by Stephen Reid Andrews
All rights reserved in the author
Insteadnof my seizure dream
materializing into the peaceful image where my wife hands me the wrapped gift
or the image of the graveyard. I’m in a convenience store. I have only been in
a convenience store once since I woke up from my coma. However, despite my
efforts to avoid going out in public, I feel like I have been to this
convenience store before.
My
sister is with me, and she is wearing the same outfit that she has on to drive
me to Chicago
“Let’s
play a game,” Trevor says from behind me.
I turn
from admiring the store clerk to see where his voice came from. Trevor is
standing by a pool table placed in the center of two aisles in the convenience
store. The table is surreal, appears out of place, and is obviously not
something that is supposed to be in a convenience store.
Trevor
and I played a lot of pool together when I was in high school and when we were
younger, but I haven’t played with him since I woke up from my ten-month sleep
although he has asked me to play with him on several occasions – his requests
are most likely at my mother’s prodding.
Trevor
is holding a pool stick. “I’ll go first,” he says as he bends over and aims at
the white cue-ball.
I don’t
respond because I’m sure nothing I say will change Trevor’s announcement of the
playing order. Trevor proceeds to hit the cue-ball into other balls. The balls
have unusual numbers – not the usual one through fifteen like a normal set of
billiard balls. The numbers on these balls are all over the place. Trevor hits
the cue ball knocking the thirty-six ball in the corner pocket. He methodically
continues knocking the next five balls into various pockets on the table –
first the zero-eight, then the twenty-one, then the thirteen, then the zero-seven,
and, last, the forty-eight.
For an
unknown reason, after knocking in the forty-eight ball, he looks up at me.
“Your turn,” he says.
I am
astonished at his announcement. Although I am dreaming, or having a vision
(whatever this surreal event should be called), I know this is not how to play
pool. However, realizing that Trevor just sunk six balls in a row, my
competitive spirit kicks in, and I think better of letting him have another
turn and take the pool stick that Trevor is offering. Apparently this vision
only comes with one pool stick.
Surveying
the table, I move around its side where I have a shot perfectly lined up to
knock the seventeen ball in the corner pocket. I hit the seventeen ball in
without a problem, and then, almost as if I am mimicking my brother’s previous
behavior, I move around the table hitting the next five balls in various
pockets – the forty-seven, the twenty-three, the zero-nine, the fifty-two, and
then, finally, the forty-two. For my entire turn, my expression has been
vacant.
The
only ball now left on the table is the eight ball. The eight ball is lined up
on the edge of one of the holes, making the shot an easy one. I make quick work
of the final shot as I tap the cue-ball into the side of the eight ball.
“Dave!
You won!” my sister squeals as if she is cheering at the homecoming game for
the Freeport Pretzels, and I just scored the winning touchdown.
I am a
little shocked with her tone. “Doesn’t matter,” I say with my usual gloom.
“Yes it
does, you’re a millionaire!”
My
sister’s comment is childish, and I look at her with parental reprimand for her
behavior. While glaring at her, I steal a glance at the shopkeeper who is
beckoning me to come over to the check-out counter. I walk towards the
attendant as she reaches in her cash register, but I never make it to her
because I am awakened.
