Hodgepodge

AN--Names have been changed to protect the author. The only names that haven't been changed are mine and Brian's (mainly because Brian is entirely fictitious at this point in real life).
Also, this is really how I wake up.

I awake in the morning with sunlight shining in my window and my bedsheets in tangles. I’m not sure if my sheets were that way when I went to sleep, as I really can’t tell when I went to sleep. I feel like a train wreck. I somehow got positioned so my arm was twisted under me, so now my arm is numb. I reposition it until I feel the cold sensation of blood returning to it. I lie for a little while, waiting for my body to feel like moving.

Eventually, I realize it’s not going to work and, shortly before drifting back to sleep, I sit up, roll out of bed and stumble out of my room.

I have no idea how I make it downstairs without falling to my death; my legs are shaky and my feet have no traction on the steps. I still can’t feel anything with my hands.

I get downstairs and grunt at my sister, who’s been up being domestic for the past forty-five minutes. In this time, she has whipped up pancake batter and started frying sausages. Did she make coffee? No.

In lieu of a cheery morning greeting, she says, “Charlie, your breath smells like a morgue. Go make the coffee and brush your teeth.”

I think nasty thoughts like, You should wake up your husband and make him make the coffee, but my mouth, thankfully, doesn’t connect to my brain and my hands perform the well-practiced procedure of making the coffee so that later my nervous system can come back online.

Somewhere in the haze of morning, Brian wakes up and comes out to the kitchen. I hide in the coffee-making room, mainly because I know he’s going to spend at least five minutes seducing my sister and I really don’t want to be watching while he’s doing that; hearing is bad enough without visual.

Brian isn’t a bad sort, to be clear; he’s a good, hardworking, trustworthy kinda guy, and I’m glad he married my sister. Still, they’re a little gross and they are a constant reminder that I’m not in anything remotely near a romantic relationship.

After the giggles have subsided I shuffle out of the coffee-making room to get a mug for the perky juice. I grunt at Brian, who responds with a slightly embarrassed, “‘Mornin’, Chuck.”

I pull my huge mug off the shelf and set it down on the table, then rustle around in the fridge for leftovers. I will never understand why people eat breakfast food for breakfast; most of it’s sugar-based and evil, while the rest of it seems to be based on ground-up farm animals. Who wants to see pre-chewed entrails swimming in syrup on their plate when they wake up? Not me.

There’s some chicken in the fridge, but I don’t feel like ripping it up at first. After finding nothing else intriguing, however, I relent, pull off a hunk of breast meat, and start frying it.

As I stare out the window, I notice something weird about the driveway; it has something in it. Normally we don’t have anything in the driveway since we hid the cars in the swamp out back. Today, however, there’s a horse.

“Ung.” I grunt, mildly excited at this point, “Za harse.”

“Hng?” says Sheryl, her face full of pancake.

Brian stabs a piece of sausage decisively and states with classic morning-person clarity, “There’s a horse out there.”

I nod and grunt agreement and go back to frying the chicken. Questions whirl in my head; Is the coffee done yet? What should I eat with my chicken? Did I take a shower last night? Did I take a shower last night?

My hair is fluffy, so I probably took a shower last night. I’m not sure, though...

The coffee has finished doing its thing, so I turn off the chicken and pour myself a fresh, hot cup of deliciousness.

Then I decide I’ll go out and get the paper. The horse is standing there, munching on grass.

“Hey, that’s where the cars were sitting. Go over there next to the hydrant.” I say, gesturing with the paper.

The horse ignores me, continuing to eat the nasty car-grease-grass.

I stare at it, attempting to move it through sheer willpower and accomplishing nothing but providing a short description of the horse. It’s big, it’s black, and it looks like a fast beast. I know nothing of horses, so I can’t tell you anything about it of worth. I’m calling it Nightmare. I have no clue if it’s female or not, so I check, eventually deciding it’s a mare.

I give Nightmare a few pats on the back and go back inside to read the paper.

Sheryl and Brian are sure they do not want a horse; after all,

“What will it eat?” Sheryl poses.

“Where will we keep it?” Brian interjects.

“Who’s gonna clean up the horse crap?” Sheryl jumps in again.

“Where are we gonna get horseshoes?” Brian points out.

“Um, I can’t think of anything else, but we’re not keeping it.” Sheryl lamely adds.

I stare at them with my best, “Are you people stupid?” look. Sure, I have no clue what I’m gonna do about all that stuff, but then again it is a wild horse and consequently, “We don’t need to do anything with it; it can take care of itself.”

Sheryl starts to object then realizes that probably the horse is just passing through anyway and may even be gone tomorrow. It also penetrates that I never asked to keep her, so the debate is moot.

