clean

It could have been the squid.  If it really was a squid.  Or it could have been the beer. 
         That’s what Jamie VanHorn thinks as he finishes his third cup of coffee.  The sun streams in through the window like a promise.  A promise of a wonderful new life.  But at any rate Jamie decides to get clean.  Fresh and clean.  He has nowhere to be today, nowhere to go.  So he decides to dress up and then put his feet up and do absolutely nothing.  No TV.  No book.  Just some jazz on the stereo and a nice clean cold glass of water on the coffee table.
         When he woke up at noon he had been feeling dirty.  Not dirty in a truly physical way, but in a spiritually draining way.  Existentially dirty.  A week’s worth of work ended by a night of drinking could do that to you.  A week’s worth of waiting on tables, catering to other peoples needs.  Taking care of every little detail and hoping to make enough money too finally pay for the pictures to send to the agent.  Frustration could do it to.  Frustration at slaving away at someone else’s dream and never feeling like personal dreams matter or even exist anymore.  Or maybe it was the squid. 
         It had been late, probably three in the morning, and he had quite a few beers.  He was waiting in the deserted subway station when he saw it.  He had been sitting on one of the scarred and dirty benches, trying desperately and failing to keep an upright position.  That’s when he had heard the splashing.  At first he had not recognized what it was.  Deserted subways are full of odd noises.  Distant rumblings of trains, garbage swirling in the drafts and condensation dripping into the pools water around the tracks.  But this was a definite splashing sound.  Like something was thrashing around in the water by the tracks.
         At first he had thought that it was probably a rat.  Signs about rat poisoning were hung around the stations.  He had assumed that it was probably one of those unlucky little basterds, going through his death throws, but for some reason he had wanted to look.  So, he stumbled to his feet unevenly and proceeded to weave his way to the edge of the tracks.
         At first he could not make out what exactly it was.  The dim light glistened off of a slimy looking skin.  Was it a snake?  No.  Those had been tentacles.  They had woven around and writhed in an unnatural manner so that he was unsure as to where they ended or began.  His drunken mind tried to wrap itself around this little mystery.  What the hell was it?  It was a squid.  Yeah, that’s what it was.  That’s when it rolled over and looked at him.  He didn’t really know if he had ever seen a real live squid, but he was pretty sure that their eyes didn’t look like this.  It looked like a human eye with two pupils.  That wasn’t right.  It couldn’t have been, but when this thing looked at him, he felt something come unhinged in his head.  His eyes began to throb with a headache like the hangover he would surely be feeling later.  But, what the hell was a squid doing here? 
         Suddenly the little pools of water began to ripple and the soft distant thunder of an approaching train echoed down the tunnel.  He could not turn away from the thing.  It began to thrash its tentacles, and suddenly he felt one of his feet move toward the open tracks.  That had not been a good sign.  He almost giggled to himself.  Simon says jump in front of the train, and then his other foot had taken a step. He had really become worried that he might stumble onto the tracks.  Simon says, hurry up and take another step.  The incoming train had taken care of that though.  The squid had exploded like a ripe tomato under the wheels of the train. 
         Well, Jamie thinks, I guess a day of recovery is in order.  Yes siree, Bob.  It’s time to wash that night right out of my hair.  Simon says it’s time to get clean.  Fresh and clean.  His head is still throbbing until he hops under the nice cool shower.  Not hot, because it’s still summer, but cool like a bubbling brook.  As the cool water washes over him he can feel the stale air and dirt fall away from his body like humidity after a rainstorm.  He pretends that he can’t hear the splashing around his feet.  He closes his eyes as the water hits his hair and runs down his face.  He can feel a small smile begin at the corner of his lips, and his teeth unclench ever so slightly in that way they do, when you never knew that they were clenched to begin with.  He definitely does not feel a tentacle brush against his feet.  Definitely.
         He shuts off the water and hops out of the shower with a little bounce.  He grabs the big fluffy towel waiting for him on the rack.  Jamie VanHorn feels like he’s in one of those soap commercials.  He feels clean.  Fresh and clean.  Simon says it’s time to dry off.  He buries his face deep in the cool scent of freshly cleaned laundry, and tries to repress a little giggle.  The smell of the towel always reminds him of bath time when he was a kid.  Sunday evenings spent in the tub until his fingers are all pruny with water induced age.
         He had loved the baths.  Well, that’s not quite true.  He had loved playing in the water.  He would sit there in the soapy water with a toy submarine going on long involved missions where the bad guys were defeated with the cry of  “fire torpedo one”.  The girl was always rescued and everybody lived happily ever after.  That had been the fun part.  It was the actual bathing that had been a drag.  That is until mom had started playing Simon Says with him.
         “Simon says.  Wash behind your ears.”
