The Night Has Eyes

A dude has a little trouble sleeping!

 

     Dean Richardson watched as the headlights from cars roaring by on the highway outside his room scurried across his bedroom ceiling and groaned.  Why wouldn't sleep find him?  Why couldn't his brain stop playing scenes from his past that he'd rather forget?  Deep down he already knew the answer; because on some level he deserved it.  Oh, he knew that everyone has things in their past they regretted, but somehow knowing that fact was little comfort to him.  Every night the memories rose up to tower over him, until he was literally helpless and at their mercy; only these memories showed him none. 

 

 

     He tossed and turned and pulled the blankets over his head but nothing helped.  The deeper into the night he went without falling asleep, the more vivid and bizarre became the memories; and, the more he told himself he'd better fall asleep quick, the more awake he felt.  Finally in frustration he got out of bed.  It was still hours until he had to be at work and that ought to be an adventure.  Trying to be rational and reason with half his brain tied behind his back! 

 

 

     He stumbled out to the kitchen and started the coffee, but not before stubbing his toe painfully on a chair leg.  He swore and hopped around for a full minute, wishing mightily that he hadn't done that.  He said out loud, "Note to self; don't do that because it hurts!"

 

      

******

 

 

     He got out of his car and felt dread wash over him; how was he ever going to make it through hours of mind-numbing work when he'd been unable to fall asleep?  Lord, he had no idea; zip.    And, he was a few minutes late, after having to change shirts because he'd spilled coffee on the first one.  It was sure shaping up to be a banner day in the old Richardson household!  But it had to be done.  He pulled open the front door to 'Westside Accounting' and reluctantly staggered inside.  Several pair of eyes looked up at his opening the door and then laughter started.  He felt a mixture of embarrassment and anger rise up.

 

     "What's so damn funny everybody?" and he shot daggers at them all.

 

     "Oh, nothing unless you're used to seeing a guy's spud hanging out; didn't you forget something?" giggled Clara Benton.

 

    "What in the hell are you talking about Clara?"

 

     She laughed and looked towards his feet.  Suddenly he got a bad feeling.  He glanced down and noticed for the first time he had forgotten his pants; not only his pants but his underwear also.  He suddenly felt his face go beet red, turned, and ran back out the door.  How could he have forgotten his pants and underwear?  How embarrasin...

 

 

     He jerked awake with a jolt.  For a minute he was unsure of where he was, then slowly the truth dawned on him.  It had all been a dream.

 

 

******

 

 

     He really was late thanks to oversleeping.  Man, he had really been sawing zees.  As he hurried towards the front door of 'Westside Accounting' for real this time he had a good chuckle at his dream.  Imagine, being so out of it you actually walked into work with no pants!  He then finished off the last of the coffee in the Styrofoam cup, tossed it in the garbage can sitting just outside the door, and took about three steps inside.  Immediately his co-workers burst out laughing.  Not again; now what?  He immediately looked down, and there was his Johnson.  Oh, I'm still dreaming! he thought. 

 

     "Ladies and gentleman; say hello to Flopper," and he gyrated his hips.  Flopper can do a mean airplane propeller impression!"  Everyone sat there with shocked looks upon their faces.  What the hell, it was only a dream; he may as well have some fun;  "Everyone, welcome to the Richard Handy Puppet show!  Flopper, say hello to all the nice people!" and he grabbed his dick and waved it around; 'Hello!'  Now, bow in gratitude!" and he let go of it and gravity did its thing.  "Give me a moment to get up for another performance!"

 

     Suddenly the angry voice of his boss rang out loud and clear, "Richardson!  What in the hell do you think you're doing?"

 

     He knew he was dreaming, so he was free to say how he really felt, "Putting on a puppet show with my dick; what does it look like?  And, since I'm dreaming, I'm free to tell it like I see it; you, my friend, are a complete d****e-tool!"

 

   Dalton Kenworth started shaking with rage; "Richardson, you and you little friend there are so fired; shows over!"

 

     "Ha, none of this is real, so suck it, Kenworth!"

 

     The room was deathly quiet, with the only noise the whir of the air conditioner.  As he looked around at the shocked faces staring at him he suddenly came to a horrifying conclusion; he looked at them and embarrassingly mumbled, "This isn't a dream is it?"

 

     The answer came in the form of every head shaking no and Kenworth's death stare.  Good lord, how could he have been so out of it?  A puppet show, really?  He'd always known his lack of sleep would come back to haunt him, but could have never imagined something like this.

 

 

******

 

 

     He heard the far-off beeping of a street sweeper or something outside; how rude, sweeping the streets at this ungodly hour.  Just what time was it, anyway?  He pried one sleep-encrusted eye open and looked at the bedside alarm clock.  Mmm, it was 6.45; the exact time he used to awaken for work, back before he'd amazed his co-workers with his dick puppet show.  The red-hot memory of his amazing stupidity flooded his brain once again; he longed for the oblivion of sleep once again, but there was no way.

 

 

     His ringing telephone jolted him awake.  I'll be damned if I didn't doze off again! he thought, and picked up the receiver, "hello?"

 

     The screaming voice of Dalton Kenworth came shooting out of the phone, "Richardson, where the hell are you?  You're already a half hour late!"

     "What?  You fired me for coming into work and having a dick puppet show and for calling you a d****e-tool."

 

     "Richardson, what in the hell are you babbling about?"

 

     "Did you or did you not fire my a*s for that?"

 

     "Richardson, I don't know what your--what, did you just call me a d****e-tool?"

 

      Ooops!

 

 

******

 

 

     "Number 27 please; number 27."

 

     S**t, another 47 numbers until the Unemployment Office worker reached his number.  Dean glanced down at the number 74 he was holding and scowled.

 

 

The End

    

 

  

Reviews

[Marie]

This is different from what you've been writing lately. And it's an improvement. Not that I dont like Clem and the Little Guy. But Dean Richardson seemed more of a person, less an angry cliche. Also, the whole layout is better, as to spelling, punctuation, etc.

A really good story.

[Michael Stevens]

Thank you Marie; and I'll agree that he's a little different from my usual. Most of my characters are people who don't know wen to quit, even though they probably should!