Dear diary,
Six days after the beginning, Lord Bryan goes into the dimension of time and space where there are the most animals of the highest variety, and all types of humans exist too; and nothing is considered sinful or ‘fallen from grace’ yet; and he stops there for the night. And he ends up opening out an eternity there, so that the Creator remains in harmony with his creation; and this Creator can now relax into a deep sleep and sorta fade into the background and cease to matter.
Now the first thing that Lord Bryan does is make saddles for all the animals. Every animal in the Kingdom of God gets its own unique saddle, tailored perfectly to fit that creature’s form. The giraffes get saddles, the whales and guppies all get saddles. Even the birds are given saddles that are safe to ride on. Instead of being annoyed with these saddles, all creatures are proud of them. Humans also are strapped with saddles, and they like it.
Then Lord Bryan invents a type of bicycle that can be ridden in one’s sleep. What I’m trying to say is that you can slumber while riding your bike, and it will not lose balance and fall over or crash into anything. So it’s extremely elegant, and it helps Lord Bryan to travel the globe without having to be awake. This is more fun than it sounds.
Now the creatures — all the animals, from mammals to birds to fishes to insects and angels — they grow jealous of Lord Bryan’s Sleep Cycle, and they begin to complain. “Why did he saddle us if he’s just going to ride around on THAT thing all day and night?” And Lord Bryan hears the complaint from all God’s creatures, for the noise of their speech causes him to wake up and look around; and he immediately feels compassion for the beasts:
“I’m sorry,” he sez; “I didn’t even think of this aspect of existence, when I built my bike — I’ll put it away now, in the shed, and ride ye around.”
And Lord Bryan does as he promises. He puts the kickstand down, after wheeling the bike into the storage shed; then he shuts the shed’s doors and locks them, and he mounts the nearest creature.
“To tell you the truth,” Lord Bryan addresses this creature, which is either a land-fish or a leggy snake (perhaps a blend of both), “I didn’t even know that you all could talk. I think I would’ve chosen to ride you animals earlier, if I’d have known this. For all my bicycle offers is the ability to sleep-drive; whereas ye offer not only that, but the potential for conversation.” And the animals are happy now, as Lord Bryan rides one after another: they talk to him and even begin to tell him dream-stories, although these stories rather suck, because they are animals and not professional storytellers; but Bryan loves to listen anyway, and he often falls asleep. In short, Lord Bryan decides to record in writing all the stories that the animals tell him while he is riding them. And these he then binds into numerous boox.
That’s the end of that tale. Now let’s move on to the next tale.
§
Mr. Peterson is reclining in a lawn chair on his patio, smoking his pipe that is filled with cherry tobacco. Ingrid, his wife, now enters the patio thru the French sliding doors of their house.
The great outdoors is like the interior of a tavern decorated entirely in bamboo. Executives and mistresses are sipping their cocktails, and Mr. Peterson is talking to his helpmate. “Ingrid,” he sez, “go fetch me my shotgun, quick: The neighbor boy Bryan is within range, and I’d like to eliminate him for the sake of serenity.” Ingrid sips her frozen coconut daiquiri and answers: “No, sorry; I can’t let you do that. The lad is only a teen, and he has such potential. He might grow up to be a banker — you never know.”
So Bryan grows up and becomes a general failure, blotchy and bloated. Mr. Peterson is dead now, as is Ingrid — nobody knows what carried them off; we all lost track of them after the scene above. We probably fell asleep during those years.
A Service Call
Now the U.S. Vietnam War enters the saloon and sits at a booth next to her date, who is a pretty blonde woman. Then the U.S. Korean War approaches and takes a seat on the other side, with her own date who is also a pretty blonde woman.
“How have you been holding up?” the U.S. Korean War asks the U.S. Vietnam War.
“Not bad, not bad,” sez the U.S. Vietnam War, stirring her cocktail with a mini-straw; “I’ve just been doing some stuff for some businessmen. Things are OK. I can’t complain.”
The bartender approaches looking sheepish.
“What is it?” sez the U.S. Vietnam War to the bartender. “Speak now or forever hold your peace.” This remark provokes uproarious laughter from the entire tavern. Over the top of the mirthful commotion, the U.S. Vietnam War shouts the following interesting tidbit: “That phrase was derived from the Christian marriage ceremony.”
