24. Barrel of Monkeys

The tables have turned: now I’m battling Wakefulness, trying to get on board the Sleep Train. Oh, the irony and the ecstasy.

Love. Why am I thinking about that? What’s love got to do with it? Surely this can’t be love? But why am I not sure? Have I never been in love before? And if not, why not? Well, there was this one girl, many years ago, named Dawn. Another story for another sleepless night.

And, Judy? I love her so much, but that doesn’t count, she’s my sister.

You’re almost 18, right? So, why are you still a virgin?

Don’t know.

Do you feel bad about it?

No. But, come to think of it, I don’t feel good, either. It’s just the way it is. What can you do?

The obsession’s in the chasing and not the apprehending, it’s the pursuit you see, and never the rest…

And now, with Rachel’s Promise hanging in the air like a Golden Ring, I set sights forward and try to think in terms of the Good Things the future claims to have in store. It’s the only way to look at it.

No use crying over spilt milk.

Or unspilt milk.

.

.

I’d doodle at this point if I were any good at it. Along with Math, History and Geography, Art has not proven to be one of my strongest subjects. The only thing I can draw is Kilroy peering over a brick wall. But only with a pencil, and all I’ve got is a pen.

This fountain pen Judy gave me. Cast across page like a net to see what I can catch, aware of Me-Above laughing a little underbreath at the Me-Below. He looks at me and imagines a late-night fisherman trawling for words. Or Little Jack Horner sitting in the corner. But I’m just Leo Mac, sitting back, scrawling like a hack. I stick in my pen, pull out a word, and say what a good boy am I. I pull out

another. 

Then

another. Light
words.

Comfortable. Distracting.

Just look at them come

tirelessly.

.

I’m reminded of a sunny but cold afternoon… years ago when I went mackerel fishing with my uncles in Co. Kerry. Instead of just one hook at the end of your line, you had about a million, and when you reeled it in, it was just this long string of flapping fish, one after another. Gills gasping and glinting in the glow of the falling sun upon the still evening water. 

Thrilling.

.

And that reminds me of those multi-colored plastic figures in that game Judy and I used to play when we were kids. What was it called? Oh yeah, Barrel Of Monkeys. I got really hooked on it for a while (excuse the pun – it is late, forgive me), and for two intense weeks I proudly held the title of Undefeated Barrel O’ Monkeys Champion. Hooked I was, right up until the tables turned one day and Judy humiliated the hell out of me, five times in a row no less. Then, before I knew what was going on, she was beating me all the time and, I don’t know, somehow all the fun went out of it.

.

.

That was when I first noticed her competitive streak and the first time I was aware of my own. But we’re competitive in different ways. She’s only competitive when losing. I only get competitive when winning. When losing, I like to pack it in early. Why drag out the inevitable? Or as Mom (who had a penchant for collecting sayings) might say, were she here to say it: The sooner you start licking your wounds, the sooner they’ll heal.

I think that was one of her own.

221. 222. 223 –

No, that’s not right - I’m going in the wrong direction. I was counting down, wasn’t I?

221. 220. 219…