Bed Of Pricks

As Rickety was heading to his “home away from home” last night, he wasted time as usual. He doesn’t want to get there too early. He’ll just stay conscious and think. Time will go slowly.

It is a nice place. His host, Carl Mudgeon, is very gracious. He’s a spiritualist. He’s a cross between the Dali Lama, Gandhi, and the hairy Christian. He drinks water and eats one grain of oatmeal a day. He does breathe but only when he sprints on his bike.

Rickety stopped by Big Bucks for an hour of coffee and crossword puzzle, as if he needs one more perplexing thing. Puzzles are everywhere. Trying to make his simpler, he makes it more complicated than anyone can imagine. Everyone he meets is a puzzle. He’s the biggest enigma yet. He hasn’t figured himself out yet.

So Rickety wasted all the time he could at Big Bucks Coffee and stopped by Waste Mart to check out all the stuff he wasn’t going to buy. He saw tons of stuff he had no interest in.

He drove toward Slumberville. He reminisces about the small town that was Slumberville decades ago. Now it’s West Gotham. Now it’s all foreign to him. He gets lost.

Carl is watching a bunch of liars on TV trying to out-lie one another. Rickety refrains from reporting the obvious. Carl and Rickety exchange pleasantries. Carl goes off to lie on his bed of nails. Carl sleeps well on his nails. He only needs a few minutes though. After his minutes of sleep Carl sets off to work. Later he may flog himself with a cat-o-nine-tails, he may also solve complex problems that have plagued man for ages, and he may do all of this while practicing yoga while riding his bike.

Rickety retreats to his bed of thorns. He also only needs 10 minutes of sleep. He wants to sleep for years. He solves puzzles until his eyes fail. He puts his glasses and puzzles away, cuts off the light, and is now wide awake. He cuts the light on. He writes. He rues. He solves more puzzles. His eyes grow tired. He puts away his glasses, cuts off the light, and now he's wide awake again.

He wonders how he could have lived so long, worked so hard, dared so much, braved so much, achieved so much, paid for so much, and now has so little. He’s amazed that after 60 years he no longer has pail to pee in. He’s blessed to be in the company of greatness and generosity. He’s embarrassed that he’s without means. He hasn’t a home that is his. His pride tells him he’s failed. His humility tells him that his plight is way too common. But in North Gotham, there’s an air of despair, everywhere.

He wonders how it all came to be. He saw a better curtain bow. Did he sign up for all of this? He guesses he did. Life is stranger than fiction.

He considers the homeless, the poverty, and despair in North Gotham. He’d like to alleviate the suffering. He’d like to extinguish a volcano by urinating on it. He has no resources. He doesn’t have control of his own life. He’s running out of time and health.

He thinks of his plight and of those he sees on Druid Avenue. He sees the winos, the prostitutes, and crack-heads. He and they are kindred spirits. They don’t know it.

They see a healthy man riding like the wind on a fine racing machine dressed in fast, flashy cycling attire with shoes that snap onto funny pedals and a helmet to match.

They see a rich kid on an expensive steed, with bread, a lair, a den, a safe place, a sanctuary, a quiet place where the world cannot get to him.

They don’t see a man wearing all he is, has, and maybe going to have. It’s a bike, some clothes, and some speed.

Take away the clothing, the machine, and the diet

For they are all a bunch of tricks,

Then they will see a broken man, tossing and turning,

In a bed of thorns, with a bunch of pricks.