I go back to reading the paper.

“We’re not naming the horse.” Sheryl says.

“Already did. I won’t tell you what I named her if it makes you feel better.” I say, distracted momentarily by the article I’m reading. Sheryl mutters something about how I know nothing about naming things, but I pay no attention to her.

The article I’m reading is not particularly well-written and I’m having trouble figuring out who the dude is talking about, but I catch the words “slave auction”, “West Lafayette”, “carnival”, and “knives”, so at this point I’m just looking for a precise location and time. I mean, who goes into West Lafayette asking people where the carnival is? Probably a lot of people, actually, but I prefer to pretend I’m a native rather than asking a bunch of idiot touristy questions like that.

Finally, somewhere at the end, the journalist remembers that the article is not (or maybe wasn’t supposed to be initially) about his experiences with the bearded lady last year and maybe other people want to see her hairy nipples this year. Apparently the carnival is going to be on for two weeks, starting the first Saturday of "Murch," and it will be "hoisted in the Tippecanoe Far Grounding." The guy is seriously an illiterate, or high, or way too sidetracked thinking about the bearded lady.

I make a note to find out where she is and avoid her like the plague.

“I’m going to the carnival.” I say, “Do we need anything in town?”

Sheryl sighs, saying, “Are you gonna take the car? ‘Cause I’m not even sure there’s a gas station still going on 26 and you’ll need some.”

“No, I’ll just take Nightmare.” I say, blithely.

“‘Nightmare’?” she explodes, “What the fuck kinda shit name is ‘Nighmare’?”

“Language, Sheryl. You’ll have the baby swearing like a sailor when he pops out.”

She stands there, narrowing her eyes into slits as she gives me her death stare. “That horse,” she hisses, “is gonna be named Marie.”

Brian unwisely snickers. Sheryl turns to him and points her finger menacingly at the ceiling above his head as though she’s willed it to fall on him. I can tell he’s getting the death stare or some equivalent, as he squeaks exaggeratedly and hugs a pillow.

“All right, I’m going into town with Marie. Do we need anything?”

Sheryl thinks for a minute. “We could use a new rope; the old spool is running a little low. And if you could get another chicken that would be nice.”

“A new chicken for killing, or raising?”

“Raising; I’ll just kill one of the hens we’ve got before you get back. When are you getting back?”

“I’ll probably be about three weeks.” I say, thinking that might give me a good enough cushion between getting there and spending a decent amount of time wandering around.

“Are you staying with anyone or are you going to just camp out somewhere.”

I’m not particularly sure which I’d prefer. Unfortunately, I take too long to answer and Sheryl continues, “You should look up those girls you were telling me about. You know, those twins? What were their names?”

“I might stay with Harry,” I say, avoiding the question and trying to redirect the conversation, “but I’ll probably just go camp out by the river or something. I prefer the open air, y’know?”

Sheryl shrugs. “Well, it’s a thought. You really should find yourself a girl instead of moping around all the time at home.”

“I don’t mope around at home all the time!” I protest.

“No, you go to your little cabin in the woods and mope there every once in awhile.”

“That’s called ‘hunting for deer’!”

“Whatever.” She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, don’t get robbed on the way. If you find yourself in any trouble...” she trails off expectantly...

I sigh melodramatically, “Front jab with left-hand blade to lower torso. Crouch, low sweep with right-hand blade; cut off legs. Stand, building momentum with left-hand blade; decapitate.”

“Exactly. What are you taking for provisions?”

We talk about the journey for a little while, probably creeping Brian out a little. Still, I know that it helps ease my sister’s mind, even if most of the combat ideas I have aren’t likely going to work.

Finally, I leave to pack my stuff. I’m taking only what I can fit in my messenger bag or strap to my body; some beef jerky, some money, a Bible, and a book about edible wild plants. I take a bunch of knives and strap them to myself, partly because I love them and partly because I might need them. In a sudden, brief moment of foresight I wrap up a big woolen blanket for night.

When I’m done, I look in the mirror, nod and walk out the door. Getting Nightmare to follow me isn’t too hard, considering all I have to do is say, “Hey, come with me, Nightmare!”

She makes a weird chuckling sound (nickering?) and trots to me. I toss my rolled up blanket on her back and secure it with a bunch of belts. She doesn’t seem to mind too much, so I give her a pat and start off down the road. It takes a lot of coaxing to get Nightmare to come to me, but eventually she does and I start walking with her to the highway.

Sheryl comes out, waves and insists on calling the beast, “Marie.” Brian hugs her and agrees.

I stick my tongue out at her, wave and officially embark.