Profanity
a Keyhole story

III

Bernard, who always claimed to be named for George Bernard Shaw, came over to help Clive unpack over Pop-Tarts.

"Temporary contacts, I hear those suck," Bernard nearly choked trying to masticate a chocolate flavored Pop-Tart. "You don't work today?"

"I had a half shift, 3 hours and 45 minutes. It's exactly short enough that they aren't required to give me a break." Clive found that beer and Pop-Tarts did not make a winning combination.

Bernard pushed a shitty laminate K-Mart bought TV stand against the wall near the cable socket. "Shit, sounds like it isn't even worth the trouble."

"Yeah," Clive tried to unpack a styrofoam cooler he'd shoved in the freezer on arrival."Do you want a mini pizza? I think I've got those supreme ones with all the stuff on it."

Bernard had that v-shaped baldness coming in like Jude Law or Phil Collins. "I had some of those ice-cream Dib things just a little while ago. I'm good. Do it yourself, though. Do it if you wanna. That's what the wife used to say. She'd go 'Do it if you wanna'."

"You were married for like ten minutes, Bern. Just keep calling her Janey."

"I'll call her 'the cunt', how about that?" He lifted the bulky Zenith TV onto the stand.

"Bernard," Clive fumbled with the microwave. "Do you remember your dreams much?"

Bernard kicked a few boxes to one end of the living room "Dreams, Clive? What the fuck? Sure. I had that one about going to school naked and some ghost nightmares, that horrible fucking one about my wedding, dreams about my dick getting cut off..."

"I've been having some odd ones lately."

"If I'm in them and we're naked I would truly appreciate you not telling me."

The microwave wouldn't start. The outlet didn't work. "No, you're not there. Nobody I know is in them."

Bernard unfolded the lawn furniture he'd bought on the way over. It was to stand in for real furniture, if that ever was to come. "So what's so weird?"

"I've been having continuous dreams for like a month now. I dream every time I sleep and I remember all of them."

"Great. Maybe you won't even need cable."

"Well, it's like that , though. They're like a movie or a show. The dreams are all the same story, the same place. It's fucking scary to say it, but it's like a second life running parallel, like in that movie The 13th Floor."

"Fuck, please tell me you didn't dream about Craig Bierko, he's my man crush." Bernard took off his jacket and tossed it at one of the lawn chairs.

"No, it's like some fantasy movie. Like in Kull the Conqueror or Ice Pirates."

Bernard came and leaned on the strip on counter diving the kitchen from the living room. "Well, I can honestly say I've never had that happen. Although when I was seven I had a couple dreams in which the yellow hat guy from Curious George was my dad slash best friend."

"I dunno. Do you think I need therapy?"

Bernard tried man-handling the microwave. "I'm gonna say no, and not just because it's expensive. I'd only say go to therapy if this started to take over your life. I mean, does it bug you?"

Clive thought for a second "Well, it bugged me enough to talk to you about it. Shit, I don't know."

"Fuck it. Let's watch one of those crappy video tapes that Wanda's ex gave you."

"Which? Play it to the Bone?"

"No way, The Guardian."

"Fuck. Let me get the beer."

All throughout the movie Clive kept scratching an itch on his stomach. Bernard took hold of a bus schedule and highlighted the route his friend should take to work to the best of his beer buzzed memory. After Clive's friend hopped in his Mazda and drove hope a point or so over the legal limit.

Clive went to his bathroom. The sink pressure was for shit and the toilet had one of those half height water-saver tanks. When he took off his shirt he noticed a cut right where the itch had been, on the skin right above the navel.

"Dammit. I'm gonna need a therapist."

He had a glass of Sunny Delight, an on sale variety claiming to have extra vitamins. He finished and put the glass in the virgin narrow dishwasher. He bought a bottle of Crystal Geyser to bed with him and a small bottle of pills.

Someone told him once that sleeping pills prevent dreaming. That person was full of shit.