stillfugue

You were in your typical pose, slouching dreadfully on the leather couch with your laptop, drearily reading one muddling thing after another, some very good but too good for your consciousness. The TV was on, playing DVR’s of various temporal shit, so you couldn’t concentrate on the websites, and you had a wonderful novel by your side. It was past midnight, but it was Saturday so you had even less regard for the necessary benefits of sleep.

Gracie was lying with eyes back in her head, dreaming, her paws shaking, and the two Dachshunds, Buddy and Jazzy, were lying next to you. Buddy was a brutally tough dog who was always happy, and Jazzy was a fierce, bitter, old witch who was rarely happy unless you rubbed her tummy. Gracie was your favorite. She was a silky Golden Retriever with overflowing barrels of love. Everyone else was asleep long ago and there was a certain chaotic peace to the night. The peace was meant to be disturbed.

A big man, perhaps six-and-a-half feet tall, though not too heavy, somewhat athletic, barged straight in through the front door. He was a scary mess of intimidation, and since your son no longer lived with you, this wouldn’t be one of his friends.

The hallway was dark. There were heavy, sideways movements, almost stumbling, ringing the sound from the wood table and the clangishness of the stone tiles, and now you were questioning intent in a rapid subconsciously-formed decision tree that missed all of the naturally true motives.

You heard your wife scream something from the top of the stairs, she having been awakened by the brutal commotion.

You screamed, “9 – 1 – 1 – 9 – 1 – 1!” You heard her prancing steps cross the living room floor.

You faced the intruder. You screamed, “Stop!” You looked for a weapon.

He screams, “Is Ba Ba Tim Home?”

You know immediately he is drunk, but you think the question is a trick. You know why he is here.

Just then, a car pulls up in the driveway, a large four-door, black sedan, stopping so the headlights come right into the front hallway, right into your eyes, and fear stops you, freezes you.

He asks again, “Is Ta Tibby Tim Herrrrrre?”

You scream, “He doesn’t live here!”

He screams, “Wrong house! Hebe ub da street!”

He runs for the door. The driver starts to get out, but the intruder causes him to stop. They rip backwards out of the drive, go slowly up the street, and stop at the house that is three houses up the street. You watch forever. The cops arrive and catch you in the driveway. Now you think it is a robbery scheme. You send the cops up the street. They come back later, saying that the poor drunk boy never found Tim and the menacing black car was the bar taxi.