Kafkaesque
Gary Fincke
Sleep, as always, came reluctantly. An hour of changing positions from one discomfort to another. Often, several minutes of an imagined crisis in his heart or his lungs or some unidentifiable, essential organ. Eventually, an urgent bathroom trip. A short stint of depressurizing by sitting up in a living room chair. Pacing to unravel his tension. Counting steps to 1000 before deciding that round number must be a lullaby. Fitful, he props two pillows, lies on his back, and at last, during his very early morning exhaustion sleep, still restless, the dream.
His friend and colleague is babbling nonsense in a long hall of many doors, unaware of the spectacle he’s making. The students, only a very few because it is early, pass by without comment like well-rehearsed extras. Though his colleague will not stop his garbled chattering, he recognizes a second professor staring from a doorway. He notices another observing from farther up the hall. As if they are props, they are both stationary, but now he hears himself speaking clearly. “Let’s find your office and wait for this to pass,” he says, nodding to guide his incoherent friend. “I’ll stay with you until you can say my name.”
He keeps on spewing advice until his friend goes silent. As he says, “There, that’s better,” his friend points at him, and he realizes, looking down, that his shoes, though both neatly tied, are mismatched. What’s more, the rest of his body is naked, and he now remembers walking unclothed across the campus, passing a few dozen students who either did not see him or did not care, even when he stopped at the cafeteria for the cinnamon bun and coffee he is still holding. He grips the paper cup tightly and squeezes the sweet roll, his hands so busy there is no way to cover himself.
His friend, at least, remains calm, his talkative lapse passed, and they begin to walk. Where is his friend’s office? For that matter, where is his own? They pass door after door. Ahead of them, a small gathering of students who must see a calm, well-dressed professor and a naked one. He tries a locked door and then another and wakes, terrified in a new, unsettling way—not screaming or even panting into hyperventilation. His heart rate steady and unhurried as if he’s sedated. As if that scene was from the very recent past.
The clock reads 4:46, late summer, no longer the half-light of a month ago, and though he cannot bear to lie in bed, he cannot make himself stand. What’s more, he does not even move. Surely, his head will clear. Isn’t that the advice he had given in the dream to his disoriented friend, a man not much older than he is? “You just need to get your feet under you,” he had said. “Get settled in your office. Something that will help you focus.”
All of his phrases had echoed: Everything will be ok in a little while. Take a few minutes.
Time, as well, had turned staccato: Exceedingly soon. A breath away. A heartbeat. A wish.
Gary Fincke‘s latest flash collection is The History of the Baker’s Dozen (Pelekinesis, 2024). His newest full-length story collection, After the Locks are Changed, was also published in 2024 by Stephen F. Austin University. Since its inception, he has been co-editor of the annual anthology Best Microfiction.
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