Wormwind

PROLOGUE

This is a disturbing story. I first heard about it, with only sketchy details, from Barry Braxton, a guitarist friend of mine, on February 26th, 1979. We had just finished a recording session at a cheap – and I mean really cheap – recording studio on the fifth floor of a now demolished (and for good reason) brick building in Hollywood. It was about three in the morning. As soon as the elevator doors closed, Barry said, “Dwight, I gotta tell ya somethin’.” He didn't say another word until we reached the litter-covered, exhaust-stained, prostitute-haunt of Hollywood and Western. I’ll never forget how he started: “I gotta tell ya this because … well, because I just gotta get it out.”

The next day, the 27th, was my son’s first birthday. It was an active, happy celebration and after it was over, he curled up on my lap and fell asleep. I began to think about the night before: everything Barry had told me was unbelievable. (You’re probably not going to believe it either.) I looked at my son and realized, and I don’t know why, that someday I’d have to tell him.

I soon forgot about Barry's story and didn’t think of it again until two and a half years later; the exact date was August 1st, 1981, the day my oldest daughter was born. My wife, my son and I had been up all night and we were very tired but very happy. The midwife left around 10:30am and for the rest of the day, the three of us took turns holding and admiring the new baby. Out of the blue, while she was asleep in my lap, I remembered Barry’s story and realized – again I don’t know why – that someday I’d have to tell her also.

Again, I forgot about the story. On January 10th, 1984 my second daughter was born and, as before, the rest of us spent the day taking turns holding and admiring her. That evening, as she slept on my lap, I inexplicably remembered Barry’s story again and – still not knowing why – knew that someday all three of my children would have to know the story.

There were two other times I realized the inevitability of telling my kids: when I got divorced and when I got into a serious car accident. However – and please believe this – for these many years I never even alluded to the existence of this story: no decent adult would do that to a child.
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WORMWIND
( excerpts )

by DWIGHT BERNARD MIKKELSEN

copyright © 2002 NotesLinger Arts

*** ***
Despite his character and mental deficiencies, Furleigh had, by some sequence of fortuitous circumstances and occasional outside intervention, managed to find a tolerable existence. The litter of voices and personalities that had surrounded him since birth made his view of the world no more than a series of vague images. If some external stimulus made it through, it would take several days for his dull mind to acknowledge it and register its relative importance. During the next three days, two things made such an impression: the increasing numbers and loudness of his companions and the fact that he felt a little cold.

Of the cold, it was, at this point, only something he barely noticed; the incongruity of being cold in the middle of August in the Arizona desert hadn’t occurred to him.

His constant companions were a more pressing problem, figuratively and literally: their relentless pressing toward him made it difficult to maneuver; so much so that, by the second day, it took him two minutes to reach the refrigerator and another minute to reach the toilet. After taking another twenty out of Terri’s purse, he found the effort needed to reach the front door so great that he decided not to go to Jack-in-the-Box. He was now, in effect, a permanent inhabitant at Terri’s.

They were his army, his multitudes, his worshipping throng, to be sure, but the chants and cheers, the shrieks of delight, the constant gossiping drone – it was louder than the last two minutes of a playoff basketball game –, made it difficult to think, or what Furleigh considered thinking to be. He found it impossible to mastermind battles and issue orders. They would accompany him into any danger but, beyond his forays to the refrigerator, the toilet, and Jack-in-the-Box, he couldn’t think of places to go. They would do anything for him but, beyond turning on the TV with the remote, peeing into the middle of the bowl, and masturbating, he couldn’t think of anything that needed to be done. He wanted any kind of relief but, more than anything else, he wanted them to quiet down.
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*
Wormwind came down from the North. It was not life. It moved swiftly. It followed the Western Canadian coastline, passed Washington and Oregon, then down the California coastline, turning east by southeast just before Santa Barbara. No one and nothing noticed its passing. In its interior, emerald flecks folded into themselves then disappeared. It traveled over the Sierra Nevada, along the north shore of the Salton Sea, across the California-Arizona border into the Sonora Desert. It had determination and purpose and influence. Minutes later, it circled 1103 Cottage Lane, Brinestone, Arizona, and went into the kitchen. It stopped. It hovered. It was not life. Emerald flecks folded into themselves then disappeared.

**
Furleigh was looking inside the refrigerator and listening to the cross-talk of a dozen friends, all imaginary. His right wrist hurt. “Fuckin’ nothin’ tuh eat.” He closed the refrigerator door. “Fuck, y’know, there just ain’t very much blood.” His friends agreed. He went to the living room, plopped down on the couch and turned on the TV. “I mean, shit, man, y’know?” He stared at the TV a few seconds. “I mean, fuck this shit, y’know, I gotta eat.” He went over to the dining table and rummaged through Terri’s purse. “I ain’t no fuckin’ thief, but shit man, I gotta eat.” His friends murmured approval. He found the wallet, took out a twenty-dollar bill, walked out the front door to his beat-up truck and drove to Jack-in-the-Box. Wormwind followed.
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