Tractor Shirt

*NOTE: This entry was written by Norm. Ignore the publisher tag.


The first thing is me climbing up and leaning against the railing, trying to navigate these bars. Then she comes into the room trying to console me. Her excuse is that I’m tired and maybe sick. She whispers to me:

--Shh, shh, you’ve got a cold, honey.

And I’m telling her I’m not tired or sick but as usual she doesn’t listen. I still like her though. The other day, she gave me this awesome banana stuff out of a jar and then--get this--she didn’t even get mad when I rubbed it all over our faces.

--Shh, shh, it’s okay.

Even as she’s shushing me I hear all of this commotion coming from the halls and the kitchen. If she wants me to sleep, she should tell the others to be quiet. One of the others is always in the room with the mirror and the white tile floors, talking about shit and goddammit and clutching his bleeding chin. The others, who seem to be proxies or something, are always yelling at each other. At this time of day, everyone is running around and talking fast and loud.

Except me. I’ve got this. But the funny thing is that I’m not even making any noise and she’s trying to calm me down. I keep telling her she’s got the wrong guy but she won’t listen. 

It’s hard to stay mad at her though. 

The next thing is I’m in the room with the most windows, which is the second-brightest room in the house and I squint and I think I’m already falling asleep again. I lead a pretty complicated life. But I’m excited because I’m in my tractor shirt today! YES! You KNOW it!  The tractor shirt always gets compliments from my colleagues, especially the ones in pink, which I like but don’t know why. They’re so nosy and always screaming their heads off. I still like them though. If I'm wearing my tractor shirt, today's gonna be a good day. The small grey box on the counter is on. This is the television, and I love it. There are lines moving up and down the screen and behind the lines is someone else talking, I think, to me.

--Some development at the school where, this morning, officials say a snarling man entered the school property and assaulted seven people. Those seven are currently en route to medical facilities. Reporter Brady Winfield has more on this. Brady?

I have no idea what any of this means. The screen changes to someone else talking to me.  I don’t exactly understand the television or what any of it says means. But I love the television. And apple juice.

I call for one of the proxies to come and explain to me what’s going on inside the television. Both of them enter and are for some reason begging me to please be quiet. I keep telling them I am in total control. They are the loud ones. I wish I did not have to put up with them. They are ugly and loud. They smell and they have red dots on their faces. I ask them to tell me what’s going on, but they only talk to each other.

--I’m telling you, this is it! Just like in the movies!

--You’re such a loser.

--Tell me that when your intestines are eaten out, dickbreath.

--Ew! Mom, Stephen called me “dickbreath”!

--But that’s what happens when you--!

--STEPHEN, DON’T SAY ANOTHER WORD!

--Aw, geez.

Again, I realize none of this makes any sense. This is who I live with: losers and dickbreaths.

Then I wake up. I’m in the backseat, again. I never get to sit in front! Well at least I don’t have to be quiet about it.

--Shh, it’s okay, honey, we’re almost there.

--Little guy wants to sit up front. Come on, lemme hold him up here for a minute.
--No, Frank! Remember when you let Miranda try to drive when she was two? Do you want that to happen again?

--Aw, Beth, not that again.

--Frank, I just--!

--Hey, Dad, if the zombies come to our house, we need to be ready. Where do we keep the grenade launchers?

--Stephen. Frank, talk to our son.

--My son? Whoa, whoa.

--Dad, seriously.

--Steve, we don’t have any grenade launchers.

--But, Daaaaaad!

--We have sawed-off shotguns though.

--...

--Steve?

--Awesome! YES! 

--Good going, Dad. 

--Oh, quiet, Miranda. 

--Frank, this is the part where you tell me we don’t really have sawed-off shotguns. 

--Okay, yes, I admit it. They’re not sawed-off. 

Carpooling sucks, I admit it. I’m already starting to fall asleep again listening to them. 

--Stephen, honey, I promise, there aren’t any zombies. Frank, he’s been watching midnight movies again. 

--He uses Netflix after hours! 

--Shut up, dickbreath!

--Stephen! Don’t say that word again. 

--Yes, sir. But I do not use Netflix after hours! 

--Do too! 

--Do not! 

--Oh, that’s right. I meant Redtube. 

--Shut up! 

--Frank, what’s Redtube. 

--Well, Beth, honey, it’s this really nifty little...

--Dad. 

--Oh, right, um, nothing. Christian shopping website. 

--Oh, how nice. 

--Yep. 

--Mom, it’s--! 

--Quiet, Miranda. Redtube is a Christian shopping website. And that’s final. 

I have got to quit taking so many naps. I can’t do this everyday, what with my workload. For example, I missed lunch! I just get so worked up sometimes. 

I’m in a room filled with heads and bodies. It is a crowded room and bright. There are beeping sounds and people in long white coats. Quiet sad-looking people walk around in giant bibs. Their bottoms are visible when they walk past. I go commando all the time without warning whenever I’m at home and they think it’s funny. So I can’t help laughing now but apparently I’m the only one who finds this amusing at all. She is holding me and shushing me again. 

--Shh, honey. Frank, what are they doing? 

--They’re taking a look at her. It’s so strange, they thought that… 

--What? 

--They thought that she was… gone, but… she’s showing some good signs now. 

--Oh, thank the Lord. 

--Yeah. 

--Oh, my-- 

I’m still laughing myself silly when the big white doors at the end of the hall open up and a group of people all in green rush through pushing what I think is a very thin and uncomfortable-looking bed. On wheels. I know what you’re thinking: Awesome! They’re making all kinds of noise which I find unappealing however. 

--Shh, honey, it’s okay. Frank, oh, my God, is that--is that--? 

--Hey, where are you going with my daughter? 

--We’re sorry, we’re so sorry, we’re--! 

--Frank, what are they doing--? 

Suddenly I’m pushed up when she stands up, which I find startling. I let everyone know how I feel about this. 

--What’s wrong with her face? Doctor, what’s wrong with her? 

--Doctor, vital signs up again. She’s coming back. 

--She’s already back, you idiot! Where are you taking my daughter? Miranda! Miranda! 

--Sir, please excuse us! 

--Sir, please! 

--Doctor, patient shows no heartbeat but is responding to--

--Get her out of here, can’t you see this is her family? 

--For Christ’s sake! 

--Frank! 

--Hang on, I’m going with them! 

I’m in the front seat, facing through the giant front window. She sits in the pilot’s seat with the circle in front of her. She clutches the circle tightly. She doesn’t say a word. I start to tell her I’m sorry today has been so rotten. 

--Shh, honey, it’s okay. 

As usual. I still like her though.