At first, I was extremely paranoid and lost sleep, having trouble getting to sleep and

imagining that someone was outside my window or at the front door, or worse, the back

door. The most frightening reoccurring nightmare I’ve ever have was one that started

when I was very young. It was when my parents and I were living in a modest wood

house with a front porch, back yard and garage. It was a home because we lived there.

This was in 1958 or so when the milkman still delivered large-lipped thick glass bottles

on the front porch full of cold cow juice. The nightmare would begin and end at different

points as I grew older, but the effect was still chilling each time and wrenching. The

nightmare stopped when I was 10, but for the first time in 20 years, it returned last night.

I’m usually asleep or at home alone or the only one up when a knock would come at

the front door, which was shielded in reality by an off-white gauze curtain. As I

approached the door in my pajamas, I could always make out a shadowy figure on the

other side.

     Sometimes the wind was howling. Maybe rain pelted the front porch as

tree-sized lightning bolts cracked, illuminating this mysterious silhouette. My tiny hand

reaches out to grasp the door knob and unlock it to see who was at the door. Rapping

lightly continues on the pane. I'm terrified and frozen as an arresting force captivates my

spinal cord like a bedsheet tickling my back in a tender spot. I’m frozen. Warm breath

bristles hair on my stiff neck, rippling gooseflesh down my arms.

     I’m standing there like a deer in the headlights. The visitor may be male. It could be an

old lady, but I could never tell. It always seems inhuman with half the anatomy of a beast

or gorgon.

     “Who's there?” I whisper.

     The devilish intruder is not a force of good, but one of dark evil, a summoner of

immense power. My visitor unmasks his sex by laughing this haunting shriek of a laugh, a

loud chortle that reminds me I’m in a dream because it’s not waking anybody else up, and

I may be the only one hearing it. I awakened many times as a child, perspiring and shaking

and crawling in bed with my parents.

     The door begins to open very slowly, and the rays of streetlight flood into the room

from the porch, and I still can’t move. His hideous laugh continues as he walks in closer to

me. This is about the time that I pray for God to allow me to seize consciousness and

awaken by biting my lip. He always came close to me, but he never actually touched me,

and I'm glad about that. The dream ceased at the age when I became a professional

wake-up artist, pinching myself, grunting in REM. The Dark Avenging Demon never got

me, and I stopped allowing him to interfere with my rest process, but he was back last

night, tormenting me, and when I woke up five minutes ago I realized why. Two inches

from my nose a flashing red light blinks, so I hit the rewind button.

     Syrupy Southern drawl - a male, maybe in his 30s - Caucasian. A visceral, instant recall

of stored voices coils in my cranial coral reef. I’m starting to feel severely agitated, losing

what’s left of hangover intoxication. My dark dread is the apprehensive panic that I might

recognize the voice. The real trepidation is when you cannot for the life of you recognize

who it is leaving an anonymous message. Cloaked in an invisible hideout, the perp feels

safe, knowing you don’t know, or at least hoping you won’t discover his address.

     “First message, sent, 2:15 a.m.”

     “You're dead. You hear me? You're a dead man.”

     Then, “End of Message.”

     Uncle Harry used to always tell me that it's the threats you never get or hear about that

one should be frightened of.

     “Was it for me? You got the rent in yet?” John asked from the other bedroom.

     “Listen, John. I've been meaning to ask you....”

     “Are you fixing to try to borrow some more money from me? How much is it up to

now? How much you need?”

     “Ah, $25. Pay you back Friday. Are my smelly socks still bothering

you?” I wouldn’t be making the $150 rent after all.

     “I can smell them from in here. How much did you throw away on video poker last

night, man?”

     “That’s none of your....”

     “Musta blown a wad. You must have sprayed $500 by now this month.”

     “You don’t worry about where I spend my money. It’s my right. Freedom, man. It’s

the American way.”