Now the bartender raises his voice: “I only came over here to inform you that a man is approaching from a faraway land, and his destination is this table. The reason this man shall soon appear before you is as follows. I phoned him and requested that he repair the chandelier. Do you see the problem? Look twenty feet upward.” The bartender points, and both Wars and their dates lift up their heads to behold the chandelier hanging over their table. “All the lights are burnt out,” the bartender explains; “I think the wiring might have melted; or the thing is not grounded properly: perhaps there are sparks and fire leaping around behind the ceiling tile. Anyway, this guy that I called is a master electrician. He knows his shit. So, when he appears before you, for the love of God, show him respect. Don’t mess with him like you mess with everyone else.” (At this point in the bartender’s speech, the Russian Afghanistan War and the U.S. Afghanistan War enter the tavern and slide into the booth, along with their dates who are both pretty blondes.) The bartender continues, acknowledging the newcomers: “I was just telling the rest of your party here that a repairman has been called and shall be arriving any instant now. He shall have a twenty-foot ladder with him; and his job shall be to rewire the above chandelier.” The bartender points again, and all the Wars, including the Russian and U.S. Afghanistans, together with their dinner dates, crane their necks upward. “Any questions?” asks the bartender.
The Wars continue squinting at the chandelier for a few moments before the U.S. Korean War sez: “But those aren’t light bulbs; they’re wax candles.”
The bartender stares blankly; then replies: “I know.”
The U.S. Korean War, after a beat, sez: “You really wanna rewire candles?”
The bartender nods definitively: “Yes.”
The U.S. Korean War looks at the other Wars, who all return her gaze in a state of half-confusion; then the U.S. Korean War turns back to the bartender and shrugs: “I guess that’s OK with us.”
So the bartender leaves. The music picks up again, and all the customers begin to mingle at their respective tables and booths.
Now a man with a ladder enters. He walks confidently toward the place where all the Wars are seated. “Is this the one?” he points upward.
The Wars all glance back and forth between each other and the man who just addressed them. They were not expecting that they’d need to answer a question or provide any type of guidance.
“Is this the one?” the man repeats.
“Are you the repairman?” asks the U.S. Afghanistan War.
“Yeah, I just talked to a guy who called himself ‘The Bartender’ about an hour ago,” explains the repairman. “It took me a while to get here. You all really live in the sticks.”
“Um… yes, as to your question about the candelabra,” stammers the U.S. Afghanistan War, “I think, yes, this fixture right here is what the guy was calling you about.”
“Alrighty,” sez the repairman, as he sets the legs of his ladder down onto the ornate rug, which is positioned before the booth, upon the tavern’s hardwood floor. “Most people underestimate the height of things, when they call me to do repairs — they always assume that everything’s only twenty feet, because that’s as high as they can imagine something might be. But I know better, because of my experience in this field. That fixture up there might even be double that distance.” Now he bangs his hand on his ladder: “This here’s a forty-footer,” he leans the far end against the wall and prepares to climb up; “so, watch out.”
“Before you begin, don’t you think that you should remove that area rug from beneath your ladder, so that its legs can rest on something firm and trustworthy instead, such as the floor itself,” sez the Russian Afghanistan War politely to the repairman, hoping that she’s not offending him by offering this suggestion; “for, if you put any weight near the top of the present setup, the rug might give way and begin to float backwards over the floorboards, thus your ladder will slide down the wall, due to the gravitational pull, and you’re likely to fall to your death onto this table here before us.”
“Yes,” the U.S. Korean War perks up and adds her two-cents in agreement, “you’re liable to drop down upon us, as we’re dining here, which could kill us all as well!”
“I’m fine; I know what I’m doing,” sez the repairman dismissively, now halfway up the ladder. “We’re all totally safe.”
The Wars all look at each other with genuine fear in their eyes. All their dinner dates are frightened as well.
“Gals,” sez the U.S. Vietnam War in a whisper to the whole group, as the repairman continues to climb to the top of the ladder over their heads, “let’s sneak out of the booth and stand at a distance until this whole thing blows over.”
“Good idea,” all the Wars and their dates accept this suggestion.
So, one by one, the tablemates slide out of the dining booth — each individual, when squeezing past, tries to avoid touching the ladder, which is partially blocking the booth; yet most of them end up accidentally bumping it slightly. Once out, they all gingerly maneuver away from this risky setup, with the ladder on the ornate rug that’s on the slippery floorboards. They stand aside and lift their heads and watch the repairman work, curious to see what will happen.
