If on Saturday, we were confined in the darkness, trying to rise above the gurgly soundtrack of Star Wars 3; thankfully, on Sunday, we rose from all fours to face the great outdoors.
I blame it all on Corb, honestly. I personally would have been content to lay in bed and sleep until twelve, and then play Paper Mario with Tiger all afternoon. But das Corbster started getting grumpy around ten o'clock. "I don't want to sit around all day long, doing nothing," he grumbled.
I had to laugh. It was an all too familiar echo of many a weekend that I had spent with Josie. Only, in those days, the shoe had been on the other foot. She had been the one content to stay home and play the cleaning Nazi, and I had been to start grousing that I wanted desperately to go out and do something.
So we travel to Roger Williams Park. We consider using one of the dozens of picnic baskets that have taken over the back of my RAV-4 (curse you, Oklahoma! You've turned my car into something out of The Beverly Hillbillies ), but decide that wrapping the food in plastic bags was the more manly way to go. "People will already start thinking things, if they see two guys together in the park," points out Corb. "If we brought a picnic basket, they might think we were queer, or something."
Right now, it's one in the morning, and I'm laying here on my side, in the little bedroom, scribbling into my yellow legal pad. I'm listening to the sounds of the night, and thinking about our Sunday. I can hear loud snores from Corb in the big bedroom. Ashley's going at it, too. Hers are milder, but equally as bombastic--a trombone serving as counterpoint to a Sousaphone. But in my head, I hear the laughter, as Corb grabs Tiger, lifts him on his shoulders and pretends to throw him over a bridge, I can feel Ashley's hair against my shoulder, as she grabs my arm and snuggles up against me while we're walking. The ticking of the clock in the silent apartment gives way to the cries of children, playing on a continuous loop in my head.
I doze off. Wake up about fifteen minutes later. Ashley has woken up. She's been waking up a lot in the middle of the night, and I wonder sleepily whether it's the medication. I mumble instructions on pouring a glass of orange juice, turn over, and fall asleep. She ends up sleeping by my side.
On Another Note... Everything's Eventual is the first series of short stories that I've read by Stephen King since Night Shift , which I read when I was a teenager, during those brief periods during the day that I wasn't busy masturbating.
I don't know why I was compelled to pick it up. It may have something to do with the $4.99 price tag at Borders. And while I'm enjoying it, quite a bit (far more than my five dollar investment), I do find the formating to be a little off-putting. See, at the end of each story, there in ital, you'll find a short first-person explanation from the Author to his Faithful Reader, describing his motivation for the creation of the story.
Don't get me wrong. It's not that I'm not fascinated by the fact that King invented a venomous snake as an homage to Agatha Christie. I actually love nothing better than getting into the mind of a good writer. However, I prefer the end of my stories to contain a certain amount of white space. The ital'ed explanation just looks out of place to me--a jarring breaking of the fourth wall that snaps me back into reality, too quickly. It's like a magician not stopping after a trick for the obligatory round of applause, but launching into an explanation of how the illusion was created. Give me some breathing room, please. One page of white space would suit me just fine, and then, go ahead, feel free, explain away, to your heart's content.