As I lay on the couch, my mind wanders back to last night, when we watched the boy riding his bike across the lawn and ringing his bell. He’s making circles on the grass and he keeps on ringing that damn bell. It is 3 am and there’s no need for him to do that. Why is he doing that? I decide to ignore him, because he will go away by himself. I tell the others to follow my lead. I’m in a blue baby pool with two co-workers. Friends. Co-workers. And we’re outside and the guys are singing as hard as they can to bad songs being played loud on the stereo set we put there, which is probably illegal at this time of day, but I can’t seem to find out who is responsible for all of this. But the girl is talking to me, and I am smiling, and though I don’t really get all that she’s saying at this point, we’re all here and we’re all fine and I feel like this tub is inflated with three times as much air as it actually contains.
And now I’m on the couch and my head is trying to find its way out every time I sit up, so I keep my horizontal pose and try to drink and eat as much as I can and I watch Roland Garros, because it’s the only thing on. At some point this morning the room stopped turning and now one woman is beating another, and I fade away into sleep and back again, but they’re still at it. Tree is to forest as hangover is to this. I used to have this theory that television is watched primarily by couples and kids, hermits and depressed. I have to add a fifth group. And the way I watch it makes tennis a vertical game. There is no food to be found, so I finally get myself to the upright position and – slowly, slowly – make my way to work, which has become a deserted area of dented paper cups and empty bottles with the arrogant frog label and Hawaiian necklaces. My watch is outside on the driveway. It still works. And the bag of potato chips is my quest’s X.
Gentlemen have taken over the court when I get back, but I don’t need them at prime time. I have a thousand shows to distract me with. I just think back and I miss. All of it, and you. The days keep piling on, so I can afford to. Skidding in the dark, bumping up to fluffy invisible borders that push me back. It’s all good, like ice cream, like sand castles. I get back to people running for the game I created. I listen to the girl talk about the boy she loves. I think back to that moment, I think, when you wore the mask and I held you tight, and I could’ve stayed there. I am in the driveway, dancing on my flip-flops, welcoming the night the frog took me away.
