He rested on the loveseat that was too small. His head laid atop a fleece blanket folded in quarters and draped over the south armrest. He stared out the north window. It was March, and it was cold, but it was bright.
Below his gaze of the window were his legs, hanging awkwardly over the north armrest of the loveseat.
His belt and buckle were loosened where he had made space to shove the frozen peas down his pants, tight against his scrotum.
The Lorazepam he took before the surgery was still in his system and he felt good.
It was time to remove the peas. They would get another chance to soothe his swollen balls in an hour.
With a lethargic feeling, a benzodiazepine and two cups of coffee in his system, it is the perfect time to write.
Then an interruption. The ladies want to go to Chuck’s and leave me behind. No way. Not happening.
I pull the peas out of my pants, change into comfortable pyjamas, and head outside. The ladies are packing into the car.
I sit in the passenger seat. We drive to the land of reasonably priced food and beer.
Exiting the vehicle and walking inside, I realize this was a mistake. The throbbing was getting worse and I longed to be back in bed with my frozen peas and a couple of Advil.
We finish our food and I chug my pint of Rickard’s Red. The alcohol mixes nicely with the narcotics.
Pay the bill. Hobble to the car. Sit down gingerly.
In a few moments, we are home.
I grab the peas from the freezer, lie down, and cal NotOvine on the cellphone.
We talk for an hour, many deep thoughts coming to the surface as if in a dream. The longer we talk, the more dreamlike the conversation seems. He sounds like the Heath Ledger Joker.
Then there are voices. Female voices in the other room.
A child’s voice. A dog’s bark. Where was I?
Had I died? Was I in heaven? Maybe I died on the table when the doctor was administering the anesthetic. I couldn’t remember much of the doctor’s office, “Remove everything but your socks and shirt.”
NowI was surrounded in white. Maybe I had crossed into another dimension…
“Sheep,” says a booming voice, deep, like Ving Rames, or Morgan Freeman.
No, it was more like James Earl Jones.
“You need to follow my voice. Ahead, the promised land,” his voice was more relaxing than the Lorazepam, “Come, son.”
“Wait.” I hesitated, “You’re not dead. James Earl Jones is in his eighties, but he’s still alive.”
Arnold Schwarzenegger’s character from Terminator II appears and look’s straight at me, “Eee-nouf. Come with me eef you want to leev.”
James Earl Jones hopped down from his hiding place it the clouds, “Black Sheep, we need you to listen to us and time is of the essence.”
“Are you guys dead?” I asked.
“Are you fuckin’ serious with the questions? Let’s go.”
James Earl grabbed me by one shoulder. He was remarkably strong for an 88-year-old.
Arnold grabbed the other and they dragged me for about ten feet and dropped me into a pit.
The pit wasn’t that deep but my nuts hurt when I landed.
I winced and pleaded out of desperation, ” Where am I?”
Everyone laughed in unison.
“You’ve got twenty minutes with those forty virgins.” This time it was Heath Ledger who spoke, pointing to the far side of the pit.
“Or else what?”
“Or else you’re gay.”
Apparently, this was not heaven but some kind of hell that resembled my high school.
“Fine then, I’m fucking gay. I just had my balls chopped up, they hurt like hell, I don’t know who those girls are, hell I don’t know who you guys are, so NO, I WILL NOT BE DOING THAT.”
“As you wish…” James Earl Jones said in his deepest and most ominous voice.
And with that, I woke up in my bed. Everything was the same, only this time I was gay as hell.