dressed, most insecure, biggest breasts, nicest eyes.  Imaginary Keith felt awkward, stealing glances and playing this game, but it was a long ride up, and no one was talking.  The door opened, his floor, and he stepped off and that dream was done.

In one dream he ended up dating the daughter of a customer.  The customer is real, but the daughter is not.  Funny, that Imaginary Keith should dream about an imaginary daughter.  And then, just before he woke up, I could see that he was dreaming about the imaginary daughter again, only this time he was supposed to be working when she walks out onto the back porch with a camera and her mother.  They want to take his picture, out under the trees.  He agrees, and heads towards the trees, but stops as he suddenly sees a giant, black gorilla jump the back fence and run a few steps towards him.  He freezes in fear, but the gorilla just stops and waves.  The ice is broken.  The gorilla continues walking around the yard like he’s done it many times before, and Imaginary Keith notices that each time the daughter and her mother turn towards the gorilla, he stops and poses for a picture.

Imaginary Keith never gets his picture taken, but he does wake up, rather suddenly.

“How come we never talk about politics?” Imaginary Keith asks.
“Good morning.”
“It seems like we would talk about politics once in awhile.  Everyone else does.”
“Exactly.  Don’t you think everyone else does enough talking for the both of us.”
“Well . . maybe I have something to say.”
“Fine.  Feel free to say whatever’s on your mind.”

Imaginary Keith has so many blankets on the bed I can barely make out his shape.  That many blankets must be heavy.

“I had a dream that a gorilla waved to me,” he said.
“I know.  I was watching.”
“Oh.  I remember that I wished you were there with your flashlight.”
“He seemed friendly enough.  He did wave.”
“Yea, I guess.  But you never know about gorillas.”
“I guess you’re right.  Did you still want to talk politics?  Maybe discuss the candidates?”
“Oh, I don’t know.  I had a dream about the candidates.”
“You did?”
“Yes.  I was on my way somewhere and they all got onto an elevator with me.  I remember I was sneaking looks at them, sizing them up.” Imaginary Keith never remembers his dreams as well as I do.  He gets them all jumbled and tangled together.
“You were?”
“Yea.  But then it got all mixed up.  One minute they were presidential hopefuls in nice suits, and the next minute I was thinking about their hair and their eyes, and who was most innocent, and stuff like that.  That was kind of creepy, so I got out of there fast, after that.”
“I see.”
“Dreams are weird.”
“I’ve heard that.  But let me ask you one political question, before we get sidetracked.”
“Okay.  I’m ready.”
“Of all the candidates, which one did you think had the biggest breasts?”

Imaginary Keith’s kicks are useless.  The blankets are just too thick.

“Now get out of bed.  I’m just about to set the date on the time machine.”

Tonight I came across a box of old papers and letters.  Much of the box consists of old stories that would make excellent examples in the O.E.D. for the word feeble.  But I hang onto them.  I’m sure I have my reasons, but for the life of me can’t think of a single one.

But buried amongst the old stories were also some old letters, and it’s these that I found myself looking through.  Old letters nearly always tell the better story.  An old letter is a connection, because you know as you slide it from its smudged and worn envelope that it has been held and touched and cared for by both writer and reader.  Holding it in your hand is like looking into a mirror that reflects back both past and present, all at once.  In my letter, I am comforted by the image of a much younger me, sitting at a desk, writing about his struggle with an ending relationship.  But the comfort is short-lived when I wonder if the younger me may in fact be writing the letter not only to a friend, but to himself - to the older, present-day me.  Can the words of nearly twenty years ago still hold meaning for my life?  Have I grown so little it takes only one short letter per lifetime to sum me up?

The letter, dated September 4, 1986, was written for a friend.  Friends, it seems, are often put into impossible places when our own relationships fail.  The letter has some references to past letters that I will not even attempt to explain.

While many believe in the existence of ghosts, many more believe in the penning of an epistle to a distant friend.  A few, on the other hand, believe in both the ghost and the epistle.  And with a very few, it is the epistle itself that becomes the ghost.

This letter, when it is complete, will join all of my letters from the past, haunting the chambers of my mind with the thoughts and words that seem to live forever within me.  The thoughts and words which appear so harmless and meaningless when they first touch the paper.  Even now, the words of six months past begin their restless wandering, ”and we are reminded that reality strikes at the heart of even the most foolish upon occasion.”

Oh, the reality of being yourself the most foolish.  It is this reality that is now the bludgeon that flails my heart.  I spoke of wonderful times tugging at my heart, as well as a man, Don Quixote, capable of living these wonderful times.  Now I find myself caught between worlds, and I yearn for the days of yore.  But I no longer find the courage to become a Don Quixote, and the swift and mighty sword lies silent before me.  Do I place my hands upon it, using it to severe all that is around me, or in another manner - to fix this weak and wandering heart?  Or has time moved on and tricked me?  Is the sword just another word, a ghost, that lies before me to tempt and taunt?

I remember the day that this same ”Don Quixote cursed the day that he could not help a friend.”

I anxiously await your reply,

Keith

Whatever my friend’s reply was, I don’t know.  That letter doesn’t seem to have made it into the box.  I do know that in October of 1992, I found myself writing him yet again.  Life was not through bumping me around, it appeared.  In that letter, it is the last paragraph that is the best.

I’m basically the same man.  Keith - the man of promises unkept, words unwritten, lives unlived.  Pisces through and through.  Breath and dreams.  The moon seems to guide my heart.  I listen and try to follow, but the path is slippery, the stars moving beneath my feet at every step.

Why share this?  I’m not sure.  Maybe because the path has always been slippery.  Maybe because it is very nearly time to write my friend another letter.