Existential Terror and Breakfast: Air Wolf
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Sometimes, Malcolm was lucid.
This was a rarity, and it happened less than when the nurses changed the channel on the screaming television, but it happened. Today was one of those days.
The discordant noise of Air Wolf sounded from the television behind him. His sugary cereal bled color into the warm milk of his bowl. For this brief moment, Malcolm Steadman could perceive. His affliction came back like this in short spurts.
Still, he was not fully aware of things. He was vaguely aware that a long time had passed since he was admitted to his new home, but the constant sameness of the facility made measuring that difficult. Sometimes, Malcolm was vaguely sad. He would snap to, having just completed a jigsaw puzzle, and would find himself in a sort of dark malaise. It was always the same puzzle, always the same table. Always the same channel. Sometimes his sugary cereal was different. Sometimes it was eggs. Malcolm had no idea if he chose his breakfasts or if it was chosen for him. Was choice possible without self-awareness?
It did not matter.
On this morning Malcolm came to and found himself staring at his cereal. The bright fruity red balls of corn and wheat bled their dyes into the abysmal white of milk. Psychedelia, part of a complete and balanced breakfast. It was half-eaten. Malcolm did not like sugary cereals.
He was vaguely aware of a headache.
Surgically induced childhood, Dr. Freeman had called it.
Soon the puffed balls of dyed cereal would lose their colors completely. Soon they would lose their form and become soggy mashes before becoming totally unrecognizable. The milk too would lose its form. Its abysmal white had already become pink. Given enough time it would curdle. This vaguely distressed Malcolm, but only vaguely.
“Mal?” a voice said. Malcolm looked up from his cereal and saw a face. Saw two faces. Oh, he thought, there are people here too. The first face, the one that spoke belonged to a man. His face was fat, as was his body. The man wore jeans and a white t-shirt. This was not nice looking, but somehow Malcolm got the impression that this was a great improvement from what the man used to wear. The man’s face was sullen as if guilt was the mask it wore the most. A large scar protruded from his forehead, almost burn-like. There was nothing written there. Not anymore.
“Hello,” Malcolm said, hearing his voice for the first time since— since a while.
“Say hello to Malcolm,” the man urged the other person next to him.
This person, a boy less than five years old looked up expectantly at Malcolm. “Hello,” the small child said. Malcolm waved at the boy with little effort.
“Did you choose my cereal?” Malcolm asked. Silence answered. Or was it sadness? The two were oh so common.
“No,” the man answered with hesitation and a heave of breath. “No man, and you already offered me some, so thank you but no thank you.”
“Oh,” said Malcolm.
The end credits to Air Wolf trumpeted out from the ancient television nearby. Colors seemed slightly more vibrant. Malcolm was suddenly aware of his cold feet. The man and his boy were on the opposite side of Malcolm’s table. He was in the common area. Shadows now had definition. His headache worsened. The man across from him frowned. Malcolm theorized that he did this often.
“Do you remember me?” the man asked.
“Yes,” replied Malcolm, “You’re the man who visits me.” There was more silence.
“I’m off parole,” the man said. “Got a promotion at the grocery store, they even let me count the money Mal.”
Malcolm was not sure why the man was telling him this, but he got the impression that it was important to him. Maybe they talked about this kind of stuff all of the time? Maybe they updated each other in their lives, maybe they were friends? “I eat cereal,” Malcolm stated. It was the only thing he knew about himself. The face somehow became sadder.
“Hope’s doing well too. She lets me have time with Camus on the weekend. She uh, she doesn’t know why you are here.”
Malcolm nodded.
“I get my five-year coin soon!” the man said with elation. Coins were good, Malcolm was happy for him.
This is Garry, his mind offered him like a church bell through the fog. Okay, he thought. The opening credits of The Incredible Hulk rolled on the television behind him. Soon a giant, green painted Lou Ferrigno would stalk the show with green spray painted shoes and yell animalistic cries at ne’er-do-wells and villains. Occasionally, when he was lucid, he had to face the absurd. Malcolm waited patiently for it to go away.
“How are you doing, Mal?” asked Garry.
What was Malcolm doing? What had Malcolm done? Were they one in the same? Was it a question of time? Malcolm sighed. “I’m fine,” he said and watched as Garry cringed at the word fine. Malcolm was vaguely aware that it was an acronym. He looked around himself. He saw the vacant faces of others in sweatpants and sweatshirts. He saw the forlornness, anxiety, he saw much of himself. “I fit in,” Malcolm said. Garry chuckled at this. Malcolm was not kidding. He then stared back at his cereal.
“What’s wrong with uncle Mal?” the child asked. Malcolm was curious to hear this himself.
The man shifted his weight in his chair, then looked over to his child. “Malcolm was like— well, he was like Daddy.” He said. “We didn’t like life. We were afraid of it.”
“Why?” asked the child.
“Life is beautiful, but it can also be ugly, it can be mean it can—”
“Wednesdays!” Malcolm interrupted. He knew that it was the right answer, and he was vaguely happy that he beat Garry to it. “It’s the Wednesdays, they sneak up on you.” The child looked confused.
Lou Ferrigno, with his green hair, green pecks, and green shoes cried out in ecstatic anger and flexed for the camera. The cereal had become soggy. Sometimes Malcolm had a brief awareness of the absurd! He could see he could see what life brought to the table! And for those brief moments, for those finite minutes that would pass forever into history, Malcolm would feel—
The shadows lost some of their definitions.
There was a commercial break.
The man heaved out a labored sigh. He stood with the weight of his guilt and opened his hand for the little one to clutch. Malcolm was, once more, out for breakfast. So much more needed to be said, but none of it would be understood. He helped the child to his feet. “Say goodbye to uncle Malcolm, Camus.”
“Goodbye Malcolm.”
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…A special thank you to my readers.
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