The steady pulse of a car sitting with admirable tolerance in front of my house chirps and purrs. I focus on the hum, and with squinting eyes, look down at my chest. My breathing mimics the sound. Up… down. Up… down. It’s 1:15 pm.
You’ve got 45 minutes to sleep- 15 if it takes you the next half hour to zonk out. FOCUS! Think about pretty fields, your lover, some sick and twisted shit you saw on the news. Seriously, whatever it takes.
The thoughts racing in my head begin to turn their engine off. But have you ever tried to pull over on the side of the highway in 6 pm traffic? Slamming your brakes. No time for a blinker on because, “Right there! A shoulder wide enough to pull over on, and you totally don’t have .5 seconds to make a break for it.” At this point, I’m down to 38 minutes. Maybe 40 if I round up.
I’m hungry. Do I have to pee? What was the assignment again for last night? Okay no. This is game time Brooke. Shut your eyes and take a god damn nap. Your eye bags know you need it.
Like a blowing horn prepares for battle, the stagnant car that was humming me to sleep lays on it- really lays on it. “Fuck you, Tom!” echoes through my thin walls. The horn releases its frustration again, only this time- I counted. 5 seconds! 5 seconds to lay on your horn and wake me up! Not like I was sleeping. But still! The audacity!
The stress of the event must have collapsed my central nervous system into a coma. The next thing you know, I’m laying bed, eyes wide open, except it isn’t my house. Who’s house is this? My vision glitches and all of a sudden I have a crystalline bird-eye view of my sleeping body. Do I always look like this? Why do I look like I sleep in one of those sacks that are used for “rebirthing therapy”? OOooo okay, it’s probably just symbolism that I’ll wake up a renewed woman. I’m not gonna think too far into it. Why am I not concerned that I don’t know where I am?
Waking up, she appears well-rested. Dream Brooke stretches her arms and takes off her eye mask after a long yawn. She stumbles out of bed as if she drank a bottle of whiskey before her pristine slumber. She’s wearing a luxurious, wine-red, silk pajama set- one sock on. Typical. Dream Brooke’s head bobbles back and her eyes do a little dance in their sockets. Maybe she is drunk? Reaching under the mysterious bed she struggles to lift up a glass filled with lasagna. Why did I go to bed hungry? Eating the lasagna, she flops back onto the bed and sighs.
My eyesight glitches. Dream Brooke’s now attempting the trek down a flight of stairs. They’re my parent’s stairs. I don’t miss the old rose carpet that maneuvers its way around the three-bedroom home. Crosses, bible quotes, and pictures of a white Jesus force themselves into my view. Why am I anxious that mom’s gonna find me drunk?
“Step one… hut! Step two… hut! Step three… fUUuu
Uuuuu
Cccckkkkkk”
And just like that, I watch her fall down the stairs in a fashion only best described by a terrible breakdance. Glass flies in all directions upon reaching its fate at the bottom of the stairs. I didn’t realize she was holding a cup.
“My milk!” Tears flow so fast she mise well drink them.
And this is where I get frustrated. Because I take naps to feel better. And somehow, I am in a dream, crying over SPILLED MILK.
“MY RUG!” My mom rushes around the corner so fast that she almost lands face-first into the aftermath below. “Why would you do this to me!?”
Dream Brooke is conscious, although she still doesn’t look too hot. Like a dazed deer stunned by high beams, she turns and looks at Mom. I watch her face turn so red you’d swear it’s a bodily reaction telling her to “Stop” and look both ways.
“Why’d you give me a gerbil for Christmas? You know I hate animals.” A custard-colored, rat-looking peanut of a thing pops out of her pocket on cue. It’s kinda cute. Mom’s enraged.
“President Biden entitled every citizen with one gerbil for population control.”
“Not my president,” my mom states blankly, wiping the spilled milk up with a custard-colored cloth. That’s not the gerbil, is it?
“I’m happy you’re here. I wanted to let you know that the rapture is coming, and I told your grandma this, so now I’m telling you. I know that myself, your father, and your sister all believe in the holy God. The Bible tells us what’s next and our planet is giving us the signs… it’s coming. With that being said- if the three of us go missing on a whim. Do. Not. Call. The. Police. Do not worry! We’re in a better place. Of course, I hope you’ll come with us, but you have to pray first.”
Dream Brooke sits blankly. I feel a bubble in my chest reaching its way up out of my throat. It looks like she’s going to laugh. Push it back down Brooke, take all of your opinions, and keep it on the shelf in the back of your mind.
“Do you believe in God, Brooke?”
And just like the holy heavens rained down from above, I feel my soul rise out of the ashes and into a new life. “Bye Bye Bye” by NSYNC permeates my tender ears and I sit up in a panic.
1:55pm. Was that even a nap? I feel more tired now. Why the hell did I make that my ringtone?
None of this is even good book material, what a waste of 31.25 minutes.