     “The electric company’s gonna show you the American way if you don’t come up with

$150 by Friday. You know, I walked in that place today and saw you. You were like ice,

G-Money. I never thought I’d see the day when you let a beer get hot.”

     “Seven’s my limit on Sundays. Six on Wednesdays.”

     “Where are you coming up with all that loot anyway? I know you don’t make that at

the convenience store. You borrow some money from somebody?”

Long pause. I’m biting my fingernails, pulling another cigarette, my next to the last

one, from a pack wrinkled from trouser pocket travel.

     “Promise not to tell anyone?”

     I could tell by the look on his face that he didn’t want to know and didn’t want me to

tell him. It was like your mother telling you about her first kiss. It’s something you don’t

want to think about, much less hear about face-to-face.

     “I’ve been your roommate for four, no, almost five years. And I’m going to tell you

something you don’t want to hear. Word. If you’ve been to see Eddie....”

     My silence telegraphs my guilt.

     “Oh man! Do you realize what you’ve gotten yourself into? How much are you into

him for?”

     “Not much, man. If I can just get a second job at nights, I can catch up.”

“A grand? He’s got to pay for that black Benz somehow.”

     Kicking the wooden planked floor now - hands in jean pockets, staring down.

     “Two grand?”

     Blue smoke clouds spew like exhaust fumes from a Formula One, as I blow hard,

kicking the floor now.

    “Turn up that song. I love Travis Tritt.”

     “Great day in the morning, man. How much? Three? Four!”

     “The interest isn’t bad.”

     “This fellow breaks arms, dude. And worse. Don’t you know what happened to

Donnie?”

     “I’m not that stupid. I’m only two weeks behind on payments. He said he’d give me a

break. I have until Friday. Midnight.”

     “Now wait a minute. You mean to tell me...I’m not hearing this. You don’t have the

money, and you’re going to have to tell him that? Get on the level with me right now!

Take that cigarette out of your mouth and look at me. That pizza can wait. HOW

MUCH?”

     “Ah. Ten thousand dollars.”

     Brown beer glass isn’t as hard to sweep up as regular glass, and the shards don’t seem
 
as sharp when you step on a piece you missed. When his bottle hit the floor, his hand

hadn’t even closed to reflexively save the loss.

     “I thought you didn’t spill beers anymore.”

     “What! Ten grand? Are you nuts? Where are you going to come up with that much

money in two days. Your uncle isn’t going to help you out this time like he did with the

VISA.”

     “Tone it down. The neighbors will hear. I don’t know. I’ll think of something. I’m

supposed to meet him at The Greek Rose. Can you come with me? You don’t have to

bring Sarah.”

     “I’m going to go out of town for the rest of my life. I knew something was up with

those wrong numbers, out-of-area Caller IDs. You know what you’ve got to do.”

     “The police? I can’t do that! I’d work it off, but they don’t have benefits.”

     “No doubt. No life insurance, anyway. What are you going to do?”

     After another 12-hour session Friday at the machine I love the best, Cherry Tops, I was

down to my last $20 again, and the smoke was getting to me. I had tried to talk to my

loan officer. No luck. Even talked to my mother. At this point I’m considering talking to

Preacher Calvin. Selling the Tracer is out of the question at this point. I haven’t got the

title anyway. The bank has it. There was one last avenue.

     It’s quarter to 12 Friday night, and the bar only has four customers and my favorite

bartender in the world, Jerry.

    “What’s the matter man? You look like you saw the Ghost at Maco Station in

Wilmington?”

     “Can you turn down the lights a little? My eyes are killing me. Nothing’s wrong. Just a

little too much ziti.”

     “That’ll do it to you. Wanna catch the tab up? It’s just $15.”

     “Sure. You got change for this?” I’m keeping an eye on the front door as cars pass by,

one a minute on the rural highway. A shadow passes. It’s only a kid. My face is suddenly

illuminated by the orange blaze of Jerry’s match, and my nose twitches at the blast of

sulfur as the menthol tobacco begins to sizzle.

     “You waitin’ on somebody?”

