Despite what the networks claim, the TV volume rises significantly during commercials - either that or they're so annoying it's hard to sleep through one. It was just such a commercial - a screaming car salesman touting another year-end closeout - that woke the man. The last thing he remembered watching before falling asleep was "1000 Places To See Before You Die". He never did see #243.
The clock on the wall read 11:30. It's past his bedtime. Pushing the off button on the remote, the man attempts to rise from the couch. He falls back once, tries again and falls back another time. On the third attempt, he grips the sofa arm and twists sideways so that he's using his strong leg to help lift him. Bones pop and crack as he stumbles upright. With stooped shoulders, he eases himself erect, careful not to pull a back muscle; and shuffles to his bedroom.
The man turns on the light on the nightstand and goes into the bathroom. Too tired to stand, he sits to pee; his face in his hands, elbows propped on his knees. The man sits that way for a long time, staring at the four or five books he keeps in a small bookrack from which he does most of his 'studying'. There's a Bible, a paperback copy of Real Live Preacher.com, two Readers Digest Condensed Books, and a puzzle magazine. None are appealing tonight. Still he sits and stares and tries to focus on something. Eventually, his legs numb for sitting so long, the man rises, flushes, and goes to the sink to wash his hands and brush his teeth.
The face in the mirror is old. Older than his years. It's puffy, with creases at the corner of his eyes and bags under them; jowls hang loose. He realizes that he looks like his dad looked when he was old.
His eyes wander down to the paunch. He's 50 pounds overweight. It's almost funny, because when he was young, he was so skinny he almost didn't make it into the Army. Now his pants were too tight and even his underwear leaves red marks where they stretched to accomodate his girth. "This sucks." the man thinks as he tosses them into the laundry hamper.
Shuffling to the bedroom, he sits on the side of the bed, staring at the floor. "I'm getting old." he thinks to himself. "But I'm still a kid, just trapped in an old man's body." Where did the time go? He thinks back to all the things he wanted to do while younger: Fly a plane, soar in a hot air baloon, drive a stock car, play center field, squeeze the trigger on a 50 cal. sniper rifle and see his target drop....man-stuff. Now his arthritis made a roller coaster ride impossible. He couldn't even tuck use his left arm to tuck his shirt into his pants. Sometimes the pain is so intense that he turns pale and can't breathe. And when he does sleep, he tosses and turns all night because neither shoulder could bear his weight for long.
Staring at his feet, his mind drifts from thoughts of work to his kids to his loneliness to regrets over unachieved goals. The man realizes that instead of living a dream, he's spent his years day dreaming. He's always waiting for a certain something to happen so that he could enjoy this or that. He's spent years dreaming about how he would spend lottery winnings; and every time the jackpot changed, so did the dreams. He's spent his whole life waiting for something to happen, but he can't think of a single thing that he's done to make anything he wants to happen.
Finally he rolls over onto his side, reaches up and turns off the lamp. His left shoulder already hurts too much to sleep on that side, so he rolls over, fluffs his pillow and closes his eyes to sleep. A single tear runs down his cheek and wets his pillow.
The man dreams. In his dreams, there is no pain. He's viral, strong, and courageous. He's Jack Bauer on steroids. Tonight he dreams about a valley. He's back in uniform, although he's missing his jacket. In all of his dreams the man is missing a piece of clothing. Sometimes he's entirely nude and spends the entire dream trying to cover up and find his clothes. Those are dreams he wants to wake up from. But tonight he's just missing his jacket. Although he understands he's retired, he's glad to be back in the Army. The men look up to him. He's their platoon sergeant and he knows his job.
In his dream, the man wanders amongst his men - greeting them, sending them off for weapons or equipment; confident and organized. His commander asks where his jacket is and the man's response is that he doesn't have time to recover his jacket. Without knowing what is about to happen, the sergeant senses it's about to happen. "Everybody! Get up, and grab your gear. Get ready to move out!' he yells.
