My Story

While everyone else was pursuing careers and starting families, I decided to go to sleep. 

So I slept and slept. Hours turned into days, days turned into months, and I kept sleeping. 

When people came walking by, they would look down at me and wonder how long I’d been asleep and if I’d ever wake. Some would even nudge me with their foot and say “You OK, buddy?” — That’s when the small group of adherents that had formed around my slumber would step forth to defend me: 

“Hey, leave Bryan Ray alone; he’s sleeping,” they would say. And one of the roughs from my gang would shove the person who questioned. — “Whoa, calm down,” that person would say; “I don’t want any trouble: I didn’t mean any harm; I only was wondering why this fellow is sleeping so soundly. If I myself want to get any shuteye, I need to take whole handfuls of pills.” 

Then, the same rough who shoved this inquisitive passerby would raise his arm and slap the man very hard, causing him to stumble backward a few paces. “Get the heck outta here,” the rough would say. And this fellow who stopped to question my state would then hasten away trembling. — Usually a person like this would also cry, because the slap would’ve been both physically and emotionally painful. 

The injured questioner would then go find a police officer in the vicinity and report the assault that just took place. This cop would then come and seek me out: Finding me sleeping with my adherents standing by, she would address the latter collectively, saying, “Which one of you is responsible for slapping the individual who recently visited this place?” And the rough who committed the act would answer: “Tis I.” 

Now the cop would marvel and request on behalf of herself to become a member of The Happy Few; and my team would grant it, because they are nice. — That’s how I gained a full seven zealots, without even needing to lift a finger: I just closed my eyes and slept.

Let Us Now Focus on a Couple of the Most Exemplary Members of the Gang that Guards My Sleeping Body

My favorite protectors are Porfirio and Venustiano. Yes, these are the same two personages that Concha names her cats after, in The 42nd Parallel by John Dos Passos. Let me tell you some of the labors that they accomplished for me:

How My Adherents Porfirio & Venustiano Protected My Slumber

They found a two-storey building and made sure that nobody was inside; then they demolished it.

They were walking down the street one day and noticed a nice shiny blue vintage Ford automobile parked at the curbside. After looking into the windows to make sure that there weren’t any human infants or other bizarre forms of life inside, they smashed the car flat.

Shortly thereafter, they found a huge concrete egg poised in the middle of Northampton, down the block from where I live in Minnesota. Venustiano walked round to the far side and planted his hands firmly against the egg’s hemisphere, so as to secure it, while Venustiano used a sledgehammer to break the huge concrete egg apart. When the shell cracked away, they discovered a loaded pistol inside. So my boys reverse-engineered the thing and employed their new-gained knowledge to build a replica. Now they both had a weapon. 

Porfirio and Venustiano filled their pistols with bullets and went out into the tundra where volcanoes were exploding, and they shot down all the mechanical owls in the sky. The birds plopped, one by one, into the lava. It was truly magnificent.

Then the swinging motion of an exit door caught their attention, and they noticed a strongman was walking out of a gymnasium. So they said as one: “Sir! Sir!” And the man replied aggressively: “What’s your problem?” And they said: “You appear ugly to us. Your muscles are too big. You look like a balloon animal that has been overfilled. Go back inside the gym and do some more weightlifting, so that we can remain here outside and point and laugh at you thru the front window.” 

The man drooped his head and begrudgingly returned to the bench press. He did fifty more reps, while Porfirio and Venustiano laughed and laughed and laughed.

Now, even tho the mirth of my friends was loud, it didn’t wake me. I Bryan, the famous author, remained fast asleep.

One More Good Deed Done by My Protectors

Another wonderful service that my disciples performed for me is the leaking of documents proving that although people worship him as God, Yahweh “the Lord” is not just a propertied aristocrat — he’s actually an extremely heroic man: One of us, in other words. 

