Boredom can be a breeding ground for daytime fantasies that turn to unexplained happenings.

THE DIVERSION

I am a hopeless narcissist. Nevertheless, in seeking relief from the reality of a mundane weekend a most unexplainable circumstance befell me. It was a Saturday morning in mid- June and as I awoke, I found myself battered from the effects of a horrid night-time experience. Massive thunderstorms, preceded by flashes of lightning interrupted a much needed sleep. As I now recall, they may have been the precursor to the strange events of that fateful day.
After morning chores, which consisted of cleaning up my humble abode, I picked up a book - one of Stephen King’s latest offerings. Preparing for an entertaining read on a lazy summer day, I settled into my favorite chair, an overstuffed, but well worn black leather recliner. Thirteen pages into the first chapter, I decided that Mr. King deserved better. Drowsy from a lack of sleep and unprepared for that trip into the dark world of strong descriptive horror, I put down the book. I then picked up the TV remote, and clicked the ON button, in the hopes that visual stimulation might keep my attention. That option lasted a mere ten minutes. As my thumb nervously clicked through the channels, mind-numbing boredom set in.
I turned off the television, sat back in the chair and tuned my senses to the sounds of the outside world. A refuse truck came up the drive and I listened as it squealed to a stop. Familiar pneumatic and mechanical sounds registered in my brain, and without benefit of a view I envisioned its giant arm swing down, attacking one of the bulk trash containers lining the street. Then, feeling the power of the truck’s hydraulics kicking in, I sensed its great claw pulling the container up and over, depositing its contents into the bowels of the truck. Casually, I imagined the truck a living breathing monster, devouring everything in its path along the narrow suburban street. With A bang, the truck dropped the empty rubberized bin and scooted off to its next victim. I laughed, thinking that this diversion so easily held my attention.
“That’s it!” I exclaimed to myself, “I need a fantasy.” There was a travel magazine on my coffee table, a complimentary copy I recently received, along with a card offering a two year subscription. I thumbed through the pages. Nearly halfway through those glossy pages I found my diversion, a beautiful Caribbean beach resort. As I focused on the view, three beautiful women in bikinis appeared. They lay on grass mats near an oddly shaped thatched shelter. One was a tall blonde and the other, a petite red-head. The third was a beautiful and buxom brunette. Playfully, I imagined myself in the picture. As I puzzled over my daydream dilemma, I decided that the brunette would be the lucky recipient of my attention. She was also closest to the intriguing cone shaped shelter.
Then it happened. Suddenly, I was in the picture. Noticing me, the brunette picked up her grass mat, winked, and strolled into the thatched cabana. Likewise, the others picked up their mats and paraded down the beach. I could see other shelters farther down the shoreline and the other beauties beckoned me to join them. No, I thought, I was there for the brunette. Turning back to her, I noticed that she had vanished. She must be waiting for me inside the hut, I thought, so I jogged toward its open door. However, as I neared on the structure, my brown loafers slid deep into the soft sand. Falling onto the beach’s white hot surface I chuckled at my clumsiness.
To get a better footing, I took off my shoes and socks. Then I rolled up my chinos and unbuttoned my long-sleeved cotton shirt. The daydream became reality and I wanted to go on. Heat waves danced around the hut creating sensuous distortions of swaying hips and silken hair. Picking myself up, I brushed off the sand, and then jogged slowly to the open door. At that moment I imagined myself differently from the reality of the waking world. In my daydream I was young and fit, with washboard abs, bulging biceps, and classic GQ magazine looks. However, there was one constant in my life, the bumbling characteristics of a nerd. I could not wish away that true nature and lack of self-confidence.
What would I say? What would I do? The questions turned more subtle. What would she say or do? Understanding my own limitations, I decided that she would take the lead. As the diversion took hold I begged it to continue, closed my eyes and strolled into the hut. Passing through the doorway, I opened them. It was dark and steamy, and as I searched the confines of the shelter, she was nowhere to be found. I turned to retreat back onto the sandy beach but the doorway disappeared. I was inside a round enclosure with no doors or windows. Confounded and confused, my senses began picking up smells of stale beer and rotten fruit. It permeated within the enclosure and gagging, I placed my shirt sleeve across my mouth and nose.
Then I heard the sound of a large diesel truck rolling up to the enclosure. As I placed my ear to the chamber wall its smooth rounded sides further confused me. Pounding on the hard surface, I yelled, “Hello, anybody – can you hear me? Let me otta here.” There was no response and the jerky sounds of the machinery became louder.
I must find the brunette, I thought. She’ll help me get out of here, and then we’ll have a few laughs. After all, this diversion was a figment of my imagination and all daydreams end well, don’t they? I remembered many such mid-day dream-like dalliances. Not so for night-time nightmares.
“Hello, out there, can you hear me?” was all I could think to say; however, there was no response. That brunette led me into my daydream and I found myself wondering what might happen next. The heat and stink of the enclosure made me sick to my stomach and I could feel bile rising up into my throat. Then I heaved onto my shirt; it was a dry heave but disgusting, nonetheless. This was not what I expected from my daydream diversion.
As noise from the machinery outside grew louder, I dropped to the floor searching for another way out. The inside of the enclosure felt like a large Tupperware bowl, smooth and eerily cold, nevertheless, I wanted to believe that I could control my dream. I was trapped in it and the only way to freedom lay in ending the diversion.
The enclosure began to shake wildly. Before long it began to elevate, the sides collapsing slightly, as if squeezed it in a monster’s grip. I panicked, and losing my balance, I fell to the floor in a heap. This daydream was now a nightmare.
The hut raised about ten feet into the air and tilted. Suddenly the roof swung opened and everything inside began to dump out, myself included. As I edged toward the opening, the brunette appeared. She was outside, sitting in the cab of a refuse truck maneuvering the levers that controlled its massive arm. Then I understood; I was just another guy on the way to being dumped. In that moment of consciousness, I spoke aloud a mother’s sage advice, “Idle thoughts are the devils playground.” Jolted back to reality, I fell back and into my chair.
The magazine lay on my lap, its bright sandy beach scene with blue sky, wispy clouds and a big yellow sun folded open. There was a hut, its thatched roof shading the background. A pair of dark skinned waiters dressed in crisp white linen jackets and black tuxedo pants stood on either side of the entrance. One waiter held a tray of fruity drinks and the other, a bottle of Jamaican rum. The tag line of the ad read, “Jamaican Rum, Life’s Wonderful Diversion!” The three beauties were missing. As I folded the magazine over to its back cover, another photograph caught my eye. It was the brunette. She was dressed in overalls, partially unbuttoned to show off her ample womanhood. On her head was a baseball cap. Her generous smile and bright red lips glistened as she posed behind the wheel in the cab of a chromed appointed refuse truck. The other beauties, also in overalls, caps and bright smiles, posed sensuously at the truck’s open door. The ad read:
“ALLIED WASTE INDUSTRIES INC. - SERVICE WITH A SMILE”
Grinning, I shook off the daydream and closed the magazine. Light-heartedness quickly turned to bewilderment as I spied the rolled up pant legs of my chinos. On further exploration of this unexplained condition, an odor of sweat and bile wafted from the sleeve of my unbuttoned shirt. Nearby, a pair of shoes and cotton socks lay in a heap. Lifting my bare ankle, I cradled it on the opposite knee and in a moment of sudden paranoid disbelief, I felt the residue of beach sand between my toes. Quickly, dislodging the offending grit, I tossed the magazine and ran barefoot to the fridge. Six emptied bottles of beer later, I fell asleep - a much needed diversion.
THE END