         Heee hee. Giggle giggle.  Scrub scrub.  Simon says.
         Jamie wraps the towel around his waist as he giggles.  Simon says, time to shave.  So he grabs the shaving cream and squirts it into his hand, but as he looks into the mirror he thinks that he sees a tentacle wrapped around his neck.  He blinks.  Now he’s just being silly.  There’s nothing there.  He’s just trying to put off getting clean.  Fresh and clean.  He lathers up his face and then pops a new blade into his razor.  He smiles at himself in the mirror.  What a handsome devil, he thinks.  A damn fine looking man.
         He presses the razor against his face and giggles.  The slight pull on his skin as he drags the blade along holds the promise of clean cut simplicity.  He dips his razor into the sink full of hot water and shakes it twice.  A little swirl of black shaven scruff floats to the surface of the water.  It almost looked like a tentacle.  He raises the blade to his face once again.  Whisk, whisk and back into the water.  Simon says, you got to shave.  He presses the blade against his neck and with a few more whisks, he’s done.  Not one single nick.  Not a single drop of blood.  Ahhh, yes.  Fresh and clean.  He begins to whistle a jaunty little tune as he splashes cooling water over his face.  Got to wash away the last of the shaving cream.  Simon says, got to get clean.
         He wonders what’s next.  What next?  Hair or teeth?
         Jamie VanHorn decides on teeth.  That always makes him feel better anyway.  Cleaner.  After you brush away the grime from your teeth, every breath you take actually tastes like a bright, new, minty fresh life.  Oh, yes.  Simon says, brush your teeth.  Brush them good.  Woosh, woosh, woosh, goes the toothbrush in his mouth.  The toothpaste grows into a minty fresh foam.  Woosh, woosh, each tooth gets extra special care today.  He polishes each one to get that beautiful commercial gleam, the one with the little ping and the shiny star.  Then finally the tongue.  That’s the secret of a totally fresh and clean mouth.  The tongue.  Simon says, brush your tongue.
         But there is something wrong.  With his tongue that is.  Jamie VanHorn leans in close to the mirror and sticks his tongue out.  That’s odd.  Spots.  This time he is so engrossed in looking at his tongue that he doesn’t even notice the slimy little tentacle crawl into his ear.  No, he definitely doesn’t notice that.  But the spots, those he notices.  Those, he can’t take his eyes off.  The spots are not different shades of pink, like you get during strep throat.  They are dark like bruises.  Bluish green, mottled spots.  Could it be from the coffee?  He begins to brush his tongue, but they aren’t coming off.  Maybe more toothpaste.  Yeah, that’s it, more toothpaste.  He’s not worried.  No, siree Bob.  Not at all.  He’s almost there.  Home free.  Fresh and clean.  A little thing like this is no problem.  None at all.
         He picks up the toothpaste and squeezes a healthy gob onto his toothbrush.  There we go.  This will do just fine.  Soon, soon his entire body will be clean.  He jams the toothbrush into his mouth and begins to scrub.  This is soooo easy.  Scrub-a-dub dub.  Fresh and clean.  He scrubs hard.  His mouth foams up like a rabid dog.  OOOoo baby!  Yes, sirree.  Clean, clean, clean.  He has to stop though when he begins to gag from the pressure on the back of his tongue.  His eyes water a little as he holds down his gorge, but it’s all worth it.  They had to be gone now.  Nothing could withstand his mighty scrubbing.  Nothing.  He takes a big mouthful of water and rinses.  With a spit and a smile he winks at himself in the mirror.  Look at that handsome guy.  He almost notices that something is wrong with his eyes.  But he sticks out his tongue for a cursory inspection, instead.
         STILL THERE!!!  They’re still there, more in fact.  Now he can taste them.  They taste like morning breath on acid, like rancid milk and dead meat.  They taste like a dead skunk left to bake on the highway.
         That is it.  Time to pull out all the stops now.  Bring in the big guns.  We’re going in and only one of us is coming out alive.  He picks up the tube of toothpaste and squeezes it directly into his mouth.  Simon says, clean your tongue.  He squeezes and squeezes, filling his mouth to the point of overflow with the minty fresh napalm.  Hasta la vista, baby. 
         He jams the toothbrush in again and begins scrubbing with a vengeance.  Scrub, scrub, scrub.  Now he is on a mission.  The toothpaste foams and begins to overflow all down his face and chest.  This does not stop him.  No, sirree.  This would not stop him one bit.  He would clean it up later.  Should have started with the problem areas, but who knew?  Who knew?  Simon says, clean your tongue.  Idly he wonders if Simon is the squid’s name.  That’s where this was coming from.  It had to be the squid’s fault.  That little bastard, Simon the squid.  That’s when he notices his eyes.  They have two pupils.  And he realizes that the squid is there.  Simon is looking right at him.  He still doesn’t notice the tentacle in his ear. 