Of course, adherents of the disproved beliefs are going to try to spin this revelation their own way. — Having studied the new info carefully, fact-checkers at the World Church issued the following declaration: 

The reason it does not count as a sin for Yahweh to spend days in a room watching lesbians minister to one another is that he sculpted these beings from the earth and animated their forms by inspiring them with his very own Breath of Life; there is neither coercion nor any question of non-consensuality in this arrangement, for Yahweh fashions these helpmates’ brains so that they feel strong desire for one another — it’s wholly natural.

CONCLUSION

Now all the sweet moaning from the background of the World Church’s official statement lured me to wake up. So I stomped over to Yahweh’s house and banged on the wooden door and shouted: “Amigo, I love you, but please remember that you have neighbors. Keep it down, in there!” Then I chuckled to myself because I found the situation rather cute. (I have a soft heart for lovers.)

Now, the thing about daily life in our shared reality is that its events are usually a simple plagiarism of whatever occurred in the previous night’s dreams. And since, before going to bed last evening, I re-screened, for the umpteenth time, the film Blue Velvet (1986), I was prepared for the rest of my day to be haunted with precedent.

So, after knock-knock-knocking on Yahweh’s door, I went to wander around in a junkyard. (There are countless junkyards near Heaven.) Now, at this point of my adventure, my own earthly father was overexerting himself by watering his lawn, therefore he suffered a heart attack and died. Blood came spraying from his heart like a garden hose, when he collapsed; and, to this day, my little dog Sparky would not stop chomping at the stream. (I tried to teach Sparky to LICK blood like a cultivated vampire, but he always wanted to BITE it.)

Now, as I explained, I was loitering in a junkyard when the following event took place. All of a sudden, as I was chalking the names of possible suspects of future crimes on a blackboard while casting stones at glass bottles, I discovered a ruby slipper.

“Just one slipper?” I voiced aloud to myself. “I wonder where its marital partner is hiding.”

So I visited my old neighbor’s house. The man was a farmer who happened to have a fine daughter named Dorothy. I offered the glittery slipper to Mr. Valens, and he said “The banks are corrupt. THEY did this: you will see. They are trying to ruin us farmers. Keep your eye on the tornado.”

So I left Mr. Valens’ farmhouse and enjoyed a tussle in the hay with Dorothy; for she ambushed me outside, after hours. Then Dorothy and I drove my red convertible to the diner and ordered club sandwiches and soda pop. We also drew up plans to break into the house of a nightclub singer.

I managed to locate a tool store that happened to share my surname — it’s sign said: Ray’s Hardware. That’s where I purchased my Bug Man outfit.

I arrived at the nightclub singer’s house at dinnertime. I rang the doorbell and she answered: 

“Come in, have a seat. I am preparing my deceased father’s favorite meal, which I aim to acquire a taste for myself. He’s not here yet — I only expect him whenever I least expect him. Would you care to join me?” 

I nodded eagerly, and we both sat down and began to try to learn to like these mini-chickens. 

Then we were interrupted by another shrill ring of the bell. “Who could that be?” said Laura, the nightclub singer, as she dabbed her mouth with the velvet belt of her robe and went to answer the door. 

“I am a religious proselytizer,” said Dorothy, who was the unexpected visitor. “Would you care to get baptized immediately?”

So Laura and I received salvation from Dorothy, and then we all disbanded. But before Laura and I parted ways, I tapped her shoulder-pad and said: 

“I really like your nightclub singing. May I borrow your spare house-key?”

“I carry only one key,” answered Laura; “I’ve none to spare.” And her countenance fell. But then it gradually lifted, as I explained to her that the same dilemma was faced by a lowly clerk whose boss requested use of his living quarters to carry on an affair with his mistress, in the 1960 movie The Apartment, and although this clerk only had one single key to his name, the two men solved the problem by having a duplicate made. Laura’s eyes lit up when I relayed this truth, and she exclaimed: 

“Wait here, while I go and fetch a MacGuffin.”

