tv2

In Here

By Kevin McFadden

There are three clocks in here. One hangs on the wall, another sits on my dresser, another is part of the radio. For forty seconds of every minute they all read different times. They are all one minute apart with the radio clock at the low end, the wall clock one minute ahead of it, and the clock on the dresser one minute ahead of that. They remain that way for forty seconds and then the wall clock reaches the same minute that the dresser clock is on. The radio clock is now two minutes behind. It remains this way for thirteen seconds. Then the radio clock moves forward one minute. Now it is only one minute behind the other two. They are this way for the last seven seconds before the dresser clock moves forward and they are all at different times again. They remain this way for forty seconds and then the cycle repeats itself.

There is a television in here. It is always on. This is how people visit me. Sometimes they come regularly, sometimes only once. From my position in front of the television, I can only see one of my clocks (the one hanging on the wall) without having to crane my neck around. I can see them all from my bed. I can see the television from my bed, but not well. I listen to it, though. I cannot fall asleep without the sound of voices or the high pitched drone that accompanies the bars of solitary colors.

Nothing else in here is worth mentioning.

I have questions. I can never articulate them, however. Sometimes my visitors try to answer them, sometimes they only pose more questions, when I simply want the answers. The two visitors present now--I have never seen them, before. Or maybe I have. I cannot be sure. They are in love. He says to her:

"See, I think you're scared. You put up a big glass wall to prevent yourself from being hurt, but it also prevents you from being touched. It's a risk, isn't it Jenny? Least I had the guts to admit what I felt. Some day you're going to have to come up with the courage to admit that you care."

Sometimes, instead of watching the television or the clocks, I make myself feel. I touch myself. My penis, that is. Sometimes I throw my body against the walls or hit my head against the floor. I can't explain why, but it sometimes feels like a relief. I feel cleansed. He felt, he feels, he admitted what he felt. But what does that mean? She looks into his eyes and tells him that she cares, too. They embrace, they kiss. The rain is falling. I think I had seen it before, now, but it is so beautiful. It's all so beautiful in that world.

The man walks around the stage, swinging the microphone in his hand, a perpetual smile on his face, looking out over the audience. "So I was with my girlfriend the other night," he begins, "and we decided to have sex. And two minutes later . . ." The audience laughs, he looks out over them with his smile.

Why did they laugh? I turn my head to look at the clocks and I watch two minutes go by, without a smile. I watch the clocks quite often, though, so maybe the effect had waned on me. I did not always have a television. I used to stare at the clocks much more, I used to have quite a different life. I know it well, though I can't remember a thing. I believe I had a regular father and a regular mother. And then some other, less important characters. Still, though, I cared too much for the clocks. That is why I have three. And that is why I know how it's all two minutes and then two more and then two more and then two more. Not many people realize this, but I do.

Again, the couple. They lay in bed, naked, talking, holding each other. "Why did you leave the church?" he asks. "I don't know," she responds. "I never really joined. I mean, I guess I never thought there was another world better than this one."

Never another world, never another world. The rain is falling in their world but they kiss through it, not caring, completely absorbed in one another. It reminds me, though, of that day, here, when the outside was black and rain fell and the sound of thunder was all around me. With one loud crack of thunder, the television's face went blank, the clocks all lost their numbers. I should have screamed, done something, something, anything to fix the situation, to put myself in control. I merely sat in place, hands in my lap. Eventually I fell out of my chair and pounded my head against the floor until everything went black. When I woke up, the television was back on and the clocks were on, but two of them were blinking 12:00. The third, the wall clock, which does not show numbers, but has moving hands, was running as usual. I spent most of the day attempting to reset the clocks to the same, exact ratio of seconds at which they were before. When I had finally accomplished this, I found no satisfaction. What did it mean, now? How long had they all been off? I did not know if the clocks were even close to the real time. I could still watch the time passing, but what did it truly mean?

I cannot watch these lovers for the rain. For my memories. Switching again. Men dressed in uniforms, hurting each other, trying to defeat each other. A voice tells me, "This guy is a true athlete and he's playing one heck of a game, but he can't carry the entire team. Someone else needs to step up."

Nothing is ever answered here. It's just back and forth and back and forth. Like when I touch myself. But here, there is no feeling of relief, no cleansing. I move my eyes to the clocks, having to escape this. Forty seconds, then thirteen seconds, then seven seconds. One more minute is gone. It means nothing, though, it means nothing.

Then there is somebody singing.

Then there is a war.

Then people laughing.

Then there is just talking and talking and talking and talking.

Then the couple is back. They are staring deeply into each other's eyes, about to be wed. "When our two souls stand up, erect and strong," she is beautiful and confident and flowing dress and flowers and slow moving lips, practiced, perfect, am I becoming excited or happy or what do I feel and how and "face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher," why and can I stand can I walk am I in control and the clocks "until the lengthening wings break into fire at either curved point," they keep blinking, keep passing and passing, but they are not real, not real, not real, "what bitter wrong can the earth do to us that we should not be here contented?" like these people in their world where they should be contented as I see her from every side, every angle, this makes me sad, I know, this makes me sad "Let us stay on earth, beloved, where the unfit, contrarious moods of men recoil away" it makes me sad and I cannot see why but I cannot move cannot change cannot stand cannot sleep I keep watching "and isolate pure spirits and permit a place to stand and love in" biting my lip, squeezing my fingernails into my thigh, have I seen this before have I heard this before why is it doing this why am I made to feel this why this why this "for a day, with darkness and the death hour rounding it" the death hour rounding it like the thunder like the blank face like who I may have been where I may have been, she closes her lips and waits for him to speak I stop biting my lip, fall from my chair and crawl into my bed.

******************************************

There is thunder. I hear thunder. I immediately look to the clocks, which still are keeping time. Forty seconds, then thirteen seconds, then seven seconds. I hear the television.

"Put your faith in Jesus. He is the alpha and omega. He is the beginning and the end. The bread of life. You must follow him."

There is a pause in the thunder before it sounds again, always unexpected. I jump. It's dark all over the room, too much like that other night, too much like that night.

"You will have your reward."

I look out the window but I cannot see.

"When we will be in that glorious place . . ."

A crash of thunder. I want to be away from this night. I thrust my head into the pillow but I know that I will not be able to fall asleep. If I could only ignore the thunder, ignore the darkness. I try to touch myself but I cannot even accomplish this.

"And those that do not put their faith in Jesus . . ."

Finally, after much effort, I cleanse myself. But the thunder only seems to be nearer and now I have no defense, no escape.

"They shall tremble on that day . . ."

A louder crack. The thunder becomes louder and louder. After even greater effort, I call out, I scream. And I scream again and again

"The mighty hand of the Lord!"

I'm screaming and screaming and the thunder is louder and sharper and then, once again, the television is blank, the clocks are blank. I sit still for a moment before jumping up and smashing the clocks against the wall.

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