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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book... “Renegade Winter” Down in the Dirt, v154 (the February 2018 Issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the issue book At Midnight the Down in the Dirt Jan.-Apr. 2018 collection book		get the 418 page Jan.-Apr. 2018 Down in the Dirt issue anthology 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Sleep Again

Gregory K. Eckert

    2005—
    I cannot honestly say why I did what I did. I’d like to think that we all—at some point in our cowardly existence—have elected to push instead of pull—or watch instead of act. We are, after all, incredibly emotional, and because of that fact, irrevocably flawed and inherently weak. If you’re viewed as a strong individual, it’s because you haven’t been watched long enough. Do you think that philanthropy is about giving? No. Hell, no. It’s how the rich absolve all that prevents the pillow from doing its job. If enough newspapers tell you you’re a good person, you’ll start to think it’s true—you’ll celebrate the person that money can buy.
    But that’s not what you’re here for. You need the whole story, and I will give it to you—the unadulterated version.
    ——————
    Jan 1992———
    The first time—and the last time—I walked into his apartment, there was a haze of cigarette smoke spread across the living room and two faded sofas stretched along adjacent walls. An all-glass chandelier hung directly above the kitchen table—massive in size—and emitting a hazy, inordinate amount of light throughout the first floor. To the left of the front door was a closet. The door was taken off its hinges, propped against the wall just before the steps to the second floor. This closet was overflowing with all colors of dirty clothing; board games were stacked haphazardly on the shelf at the top. A damp odor traveled from the closet. Jeremy clomped his way down the steps with a smile on his face and untied shoelaces swinging through the air like unburdened wind chimes.
    My parents were always fine with Jeremy visiting our house, but they didn’t want me anywhere near his. My mom would be doing dishes in the kitchen and would call me over to her. “Cops over at Jeremy’s house—again,” she would balk, scrubbing an oven pan, directing my eyes out of the window with her glare. “I wonder who the center of attention is tonight. My guess is that little slut Mary.”
    Her questions were, no doubt, rhetorical. Engaging my mother in battle is just something you don’t do. If you’re not with her, you are immediately in her crosshairs. Her words sought out anyone that elected a different lifestyle than her own. Jeremy, of course, according to her, did not choose his life. That’s how she arrived at the “he can visit here, but you cannot visit there” mentality. She thought that he was nice enough, always sporting a doltish smile and wearing dirty, second-hand clothing—
    “Let’s go before my dad wakes up,” Jeremy said quickly. “He was in a bad mood last night.”
    I shook my head and turned around and reached for the doorknob. Twisting and pulling, I couldn’t seem to get the door open. I turned the main lock back and forth, hearing the bolt awkwardly click as I struggled.
    “You have to lift up and pull real hard,” Jeremy interrupted, while I played tug of war with the door.
    Jeremy walked up beside me, slipped his right glove off and opened the door in one fluid, jerking motion. He motioned for me to go first, but then raced out the door laughing, playfully elbowing me out of the way as he ran into the arms of the cold winter wind. He quickly turned his head around and smirked at me. Jeremy licked his lips and used his fingertips to tuck his dark curly hair under his flap cap. He smiled and his eyes narrowed tightly below his thick black eyebrows. The lightness of his skin drew comparisons only to the fresh snow falling sideways all around him.
    Dusk comes early in January. The temperature plummeted as the sun tucked behind the massive box elders that lined the western end of town. The icicles enveloped the branches, absorbing the last bit of sunlight trickling through the tiny spaces between. Jeremy sprinted ahead like an animal set free. I didn’t chase after him. I never chased after him. The truth is Jeremy is what I called a neighborhood fringe-friend. He helped me pass the time, but at school, I ignored him. We are not the same. Jeremy is simple.
    I see him take a seat on the lip of the underground sewer drain that protrudes out of the ground near where the cornfield and edge of town meet. Close to the edge of our neighborhood is an above ground sewer tunnel. For two years we’ve had a competition to see how long you could stay inside without coming out. It seems to go for miles like an underground maze, occasionally providing a sewer grate where you could look up and see some other part of town. Before today, the record had been three hours and twelve minutes—set by me just last month. A few of the neighborhood kids say they broke my record, but not a single person has someone to back them up, someone to claim that it was true. I had just the light from my watch to keep me company—and Jeremy, of course. The rule has always been that the time doesn’t start until it is completely dark—just a few minutes away.
    “I gotta be home by midnight,” I said. “My parents went to a friend’s house.”
    “Not me. Nobody’d notice I was gone,” Jeremy responded, pulling his flap cap down to cover his ears and licking his lips. “You’re lucky. Your mom’s real nice.”
