It Means Nothing To Anyone Anymore: A Brief Episode Dealing With Monsters

The facts even when beaded on a chain, still did not have real order. Events did not flow. The facts were separate and haphazard and random even as they happened, episodic, broken, no smooth transitions, no sense of events unfolding from prior events...
~Tim O'Brien

“Bryson! You’ve gotta see this—come here! John, where’s Bryson? Someone wake him up, tell him to hurry, I need him here and make it quick, pronto pronto! Where’s Bryson? What’s the story? Bryson! BRYSON!

I’m on the verge of tears and nearly screaming at this point and delicate beads of sweat are forming on my forehead since I’ve been laughing and swearing for nearly ten minutes straight and there are too many people in the room, in the house, on the planet really, not that it makes much of a difference anyhow. A montage of faces glance into the room to see what the big deal is, to see what the big deal is tonight, stare blankly at us and walk away shaking their heads left to right, right to left. This means nothing to me since none of the disappointed faces are Bryson’s. “BRYSON, BRYSON, BRYSON, BRY—" I begin singing in musical staccato, my voice teetering before slipping into a thin falsetto.

Then… It’s Bryson. He’s wearing his pajamas and I consider the possibility that we woke him up, which sends goosebumps down my arms since it will increase the air of absurdity that already hangs, breathes, gives color to the black night. He looks at me unflenching, blankly, his eyes dinner plates, stone-armed and freezing, and sighs, “Yes Michael.”

I grab the globe, about the size of an over inflated beach ball, the equator missing after someone tore it off after we used it as a bowling ball, trying to crash over chess pieces, pawns and rooks mostly, and Indonesia and the Gallopagos have been replaced by jagged whiteness, not that it makes much of a difference anyhow. I throw it into the air and by the time it returns to my outstretched hands I’m already done with half the explanation, which explains nothing really.

“So Bryson! Dammit Bryson! It started off with Cat doing a monster impression with the bike reflector when it was flashing red. Then I did an impression of Cat doing her monster impression. Then, yeah then, Anna did an impression of me doing an impression of Cat doing a monster impression with a flashing red bike reflector. Wait Bryson! Wait. You didn’t get up for nothing—Then Pierre got a crazy look in his eye, grabbed the flashing red bike reflector and did an impression of Anna doing an impression of me doing an impression of Cat doing a scary monster impression. Yes! Heck yes! Then Pierre set the reflector on the globe and the globe, the globe Bryson, did an impression of Pierre doing an impression of Anna doing an impression of…”

We do the whole cherade once more, just so Bryson can see that I couldn't possibly be making this up. The reflector is passed around the room, each one of us doing impressions of impressions until it finally reaches the globe. Pierre is crying and laughing, we are all by this point, we’re all screaming out with joy, and he sets the flashing red reflector on the globe. It sits upon the North Pole, sending red sparks and flashes all over the room, each burst of light bathing our rapturous faces, the screaming and laughter and crying sounds crescendo as, after about four seconds, it drops to the real earth with a dull thud, continuing to flash. Pierre screams out and is shaking wildly, the comedy of the globe’s monster impression of an impression of an impression of an impression of Cat’s impression too much to comprehend. We all look at Bryson, waiting for him to join in with our uproarious laughter, eager for his artistic approval, but he just lowers his gaze downward and mutters, “This is absurd.”

We take this as a joke and laugh even more, knowing he’s just hiding his jealousy behind condemnation, almost too aware that he is in love with us and our antics.

The reflector is still on the ground, abandoned, fallen from the face of the planet, in a word, disconnected, still flashing, bleeding in crimson spurts, unaware that it’s continuous flash means nothing, means nothing to anyone, means nothing to anyone anymore.