About that time a sentry comes running into camp. "Here they come!" he shouts. "It's a wave of them, and they've already killed two villages!". Soldiers jump into action. The sergeant is calm and looks in the direction from which the sentry came. His eyes focus and he's able to zoom through the valley, over the trees, and miles away to the approaching hoard. The Sergeant understands that he's the only one with telescoping vision, but that's OK. It just comes with experience. He sees the hoard as they stream into the valley. They number so strong that they pile on top of one another, forming a huge wave of destruction. Running on top of the human wave are snipers, using bows and arrows rather than rifles, but deadly none the less.
"Move out!" the Sergeant shouts to his men. The men run to trucks in an attempt to outrun the enemy. The trucks pull away slowly, but the wave moves faster. Now the sergeant can see a brown frothing wave that looks like water, only it's solid. Snipers on the crest of the wave are picking off the civilians his troops were sent to protect. Grabbing a weapon, the Sergeant stands his ground and begins to pick the snipers off one at at time, one shot, one kill. The rifle runs out of ammo, and he pulls his .45 and empties the pistol into the center of the wave. It falters for a second, just enough time for the sergeant to turn and run for cover. He's weaponless, except for a knife; still he's unafraid. There's an urgency, but no terror. He never fears in his dreams.
Now the crest of the wave towers over him as he runs. He's in the shadow of the wave of his enemies when he spots a building, some sort of warehouse. It's the only cover, though he knows it's not enough to protect him. Rounding the corner, he grabs one of his soldiers who was unable to escape on the trucks, and tosses him inside the warehouse. "Get behind that wall!" he shouts to his man. Together, they duck behind the wall as the solid flood washes over and around his protection.
Several enemies wash inside. The Sergeant slices and jumps and slashes, taking out many of his enemies. Still they come. He grabs a weapon from a fallen enemy and turns it on them. When that runs dry, he uses it for a club. It's better than bullets. No matter how many of his enemies surround him, he bashes them and beats them back, taking out score after score of his enemies. And while he's fighting for his life, his mind realizes that he's getting stronger by the moment. Soon he's fighting hand to hand and pushing the enemy back of of the warehouse. In short order he's fighting them outside. The wave turns on him, but he's up to the task. He's stronger, quicker, and more important, he's the good guy who always wins. The wave eventually collapses and disappears as quickly as it came; and the Sergeant stands in the middle of the valley, dirty, bleeding, but not even breathing hard. His unit returns to mop up, though they find no enemy alive. They crowd around their sergeant and congratulate him over his victory. But the Sergeant shrugs off their gratitude; afterall, that's why he was recalled to the service to begin with. Now it's time to think about whether he should go back to his retired status and his old job, or maybe he'll just hang around here until they force him to leave. This is a lot more fun than going to work every day. Besides, he could always use more retired pay when he's too old to be a warrior any longer.
These are the dreams the man hates to awaken from. They are more vibrant, more spiritual, more real, than his waking hours. In his dreams, he always wins, always gets the beautiful woman, always knows his purpose and his abilities. If he could just figure out why he's missing an item of clothing (or all of them), he'd never want to wake up. He much prefers his dreams to his daydreams.
The alarm doesn't sound. It doesn't need to. It's 6:05 AM and the man's eyes open. He realizes that he's just been dreaming and that it's time to get ready for work. He rolls off the bed, stumbles to the bathroom, and sits down to pee. He puts his face in his hands and rests his elbows on his knees while he stares at the floor and tries to plan his day. Once his legs become numb, he knows it's time to get up, flush the toilet, brush his teeth, and jump into the shower. He shaves in the shower so he won't have to look at his face in the mirror. This way, at least he can pretend he's as young on the outside as he is on the inside. Today his battle is not with a frothing brown wave of enemy soldiers, but with other motorists rushing into j.o.b.s and flicking each other off when one cuts in front of them. Too bad there's no 50 cal. mounted in his grill.
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