    “She’s got everyone fooled,” I interjected.
    “What do you mean?”
    “Just . . . never mind.” I sighed and watched my warm breath travel to greet the cold winter air.
    Jeremy glanced away and let his legs dangle over the circular opening, jamming his hands into his coat pockets.
    I noticed two dark figures approaching from the tree line. The shadows teetered back and forth as they closed in on us. “I see you brought your friend,” said the one on the left—Adam—walking slightly in front of Kurt. Jeremy was busy running the tip of his shoe along the outline of the sewer tunnel opening.
    Adam and Kurt were a grade ahead of us in school.
    Adam slid his backpack off his shoulder and pulled out a bottle of vodka. There was just a little missing, and he quickly twisted off the top from its long neck and pushed it into Kurt’s chest. Without hesitation, Kurt lifted the bottle, squinted his eyes, and took a swig.
    “You two—so cute together,” Adam continued. “Does he drink?”
    “He’s probably the oldest eighth grader. Ever,” Kurt added.
    “Kurt, give him some,” Adam interrupted, and then swiped the bottle and held it out in Jeremy’s direction. Jeremy gazed at me as if looking for approval. I shook my head decisively and watched him slowly grab the bottle and raise it to his lips. He opened his mouth and swallowed but immediately spit some back out and began coughing.
    “Ha-ha-ha. He even drinks funny,” said Kurt. “You would think he’d be a natural.”
    “He failed third grade twice—the whole family is trash,” Adam said, continuing to chuckle.
    I stared at Jeremy, watching him cough and then try and catch his breath. He took to the bottle again—again with the same result. He tried a third and fourth time, with the same outcome.
    “Ha-ha-ha. Aw, man. Look at him go,” Adam interrupted. Both laughed.
    The fifth time yielded a different result. He drank from the bottle, and then it slowly descended from his lips, glancing at us with a vacant expression. He sipped again without choking, setting the bottle on the cement of the sewer drain beside him.
    Adam reached into his backpack and pulled out a rock. “If you can empty the entire bottle, I’ll give it to you.”
    Jeremy inspected the rock, a purple amethyst. He marveled at its intricacy, at its brightness, its uniqueness.
    “Now listen,” Adam interrupted, fighting back laughter. “This rock will prevent anything bad from happening to you; there’s a whole story about it—”
    “What are you talking about,” Kurt interrupted.
    “I can’t remember the whole story. You hold the rock close enough to your chest, you won’t get drunk. It has . . . special powers.”
    Jeremy concentrated on every word pouring from Adam’s mouth.
    “You’re an idiot,” said Kurt.
     “Think I’m making this up?” Adam continued. “I changed my mind. You need to drink the whole bottle and spend the night inside the sewer drain—like way inside.”
    Adam leaned over to Kurt and said quietly, “Don’t worry, man. There’s another bottle in the cabinet.”
    Jeremy looked at me, excitedly, holding the rock in his hand. I could feel his stare burning into me, but I refused to look in his direction. I just gazed away, focusing my attention toward Adam.
    “What’s it gonna be?” Adam impatiently added.
    “He’ll do it. I’ll make sure,” I responded, surprising myself at the quickness of my response. “I’ll stay here. It’s almost seven now, and I don’t need to be home until midnight. He’ll never make it past midnight.”
    Adam looked at me, grinning. “Alright.” He had a look of pride or satisfaction or some mixture of the two in his eyes. “Have it your way.”
    “Let’s get out of here,” Kurt said, grinning and shoving Adam with his left hand.
    There was no urgency in their steps. I watched them focus their attention from Jeremy and then turn to leave. I could occasionally hear an outburst of laughing or Adam emphasizing a word in conversation. They got smaller and began to blend into falling snow and darkness.
    I turned back to Jeremy and noticed that he now took to the bottle with a new fierceness and determinism. After only fifteen minutes, he had drunk the bottle to the halfway mark.
    “Jeremy, let’s just pour out the rest. I won’t tell them we did.”
    “I want the rock,” Jeremy responded.
    “Jeremy, there is nothing special about the rock. They were just messing with you.” I began to lose my patience. “Everyone does. It’s so easy.” I paused and exhaled. “The rock is just like any other rock,” I said, with a stinging frustration. “It’s nonsense. You know he’ll never let you keep it.”
    He took another sip and another, clenching the rock close to his body with his right hand. “I want it. I just want it.”
    Ten more minutes passed with Jeremy occasionally sipping at the bottle. I reached for the bottle and then held it in my right hand. I refused to let him drink the rest. “Please, just go in. I’ll start the timer now. An hour is enough.”
