04 November 2026
Story #2036
R. Linda:
I swear I did not order the Mexican omelette, though I was sorely tempted. I had a turkey club sannie and a latte. That was it, so I can't blame last night on spicy food. Just wanted to get that out of the way before you asked.
I tell ya, this time change business drives me up a pole. I be fed up to the back teeth, I be, with getting used to one time and then having to change back again. It's made me unwaking life hell.
Just last night I went to bed a wee bit later than usual. I wasn't particularly sleepy, but I willed meself into the sleep state; I did.
And what happened? A nightmare, that's what. And, in me waking life, a possible divorce in the works.
I had a fantastical dream that I was sitting in a wheelchair outside an old-fashioned, sinister-looking hospital. And I, meself, was in a full-body cast!
What had happened to me? Why was I wrapped up like a plaster mummy? Had I fallen out of a tree rescuing a bobcat? Been run over by a Bigfoot? Been trampled by escaped cattle? I dunno. Dreams don't bother explaining these things. They just plop you into the middle of a catastrophe and expect you to get on with it.
So there I was, in me wheelchair, on the hospital grounds, while me wife was inside talking to me doctors. And I wasn't alone, oh no.
Beside me stood me 13-year-old son, Carlito. Yes, Carlito. Now, where I'd acquired a 13-year-old son by that name was beyond me, but there he was, large as life, telling me that his grandpa and granny had moved in temporarily to help out while I recovered. Recovered from WHAT, I still didn't know.
Anyway, as I studied the lad, I noticed he bore a striking resemblance to a 13-year-old Weasil. And when he grinned at me, I noticed something else. His teeth were yellow. Not slightly yellow, mind you. Yellow enough to make a canary jealous.
"You need to brush your teeth, sonny boy," I said.
"Can't bring meself to go into the lav," he replied.
"And why ever not?"
"Grandpa's teeth are in a glass on the shelf, and they gross me out. Not to mention he's got a battery of pills lined up. He takes one every minute of the day. It's so bad I've started calling him Popsi."
"Popsi? Why?"
"Because he's a pill popper, so Popsi."
I let that sink in.
"And Granny," he continued, "I call Potsie."
"What? Why is that?"
"Because she hallucinates and smokes pot."
I stared at him.
"Since WHEN?"
"I dunno, but she does. She forgets stuff and talks to the air."
Well, that was comforting. Me parents-in-law had apparently turned into a pharmaceutical dispensary and a cannabis lounge.
Then a thought occurred to me.
"Hang on a minute. If you won't use the lavatory, where exactly DO you go?"
"Oh, I go out in the bushes where the dog does her duty."
"WHAT?"
"Yeah, and Popsi renamed your little dog Alma, Poopsie, because the amount of shite and piss boggles his mind. He didn't know it was mine until he caught me taking a leak in the bushes."
"WHAT, WHAT?"
"So now he doesn't call me Carlito anymore. He calls me Pe-peeito. Pe-pee for short.
I closed me eyes, hoping the conversation might go away. It didn't.
"I guess you could say we are four P's in a pod," he announced proudly. "No, make that five; the pod is a P too."
"STOP IT!"
I'd had enough.
Weasil, was me 13-year-old son; Popsi was popping pills. Potsie was smoking pot. Poopsie was being blamed for the lad's bodily functions, and Pe-peeito was apparently quite pleased with himself.
And there I sat, trussed up like a Christmas turkey, unable to escape.
I needed a smoke; I did. Now I be no smoker. Never have been. But suddenly I had an overwhelming craving for a Virginia Slims. Don't ask me why. I haven't the foggiest.
"You got any ciggies on ya?" I asked.
The lad gave me another of his revolting yellow smiles. And that's when it dawned on me. The yellow teeth! The little blighter was a heavy smoker!
He patted his jacket pocket, reached inside it and produced a carton of cigarettes. A CARTON! At thirteen years of age!
Before I could deliver the fatherly lecture such a discovery demanded, he flipped open the carton and withdrew the longest cigarette I'd ever seen. It had to be ten inches of pencil-thin tobacco, with another two inches of filter attached.
A full FOOT of cigarette!
I swear, you could have used the thing to measure curtains.
He held up a hand, signalling for me to wait, as though I had anywhere else to go, then rummaged in his pocket for a box of Lucifers. Now there's an old-fashioned term for matches, and where he'd pick it up, I dunno, probably from 'Potsie'.
He struck one, lit the cigarette, and puffed away until he was satisfied it was ready for ME.
Then, since I was encased in plaster from me neck to me toes, he stuck the blasted thing between me lips. There I sat, looking like a mobster who suffered a very unfortunate encounter with a cement mixer.
The cigarette dangled from me mouth, its glowing end waving about like a miniature lighthouse. Then the ash began falling into me lap. Now, this concerned me greatly. What if the ashes set fire to me lower bits? Here I was, encased in plaster and bandages, unable to move a muscle. I couldn't even scratch me nose, never mind extinguish a fire in me nether regions!
I was contemplating the terrible possibility of having me family jewels roasted when suddenly the lad snatched the ciggie out of me mouth.
"YEOW!"
He took a piece of me lower lip with it! Before I could protest, he shoved the entire cigarette up his jacket sleeve. I sat there in shock, with the filter still stuck to me damaged lip. Then I noticed something peculiar. Smoke was curling out of the top of his jacket. Not a little wisp, mind you. A proper column of smoke. The boy was turning. himself into a chimney!
And THAT was when Tonya appeared. She took one look at me, marched over, and yanked the filter off me bleeding lip.
"OUCH!"
At precisely the same moment, I heard a much deeper: "OUCH!" I looked up.
Weasil's head was surrounded by cigarette smoke. It billowed out of his collar, drifted past his ears, and rose above his spiky hairdo like a steam locomotive about to leave the station.