She ran back into her bedroom and returned with a glowing green triangular piece of metal that looked like it had been taken from the control panel of a spaceship.

“What’s this?” I said. “It doesn’t look like a regular key.”

“It’s a SKELETON key,” replied Laura. “That means that it can unlock any door, by way of otherworldly forces. Careful — it’s radioactive and magical!”

“Ah, I see,” I said, pocketing the item. “Thanks! We’ll rendezvous tomorrow.”

She kissed me on the forehead because I reminded her of her grandfather, and then I scurried down the stairwell to my car.

“How did your one-night-stand go with Mrs. Palmer?” asked Dorothy when she and I went on our second date at the diner. 

“These fries are wonderful,” I said, taking one french fry after another and dipping them in the ketchup that I had dispensed generously onto my plate; then I bit into my club sandwich and added: “also this lunchmeat is even better than whatever they served me yesterday — perhaps they used pork instead of beef, this time; and it’s as if they added extra pickles or something — I’m in bliss. Let me sip this cola,” and I drew in some soda pop from the straw, while the level of the beverage visibly lowered to half-full. “Wow, that’s good,” I smiled. Then I addressed Dorothy’s question:

“It’s Miss, not Mrs. Palmer — that’s her mother: not that I don’t like spending time with her, too — we enjoy long evenings drinking Bloody Marys and watching jungle beasts on TV tear each other to pieces. But, yeah, my dinner date with Laura was fantastic. She emerged from darkness and taught me how to do the Dirty Bird Dance. Then, when you showed up in your black dove outfit and baptized us, we received the Holy Spirit, which allowed us to cast out devils, speak with new tongues, fondle serpents, and drink poison without a chaser. Then we (she and I) made passionate love, and when we punched each other in the face, it didn’t even hurt! It actually kinda turned us on. So we proceeded to ‘the next round’ of our sensual boxing match. After all was said and done, we ended up fornicating a grand total of two times. That’s a lot, for just one night. Then we saw that the Father (you know, Yahweh God) had been watching us on the security camera — it turns out that he had actually been inside the room, filming us (he has no eyebrows) — and when he spoke unto his lesbians who were with him, they agreed that Laura and I should be allowed into Heaven; so he lifted the travel ban, and Laura was granted her wings, and she got to sit on the right hand of El Shaddai. Thus concluded her Life Story. But it was all just a dream; because, afterward, the tornado lowered us down again, and we resurrected in monochrome in the roles of Job and his wife; so we cursed God and died. We did this over and over and over, as it required many takes, while my favorite two gang-members, Porfirio and Venustiano, remained doubled over with laughter at these shenanigans. But the strange thing was that they (my most beloved pair of faithful apostles) were no longer mighty heroes but curious housecats. — Oh well. I guess that’s how the cookie bounces.”

Now, while listening to this report, my diner-date Dorothy had been growing increasingly jealous; and, when my speech ended, she exclaimed in a quivering voice: 

“I don’t like that you prefer Laura the Harlot to me.”

“Ah,” I replied, “but I prefer Porfirio and Venustiano over either of you.”

“You’re kidding!” cried Dorothy. And, as if it contained a lifeline, she sucked hard at her soda’s straw for a few tense moments. Then she added: “You MUST be joking. Because, if you’re serious, then you’re even more perverted than Laura’s landlord!”

I laughed and answered: “That’s her Heavenly Father: go and watch the nightmare again; you’ll notice that he’s the same actor who plays my neighbor Yahweh. But, no, honesty, you’re right — I was only teasing about my final judgment, especially as regards the bedroom: there’s not even a contest. Verily, verily: I prefer you and Laura ANY DAY to Porfirio and Venustiano.”

Then we made arrangements to break into a random apartment using Laura’s skeleton key. So we drove to an orange-brown high-rise in a part of the city where construction was ubiquitous. I scanned the names of the inhabitants at the front desk, then I pointed to one and asked the clerk: 

“Who is this? Can you tell me which room he is staying in?”