The repairman unscrews the base of the chandelier and checks the wiring behind the unit. Sure enough, it’s all melted, and there are sparks and flames dancing spectacularly within the ceiling, threatening to set fire to the insulation. The repairman solves all this by rewiring the connections and adding a new ground; then he blows out the fire and pats the sparks out with his gloved hand. He grabs a water bottle from a special loop in his tool belt and squirts down the places where the fire had done the most damage. Then he seals the base back up and puts in the gold screws, making sure to caulk the edges and use a fresh cloth with some precious-metal polish on the golden faceplate before he changes out all of the individual candlesticks.
Then the repairman reaches into his pockets, as he’s still standing on the top rung of the ladder (which, it’s worth repeating, is precariously resting upon an ornate area-rug against the freshly waxed-and-oiled hardwood floor) to retrieve, stick by stick, the fifty candlesticks; and he replaces, one by one, all the candles that are melted. — When he gets to the fiftieth stick, which is the very last one, just as he takes out the melted stub and moves to replace it with a new, pristine cylinder, LO AND BEHOLD, the rug under the ladder begins to slide over the shiny-smooth floorboards, and the ladder gives way and flattens out within a single, shocking instant: it slams with a thud against the dining table below, and the repairman falls with it. The empty cocktail glasses all shatter, sending sharp shards everywhere: People duck and dodge this shrapnel. Luckily, nobody gets hurt (besides the repairman, who is now bleeding from both ears and apparently unconscious). “Oh God!” the Wars cry, and all their dinner dates clutch their pearls to their heaving bosoms.
Suddenly footsteps are heard approaching from the kitchenette area. The bartender appears, wide-eyed, and exclaims: “What is it? Has there been an air-attack?”
“The repairman fell,” explains the Russian Afghanistan War, as the rest of the tavern’s customers are staring in shock at what they just witnessed. “We tried to suggest to him that he should avoid planting the braces of his ladder atop an ornate rug that is resting on polished hardwood; but he waived off our warning and proceeded anyway, on account of hubris.”
The barman hastens over to view the bloodied remains of the man whom he called to fix his establishment’s burnt-out chandelier. He then looks up and sees the new candles installed; so he glances at the dimmer switch on the side wall — he steps over and presses the knob, which ignites the fixture: it blazes brilliantly. “Ah!” the bartender smiles. Then he tests the dimming function by twisting the knob counterclockwise, and it results in the candles’ flames uniformly flickering lower. The bartender faces the group of Wars and remarks: “Romantic!” The Wars nod in polite acknowledgement of this effect — for their dinner dates do indeed appear even more attractive than they looked when they were dashing out from beneath the impending disaster: The tone of their flesh is a smooth, even bronze.
“Shouldn’t we help the guy?” asks the Russian Afghanistan War; “I mean, now that we know that his service call was a success—”
“O! the guy!” exclaims the bartender; “I totally forgot!” And he hastens back over and checks the vital signs of the repairman. “Ah, yes: no doubt, he’ll be OK,” the bartender announces.
The patrons of the tavern give a collective sigh of relief. Some begin to return to their tables, after having retreated to the side walls during the horrific accident.
The Wars as well now slide back into their spots at the big booth under the repaired chandelier, despite the mess. As they begin to mingle with their dinner dates, the U.S. Vietnam War raises her hand to get the bartender’s attention and shouts over the general murmur of increasing small-talk, “Would you like help removing this guy from the table?” She gestures toward the still-unconscious repairman.
“No, thanks,” replies the bartender; “I’ll have someone take care of it. The night shift comes in at ten — I’ll let them know what happened, and they’ll give him the care that he needs. Best thing for him now is to sleep.” The bartender continues to dry off a mug with a fluffy white towel.
“Okie dokie,” the U.S. Vietnam War raises her cocktail glass to the bartender and then takes a long sip. After the drink, the War shouts over to the bartender again, saying: “I didn’t know this place was open all night. Is that new? I mean: Did you recently change your hours?”
“Nope,” replies the bartender, while setting the dried mug on the shelf and reaching for the next recently washed mug to dry, “we’ve always been a 24/7 outfit. Even holidays.”
“Wow,” sez the U.S. Vietnam War. “That’s impressive.”
“People gotta have somewhere to go,” smiles the bartender, as the glass mug slips out of his hands and shatters on the floor.
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