     “Yeah. I guess. I’m early.”

     “Bad night. That rain’s really starting to come down. I’m glad I’m not driving tonight.

Wouldn’t want what happened to that car on the bridge to happen to me.”

     “It is bad tonight. Did you see that bolt? Man! That lit up the whole cornfield out

there! I’m glad it’s not cold enough to freeze over.”

     “I think it did earlier for a while. About nine o’clock. Maybe it’s warmed up. But that

guy who just left said it took him a while to get here after that crash.”

     “What wreck?”

     “Didn’t you take Highway 90? Car hit a slick patch of glaze, went sliding into the other

lane and hit a truck head-on. I think there was a fatality.”

     “Wow. I’m glad I didn’t come that way. I came the back way.”

     “Good thing I drive a VW microbus to work. I’d put chains on it if I had to. Wouldn’t

want to put a dent in it. He said that Benz was really messed up. Total loss.”

     “What?”

     “Mercedes.”

     “What color?”

     “He said it looked black.”

     You know how your Adam’s apple bounces, or do you ever look at it in the mirror

when you’re in a bar or in the bathroom? Whether you gulp or merely swallow, it jumps,

and the slacker you’re talking to usually notices it.

     “You know whose car it was?”

     “Yeah. The guy said it was, let me see. Who was it?”

     Strumming my fingers on the bar, I chew the splinters out of a matchstick until the

red tip tastes salty. A jingle. Someone’s just come in the front door. I don’t want to turn

around.

     “Cup of coffee to go,” the customer says. “Well, look what the cat dragged in. We got

some business don’t we?”

     My heart is pounding, palms perspiring, as I turn to that familiar baritone and

nauseatingly fake Hai Karate.

     “Eddie! How ya doin? Long time no....”

     “Put his tab on my card, sir. We’re going to take a little ride.”

     There were a million Top 40 songs that sailed through my ears as the Benz rolled

across the puddles onto a lonely state road on the swampy edge of nowhere. Eddie’s foot

depresses the brake as the car stops on the side of a tobacco field. The main road’s a mile

off. There are no headlights at this time of night, no interruptions.

     “You know what we’re here for, don’t you? You got something for me?”

     The sound of a click. The unmistakable metal chamber spins, its hammer cocked, and

the nose of the .38 is cold on my temple.

     “Can you turn that Patsy Cline down a little?”

     “Sure. How’s that? You got the money, monkey? I tell you what, I’m tired of messing

with you. Get out of the car! Now! Move it! This is going to hurt you more that it will me.

Don’t worry. I’m a professional. It’s not personal. Just business.”

     My white tennis shoes are instantly damp in the chilly mudhole I step into, and as he

makes me kneel down, I reach into my coat pocket. Seconds turn into hours, and my head

is clanging like a video poker machine on the jackpot - electronic blips, beeps and

buzzers. It’s hard to sweat in freezing weather.

     “Wait. I have something for you,” I say.

     “Take that hand out of your pocket slow. Let me see what you have there. Don’t pull

anything.”

     As the paper bag comes from my wrinkled London Fog, a rubber band snaps and green

$100 bills fall into the rainwater.

     “Where in the wild world of sports did you get that? Is it all there? You hold up a bank

or something?”

     “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t make you look bad.”

     Uncle Harry had come through again. He always pulls me out of a bind. It’s nice to

have someone there to fall back on when bill collectors are at your door. The interest

won’t be as bad. I had to lie a little - said it was the finance company again.

     Red blinking tail lights at the end of the dirt road nod, meaning Eddie has found the

open road. He’s a free man now, and so am I. I won’t even have to pay Uncle Harry back

either. Rain splatters against my lapel as the Benz gains speed, disappearing into the

darkness en route to Vegas. My white tennis shoes are pink now after the brap. I’m

gurgling warm crimson fluid, squeezing mud. Free air-conditioning. I’m colder. I’ll never

play video poker again. Ever. You can’t get luckier than that.