    “Okay,” he said in a nasally voice.
    Jeremy stammered as he got to his feet. He rested his hand on the lip of the sewer drain and then instantly began to vomit. It came violently rushing out of his swollen face.
    “Jeremy, do you see? The rock, it doesn’t work,” I said. I sighed and looked in the direction of where Adam and Kurt had disappeared. “Let’s go home. They just wanted to be cruel to you.”
    Jeremy dragged his sleeve across his face and looked at me with welted eyes and smiled. He mumbled, “I’ll beat your time” and turned away from me, coughing and trying to catch his breath. I watched him crouch down and crawl into the sewer drain. I clicked on my flashlight and peered at him crawling deeper and deeper until he disappeared.
    I looked up and saw a starless sky tucked behind a relentless steady snowfall. The wind began to pick up with occasional gusts that rattled the branches. After two minutes of waiting, I yelled for him but received no response. I sat on top of the sewer opening and took a drink from the bottle. At this point, maybe an inch of liquid remained. I jerked back and spit the liquid out as it felt like fire when it hit the back of my throat. It was only the second time I had alcohol. I couldn’t seem to remove the hot saliva from my mouth, emitting the spit from the tip of my tongue in rapid succession.
    I almost forgot—I glanced down at my watch and started the timer and yelled into the tunnel for Jeremy—again, no response.
    After rubbing my hands together and lifting my shoulders to cover my face from the wind, the watch hit twenty minutes, and I reached for my flashlight. I saw nothing as the light poured into the dark circular opening. How far could he have gotten? As I surveyed the inside of the sewer drain, the wind picked up, knocking the bottle behind me on its side. The liquid trickled out—I could not care less.
    I decided that I waited long enough and bent over and made my way into the opening. After crawling for about twenty seconds, I pointed the flashlight straight ahead—still nothing. I looked back and heard the whistling of the wind swirl past the opening, almost angrily. I paused to listen for Jeremy’s movement or voice. This is ridiculous, I thought. I’ll just bring him back to my house and let him sleep it off. There is no point to this nonsense.
    I crawled deeper into the tunnel and stopped. Still nothing. Awkwardly hitting my elbows on the floor of the sewer drain, I dug deeper into the mouth of the drain until I could barely see the opening from which I entered. A foul smell hit my nose —followed by a flash of rapid movement. I saw it. I didn’t want to see it. I never should have gone in. I shouldn’t be here. This was a mistake. Jeremy was lying on his side, his body convulsing. I turned him toward me and saw that his eyes were half open. I panicked. The purple amethyst lay just inches in front of him, covered in his vomit. I turned around and headed back to the opening, but then faced his direction again—his convulsions seemed more violent the more I backed away. I re-approached and placed my hand on his side, feeling his unnatural movements. His eyes were glazed over and without focus. Removing my hand, I reached for the purple rock and clenched it. I began to scuttle backwards as the smell of fresh vomit rushed back into my nose and repulsed me.
    My heart galloped in my throat. My breathing quickened. I moved faster. I couldn’t breathe in the tunnel. Not a single breath of air was enough. I tried filling my lungs with air but nothing worked. I felt trapped and that the opening was collapsing around me. I could see the circular opening just feet from my fingertips and reached for it, sucking in as much of the fresh air as I could.
    As soon as I reached the opening, I stumbled to my feet and ran. I didn’t look back. I wouldn’t look back. I swallowed air but choked on it as I stumbled the way to my street. I can’t even remember how I arrived.
    I unlocked the front door to my house and instinctively went straight to my room. All I could think about was tearing off my clothes. I ran downstairs and ripped a black trash bag from the box underneath the kitchen sink and struggled to snap it open. Thoughts of Jeremy’s face cut through every time I would blink my eyes. Once I got the bag open, I forced everything into it. Everything. Except for the rock. I placed it on the nightstand next to my bed. I was sweating but my legs were cold and my teeth were chattering. Closing my eyes for a second, I placed my shivering right hand on my forehead. The smell of vomit hit the back of my throat and a paroxysm of pain struck me violently.
    Stumbling to the bathroom, I turned the knob to the shower all the way to hot and got in. The steam surrounded me and the pain of the hot water soon pelted me. I couldn’t move from the punishment—I wouldn’t move from the punishment. I began to sob—and dropped to my knees—the water slicing me on the shoulders and neck. Seconds blended into minutes until I could stand again. Reaching for a towel, I removed myself from the water and turned off the pressure and surrendered into bed. My skin ached. I looked at the purple rock on my nightstand and closed my eyes—
    _________

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