         You want a fight?  Fine.  This time he doesn’t stop when the gag reflex kicks in.  No, siree.  Simon can take a long walk off a short pier, but Jamie, Jamie is getting clean.  Fresh and clean, if it kills him.  That’s right, even if it kills him.  He sneers at Simon in the mirror and scrubs harder.  Take that you little bastard.  Take that.  His vision wavers as his eyes fill with tears and he gags over and over.  But that is not stopping him.  No, it is not.
         It builds in his chest.  The burn.  He’s almost there.  His chest muscles tighten but he fights it.  It’s almost done.  It’s got to be.  But it’s not.  It erupts like a volcano in a huge explosion of vomit spraying his hand and the mirror with a mixture of coffee, toothpaste and bile.  His body is wracked with spasms, but he continues to scrub.  Ha!  He can not be stopped.  Not that easily.  What does Simon think?  That he scares that easily?  A little puke?  Not Jamie VanHorn.  No, Siree.  Not him.  He takes it like a man and keeps on working.  In fact, he scrubs even harder.  Take that you little squid.  He smiles a cold smile at his reflection, which is increasingly changing.  More tentacles.  More pupils in his eye.  Ha!  That won’t stop him. 
         Finally, his tongue begins to hurt.  His jaw is sore now, too.  He feels really weak.  Shaky.  So he pulls the toothbrush out of his mouth wearily.  He turns the spigot for the cold water and rinses his toothbrush.  He cups his hands and takes a mouthful of the cool clean water and rinses.  His head hurts now.  In fact, it’s throbbing.  So he puts a cold hand against his forehead.  Ahh. That feels a little better.  He checks the mirror.
         Still there.  STILL THERE!!!  It’s not fair.  It’s just not fair.  Now, he feels very weak.  His legs don’t even appear to be working.  He slowly sinks to the floor in confusion.  What is it?  What is wrong with this day?  He just feels so tired now.  So tired and so confused.  He decides to lie down and rest for a moment.  He eases his body down onto the large pulsating mass of the squid, like falling into a pillow.  All he wanted to do was get clean.  Fresh and clean.  The taste in his mouth is almost unbearable.  So unbearable that he doesn’t even feel the tentacles swarm around his body.  Doesn’t even feel them dig in under his skin.  But he does feel warm now.  So warm.    And he feels like he is on the edge of something.  Something huge.  Something so monstrously vast that it almost hurts to think about. 
         He feels a hunger.  A hunger that lives in opens places.  Not open like a country field, but open like the emptiness of outer space.  His mind whirls hungrily searching in the darkness.  The vast loneliness surrounds him like a blanket and he searches.  Searches for.... What is he searching for?  It is like a color that has no name, or a word made up of letters that never existed.  But he knows it when he sees it.  He can smell it and it smells like the dust in his grandfather’s attic.  Ancient.  Primal.  Is it madness?  He can’t remember anymore.  It’s too big out here.  Too empty.  But that really is the closest thing that his mind can find.  He hungers for it.  And he thinks that maybe, maybe has found it.  Out there, right here.  In the blackness deep down inside him, where no one ever looks, he hears a sound of leather and rubber and a small, little, giggle.  In that deep empty darkness something moves.
         Simon says, time to get clean.  Right.  That’s what it was.  Mom would be so disappointed.  Look at me.  I’m disgusting.  So he rises.  He stands.  OK, let’s try this again.  He wipes some of the vomit off of the mirror and leans in closely to get a good look.  He studies the spots like a scientist.  Right, study them.  Know your enemy.  He casually pushes one of the tentacles away from his open mouth.  hmmm.  The spots almost appear to have hair growing out of them, or were they cilia, like little tentacles.  That could be significant.  How to get rid of unwanted hair?  Hmmm.
         Of course!  Suddenly he smiles, feeling the vomit and dried toothpaste on his face flake off a little bit.  It all makes sense.  He stares deeply into his multi-pupiled eyes.  Simon.  SIMON!  I’ve got you now you little bastard.  He winks at himself in the mirror as he reaches for the razor.  Ahhh, yes.  Simon says, it’s time to get clean.  Fresh and clean.  Yes sirree, Bob, he is on a mission now.  The tentacles begin to throb in ecstasy. 
Simon says it’s time to get clean.  Jamie VanHorn sticks the razor into his mouth and pushes it into his tongue.  His mouth is suddenly very warm and something else is running out onto his face and chest.  But that doesn’t matter.  He was so hungry, and now he was feasting.  Yes, nothing else mattress, except that soon, he is going to be clean.  Yes siree, Bob, fresh and clean.