The clerk answered, “Oh, I’m afraid that we cannot give out such information to non-paying detectives.”

So I said, “Well, then, how do I become a legitimate ‘Special Interest’?” And I held out a high-dollar bill.

“Frank Booth, room 710,” smiled the clerk.

So I went up and broke into the apartment and snooped around and then hid inside the closet. When Mr. Booth came home later that evening, removed his overcoat, and opened the closet doors to hang up the article, I found it necessary to step aside so that this villain might not notice me spying upon him. I also had to turn off my police radio, because it makes noise whenever an officer sends a transmission.

Anyway, Frank and I engaged in an epic battle, and, by using diplomacy, I convinced him to abandon the doctrine of sadism. So that was good.

Then I developed a habit of breaking into apartments just for fun. But I never did anything bad or wrong, immoral or unethical. The worst that ever happened (and this happened every time) is that I’d end up reasoning calmly with the subject of my espionage and inevitably persuade them to relinquish their deepest convictions. Moreover, I made it a priority to keep up my appearance as an attractive young suitor, so that each person would feel charmed by me when they found me. For they all eventually stumbled upon me, somewhere in their respective residences, as I attempted unsuccessfully to surveil them. (Usually, what gives me away is that I make too much noise.)

“Why are you crouched there, trembling behind the door of my kitchen’s cupboards?” one sultry brunette damsel crooned when she discovered me. “Come here — stand up. I will undress you and we shall produce offspring outnumbering the nighttime stars.” So she stripped me and we enjoyed an evening of tenderness.

The next day, Dorothy and Laura dropped me off at another woman’s house, and I hid inside her attic. I was up there for three hours before she could decide what she wanted to wear and then came and found me. (Dorothy and Laura were making out in the car while this was happening, and Yahweh was watching them.) 

“What’s this?” exclaimed the enchantress who apprehended me; “A handsome man in my overhead storage? What are you doing here? Do you like to watch voluptuous blondes accomplish household chores? Or do you prefer the type of dames who work in business offices performing stenography for millionaires?”

“My heart goes out to any damsel who dresses modestly and possesses a copious intellect,” I replied in earnest. When I got back to the car, Laura and Dorothy were happy to see me. Yahweh had abandoned the back seat long ago. 

“How was it?” asked my co-conspirators in unison.

“Fine,” I said. “It’s really intriguing to browse around a person’s abode when they’re not home, and it’s even more interesting for them to discover you in the act, and for the two of you to befriend each other afterwards. Diana is a good egg — I’ll have to introduce you to her.”

“We would love that,” answered Dorothy.

“Now, should we return to your father’s farm and overturn the banking system?” I said.

“Yes, let’s,” said the girls.

So we righted many wrongs by pleading with everyone to keep doing whatever it was that they were doing as if  money never existed, henceforth performing these tasks for their own sake: for the love of work, and for the dignity of humanity. Since nobody charged for their goods or services anymore, no currency needed to be exchanged. Thus the banks were rendered superfluous. 

Now, of course, some people decided to quit working, because their jobs were pointless and unnecessary; but that was OK — we proved to be a strong nation, ultimately (even easily), and everyone prospered. All it required was love-infused patience. Plus faith in one’s fellow beings, no matter who they are, domestic or foreign. This made all the folks who love strong borders weep, but we comforted them heartily.

Last Paragraph

But then, manlike creatures from some faraway galaxy came and enslaved us all; and there was nothing that we could do but die. (O! how thankful we were for death.) Yet eventually these new humans obliterated themselves by way of some hyperweapon. It was glorious. Then I turned my antlered head to the mirror and asked: “Now that all readers are extinct, why am I still writing this story?” And, being unable to come up with any justification for continuing the tale, I stopped composing it in mid-sentence.