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.”

Imaginary Keith needs to do something about that memory of his.  At 8:40 this morning, he turns to me and says, “I just remembered that I’m supposed to be at work today.  9:00.  We better get hopping.”

He runs off to do whatever it is he does, leaving me to do whatever it is I do.  I pack him a lunch, a briefcase, a laptop, a regular backpack, a suitcase, and a cooler full of beer.  Imaginary Keith says he’s a landscaper, but I have my doubts.  There’s really no telling what it is he’s up to.  And with a little of everything in the truck, he’ll be ready for anything.

He’s ready for work in less then a minute.  Hats are the working man’s miracle.

“This cooler feels a bit light,” Imaginary Keith says.  He has everything tucked under one arm, leaving him one free hand, which somehow balances two full coffee cups. 

“We only had one beer.”

“It’s a short day.  What’s in the backpack?”

“Laptop.”

“No, the other one.”

“Clean socks.  You never know.”

“Well, you always know.  Unfortunately, it always seems to be at the last second.”

I’m not sure what this has to do with clean socks.  Or work.  Or life.  But with the house suddenly so quiet, I realize, at the last second, that it’s nap time.

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.”

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.

No, not this morning.  No Thor yet.  Although it would be like just like Thor to come pounding in out of the early dawn fog, taking everyone by surprise even though we know he’s coming.  He’s just not the knock on doors, ask permission type.

Of course, back in college, Thor wasn’t quite so scary.  Being plucked out of the heavens and sent off to college in Arkansas took a lot of wind out of the guy.  But don’t get me wrong, Thor’s temper was always stoked and ready to burn at the drop of a hat.  College boy or Norse god, Thor was always ready for action.

But enough of that.  Today is a work day.  I half expect Imaginary Keith to give me one of those, “Awwww, do I have too” looks, but he knows better.  I’m a stern boy running a tight ship, and today I will not tolerate any of that blubbery lip stuff.

A thing has happened.  A thing that I knew would eventually happen but wasn’t sure when.  A thing that makes no difference, other then I think about it now when I didn’t before.

People who know me have found me.  More specifically, they’ve found this place.  This writing.

But so far only two, which isn’t such a big thing.  The first I barely, hardly even know, except in passing at a coffeehouse.  I know she works hard and drinks coffee and likes words and has a boyfriend or husband or something whose name just happens to be Keith - which for various reasons is an obvious plus.  But I don’t think that is the reason that Jill found her way to these words.  That wouldn’t be much of a reason at all, would it?

Interestingly, Imaginary Keith and I have almost always had someone in our life whose name was also Keith.  We like Keiths, and imagine the Keiths of the world spaced few and far between, so that to find one of the good ones is a challenge.  Imaginary Keith and I have always enjoyed a good challenge.

And now, just yesterday, someone else found their way here.  But this time it’s someone a tiny bit closer to the core of the matter then a girl in a coffeehouse.  Brian and Imaginary Keith have had conversations and worked together, so to speak.  Imaginary Keith’s task was to redesign and install a pleasing landscape for Brian and his wife, which he did over the course of a couple of months several years ago.  And when Imaginary Keith wasn’t sitting there staring ten years into the future, dreaming of how Japanese maples would arch up and over the edge of the flagstone staircases, or how red thyme would fill a particularly steep slope and grow around an outcropping of rock and burst into a vibrant splash of fuchsia color each spring and frame the softer hues of the azaleas and rhododendrons, or where a boulder should go or how much earth should be moved or a million other things - Brian and Imaginary Keith would talk and get to know each other a bit.

I suppose in time, others will find their way here.  People will follow Imaginary Keith home or ask him politely for the directions, and he’ll just tell them without a second thought.  He’s a great imaginary friend, but he doesn’t know how to keep anything to himself.

It seems the son of Imaginary Keith lacks possessiveness.  Good for the world, but in this case, bad for his mother.  I give to you a recent sample, pulled directly from the page of his second grade report on a large, stuffed bear that he brought to school for sharing (show and tell for the old people).