I watched, horrified, as he fumbled for his phone.
Ah, good, I thought. The lad's calling for help. But no. He dropped the phone and threw himself onto the grass.
"Fire," he whimpered.
Then he began rolling about like a demented sausage on a barbecue. Unfortunately, his phone had landed face-up on the ground, and Siri, ever helpful, sprang into action.
"FIRE ALERT - CALL FIRE DEPARTMENT. FIRE ALERT - CALL FIRE DEPARTMENT."
Tonya turned to me, her face a picture of fury and disbelief. "Is he having an epileptic seizure?"
Before I could answer, Siri piped up again.
"EPILEPTIC SEIZURE IN PROGRESS - CALL 911 IF YOU ARE IN THE USA. EPILEPTIC SEIZURE IN PROGRESS - CALL 999 IF YOU ARE IN THE U.K. EPILEPTIC SEIZURE IN PROGRESS - CALL 112 IF YOU CAN'T GET THROUGH TO 999."
Now, I dunno about you, but there's only so much helpfulness a person can tolerate in a crisis. Tonya had clearly reached her limit. She marched over to the phone, raised one foot, and brought her heel down on Siri's screen-face with a satisfying CRUNCH!
Siri was dead.
Meanwhile, the lad continued writhing on the grass, rubbing his face into the turf as though trying to burrow his way to Australia. Eventually, he sat up.
And, sweet suffering saints, what a sight!
I thanked the Fates he didn't have a beard at 13 years old because his eyelashes and brows were GONE. His spiked hairdo, which previously looked like something a hedgehog might envy, now sported several round, bald patches. The remaining spikes were singed, and a few tiny embers were still fading out. He looked like a badly extinguished birthday candle.
Then he spotted his phone.
"ME PHONE!" He shouted. He looked in horror at the smouldering wreck that once housed Siri.
Tonya folded her arms.
"No phone for you, mister! Get yourself up and to the car NOW! I will deal with you later."
Well, he didn't need telling twice. Off he went, scurrying across the grounds like a dog with its tail between its legs, leaving behind a faint smell of burnt hair and Virginia Slims.
I thought, at last, the nightmare was coming to an end. But no. Suddenly, I heard running footsteps behind me.
An orderly charged across the grounds carrying a fire extinguisher. He spotted Siri's battered remains, which were beginning to smoke rather ominously, and apparently decided the lithium battery was about to explode.
He aimed the nozzle.
PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSH!
A great white cloud of fire retardant engulfed the phone. Siri, already crushed beneath Tonya's heel, was now thoroughly and comprehensively extinguished. There'd be no resurrection for THAT particular assistant.
And there sat I. Bleeding from me torn lower lip. Little red spots decorating me pristine white bandages. Unable to move. Unable to protest. Unable even to wipe me own chin. Nobody said a word. Not one blessed word. Then Tonya let out a long, weary sigh. The sort of sigh a woman makes when she's had enough of husbands, children, cigarettes, mobile phones, and possibly the entire human race.
She turned to the orderly. "Take him back to the asylum.
THE ASYLUM? Did she say ASYLUM?
Before I could demand an explanation, she marched off in the direction of the car, clearly determined to rip the 13-year-old Weasil a new one.
The orderly took hold of me wheelchair and began pushing. Toward the building. The great, gloomy, old-fashioned building. With its tall windows, forbidding stone walls, and doors that looked as though they locked from the OUTSIDE.
I stared up at it.
Now that I looked closely, it didn't resemble a hospital at all. It looked like an asylum. A genuine, honest-to-goodness, lock-'em-up-and-throw-away-the-key asylum!
"Er…asylum?" I mumbled.
The orderly kept pushing.
"ASYLUM?"
No response.
"ASYLUM? ASYLUM? ASYLUM?
I was practically shrieking the word now.
"ASYYYYYLUM!"
And suddenly…
I WAS AWAKE!
I was in me own bed! In me own house! In me own perfectly normal body!
I yanked me arms out from beneath the blankets and held them up in the dim light.
FINGERS! I had fingers! And they MOVED!
No plaster! No bandages! No wheelchair!
I wasn't a mummy after all! Oh, the relief.
But then, from somewhere behind me, a voice came. A very familiar voice. A very UNHAPPY familiar voice.
"ASYLUM? You want an ASYLUM? I'LL GIVE YOU AN ASYLUM!"
I froze.
"If you don't stop tossing and turning and talking in your sleep, I WILL find an asylum! I get ONE extra hour of sleep, ONE, and YOU are making sure I don't get it!"
There was a pause.
Then, in a tone that could have stripped paint off a wall: "SO STOP IT RIGHT NOW!"
I said not a word. Not one. I lay meself back down, pulled the blankets up, and stayed perfectly still. I didn't dare move a toe.
After a while, I began wondering what in the name of all that's holy had caused such a terrible dream. It had to be the time change. It just HAD to be!
They tell us we're getting an extra hour of sleep, as though it's some wonderful gift from the heavens. Well, I'll tell ya what MY extra hour gave me.
A 13-year-old son I never fathered, a pair of pill-popping and pot-smoking grandparents, a dog blamed for someone else's shite, a foot-long cigarette, a fire, a murdered Siri, and a wife threatening to have me committed.
And I didn't even get to smoke the bloody cigarette!
I lay there another few minutes, listening to Tonya's breathing, wondering if she'd gone back to sleep. Then I had another thought. Come spring, when the clocks go forward, and we LOSE an hour, what in God's name is THAT going to do to me dreams?
I shuddered.
No. No, I wasn't going to think about it. But I will tell ya one thing. Next time I fancy a Mexican omelette, I'm ordering the bloody thing. At least then, if I wake up in an asylum, I'll know who to blame.
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