This is my mom’s bear she had it hand made at a stor.  My grandma has a black won.  But my mom’s is gray.

And then the clincher.

My mom is about four feet tall and about four feet side-to-side also.

The first hour of Imaginary Keith’s day is spent listening to The Other crying.  Her life has no direction.  She is lost.  What’s she to do.  One day she is fine, the next a mess.  Her words, not his.  Crying and crying and crying.

One voice thinks: how sad.
One voice thinks: tomorrow she won’t even remember.
One voice thinks: no kidding.
One voice thinks: take a number, get in line.
One voice thinks: how will this effect my upcoming trip.
One voice thinks: she will never get a job.
One voice thinks: why does she do this.
One voice thinks: Fridays are always the worst.
One voice thinks: I need to get out of here.
One voice thinks: Run.
One voice thinks: Be concerned.
One voice thinks: No, look concerned.
One voice thinks: nothing.
And then another voice agrees.

And even though Imaginary Keith and I both watch from a safe distance, we know it will ruin our day.  We will get into the car and drive away.  Imaginary Keith will fall into a stupor, and I will return no phone calls.  He will write not one word and I will make not one dollar.

And one voice will quietly think: two years . . . this has been your day for two years.

If Imaginary Keith ever becomes historically significant, there are going to be certain questions that will pop up.  People will demand answers, because people, let’s admit it, are funny that way.  They want to know things that matter very little.

Like Spalding Gray.  Imaginary Keith sees people talking all about Spalding Gray, but realizes that he knows nothing about this man.  But he knows that he wrote and was in some movies and went floating in a river.

Maybe people will ask: Hey!  Imaginary Keith!  What about Spalding Gray?  And Imaginary Keith will turn and look faraway and dreamy, like he’s thinking of something that happened long ago, maybe something that he hadn’t thought about in a long time, and just now has resurfaced in his memory because of the curiosity of the people.  Imaginary Keith’s head may move slightly, up and down, just like curious people’s heads move when they too remember something from long ago.  And Imaginary Keith will stand there silently looking back at the curious people, giving them enough time for their own thoughts to drift a bit.  It will be a long enough silence that the curious people will begin to grow just a little bit uncomfortable.

Curious people, you might know, are uncomfortable with silence.

And then, finally, Imaginary Keith will say something.  Something like, “I just don’t know what happened to Spalding Gray.”

And because of the faraway look, and the dreamy eyes, and the slightly nodding head and the almost too long uncomfortable silence, the curious people will decide that Imaginary Keith has thought long and hard about the life and death of Spalding Gray.  They will think that there is great mystery here.  They will think that Imaginary Keith has clung to the hope that Spalding Gray will somehow survive floating in a river for two months.  That somehow he will turn up alive and well and kicking.  They will think so many things.  Their imaginations will run wild in that moment of silence as they try to fill something that is so unbearably uncomfortable.

So Imaginary Keith will answer the curious people’s questions by saying nothing.  Inside he will smile, thinking it is odd that silence can be mistaken so easily for reflection and knowledge.

And people, because they’re funny this way, will answer all of their own questions.  They will talk and talk and talk until they are sure they’ve said enough, making everything up as they go along.

Imaginary Keith is tied in a chair being force fed numbers.  One hand is loose, barely, so that he can sketch a concept for an arbor and gate.  Every five minutes I walk over and flick him on the back of the ear, then remind him that he’s had more then two months to get this done.  It’s his own fault.  His own doing.

I took out the gag once, but immediately put it back in when he began to compare me to a visit to the dentist.

Do you see the abuse I have to put up with?

Finish the damn sketch, I tell him.  I’m waiting, a customer is waiting, and even worse, Thor is waiting.

Thor!  Did you hear me?  Thor!  Finish your work before you really piss him off.

Imaginary Keith’s hand wiggled around when I said that, but I’m not sure if he was reaching for the pen or just twitching as I tightened the ropes.  His eyes look a little jumpy, but then he’s such a coffee freak.