Chapter 1: “Son” (from BRONX NIGHTS 🌃🍎)

“Son, do you know what you’re doing?”

Pause. When is the last time someone other than my mother called me that? Granted, the speaker is an older, African American woman with an undeniable Big Apple accent. She’s a bank teller, but this is Columbia, South Carolina, and I can see how she might let a “son” slip out the same way a server or cashier casually tosses out a “honey” or “dear.”

But it’s the look on her kind, grandmotherly face. Not a look so much as a stark glare. She is stone serious.

Hold on. I’m in a bank. It’s definitely post-Pandemic. Not for me, but for just about everyone else. Especially the dead ones. Fuck COVID. And shit—I’m still masked. Does she think I’m robbing the place? Am I having another waking dream?! Fuck Cataplexy and Chronic Insomnia. Maybe I’m robbing the place. I don’t own a gun. But I am a writer. Quick! Look for a demanding note. Sneak a glance over the counter—don’t be obvious, you moron! Okay, no note. What did I do?! Okay, find your inner therapist. Damn, I really need to download ChatGPT, if I can ever remember. Breathe. Somehow shut out the need to count the number of dollar bills being processed at breakneck speed by the counting machine. Fuck Autism. Now, remember: What did you just say to the nice lady?

“Excuse me, ma’am, I can’t help but notice your accent. I’m moving to New York City in a week myself.”

“Oh, moving to the big city. Whereabouts?”

“The Bronx.”

There it is! Her head cocked instinctively. Those eyes! Clearly a sylvan soothsayer in the guise of a professional bank teller.

“Son, do you know what you’re doing?”

Alas, this is the South, and I am still a Midwestern boy, at heart. Though I am hanging on to life by a thread worn to quantum stitches, I do not have it in my soul to reply:

“Because Columbia, South Carolina, is the armpit of the devil’s asshole. Why do I say that? I just learned I have Autism and PTSD. Did I mention that I haven’t slept three to six days a week for the past four years? Oh, and because of my particular insomnia condition, sleep medications, even melatonin, induces the most fucked-up hallucinations imaginable. They’re called waking dreams. Have you ever been chased around the house by Lizard People that look like Sleestaks from Land of the Lost? But the serial killer I recently narrowly escaped, she was real. There was even a witness. Her name is Candy—that’s the killer, not the witness. Did I miss anything? Oh yes, I’m about to surrender custody of my daughter. That’s a bit of a long story, but it does involve her nanny admitting that she stole Schedule II medication from my home. A few weeks back, I was moving my disabled mom from here to northern Wisconsin. That’s where Candy tried to kill me, by the by, at a luxury cabin on Lake Superior that my sister who I hadn’t talked to for 30 years arranged for me so that I could get some well-deserved R&R. Anyway, the housekeeper called to tell me that my house had been trashed so badly that she refused to clean certain rooms. I’ve got pictures of that, too, so I know it really happened. Damn. Boy, do I miss Rocinante—my Kia Sorento, no ordinary vehicle. I sold her to the housekeeper. Roci was a main character in my book, Uber Nights. Sigh, I miss her. Good thing I still have Hank. Hank is my Jeep Grand Cherokee. But wait! There’s more! I also recently lost my godfather, a goodly number of friends and mentors—basically an entire community. Then there’s the jobs. Two regular paychecks down the crapper. Hell, I still don’t know why Uber fired me—I was notified by a bot. I called them about 156 times. Each time, I spoke with someone named Bob, though I suspect his real name is Patel. There were roosters crowing in the background, and all every Bob-Patel could tell me was that a decision had been made, no appeal possible, and thanks for being a safe driver and have a good day. I don’t even know why I was fired from that job—even though I have a video camera in Hank and can refute whatever claim had been made. More empirical evidence! I’m not making any of this up. Then there’s the public library down the street, where I was assistant manager for almost a decade. Canned. Why? They’ll say it was because of what this down-on-her-luck single mom said about me. You see, I was conducting a public fundraiser for her, but she went berserk because she couldn’t compute the several-day waiting period required for funds to be transferred from GoFundMe to a personal bank account. The entire fundraiser was conducted in a very public and open manner—hell, I ran for U.S. Congress in 2016 and am that rare federal candidate who never tucked away a single dime for himself. Anyway, this single mom called my employer and threatened to call the cops to report me for trying to keep the money for myself. I didn’t even have the money yet! At that point, once I did receive the funds, I gave every dime back to every donor, then got fired for “breaking public trust.” But honestly, getting kicked to the curb by Richland Library probably has more to do with the new outdoor children’s play area at my branch, which at night becomes something of a condom and razor blade dumping ground. Don’t forget the occasional bullet casing, too! Every time I drove by the library at night while Ubering and saw some ne’er-do-wells fucking about, I would call the cops. And, well, the library system executive director seemingly has a jones to be Librarian of Congress someday, and the police responding to two homeless people doing the nasty in a child’s caterpillar tunnel is bad press, I guess. In the system’s opinion, it was apparently cost-prohibitive to build a gate around the playground area. But I made the argument that a lawsuit for a little tyke being bowled over in our parking lot would cost way more than a $75,000 gate. Anyway, that’s job two. Trust me, I haven’t even scratched the surface yet. See, after my second case of COVID, I contracted Long-Term COVID. Along with it came Chronic Insomnia—and Cataplexy, too—plus Brain Fog. Everyone thinks I’m on drugs. Am I repeating myself? I tend to do that a lot these days. But I’m not on dope. I’m allergic to every goddamn sleep medication! Please don’t suggest any herbal medications to me—trust me, I’ve tried every plant that can be dried, ground up, chewed between your gums and crammed into your asshole. Hell, I’m wide awake! Haven’t gotten a wink in three days. How do I sleep? Well, I asked my doctors if they would, on a rotating basis, do house calls every evening to punch me in the face to knock me out, but apparently that violates the Hippocratic Oath. So I started drinking to sleep. How much? I don’t know, about a handle of bourbon every night. Is that a lot? Trust me, I’m sober at the moment. Wait, is that a Sleestak?! Nope, just an anole. Speaking of Columbia, I’ve traveled all over this Little Blue Planet, from the Jordanian desert to remote Haitian jungles, and I promise you, there isn’t a place stickier and more goddamn backward than the city that Sherman should have razed en toto, not roasted like a S’more. Hell, Candy didn’t just try to kill me—Columbia has been after me for more than two decades since I moved here. By the way, isn’t it just ducky that the month I moved to this godforsaken place, February 2003, was the same month the Space Shuttle Columbia spilled its guts over Texas? Don’t even get me started on Texas! That’s where Candy—

Whiirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt!

That’s the closest I can come to penning a record scratch. If you are reading an electronic version of this book, there should be a link above you can click to hear an actual record scratch. If this is a traditional book, you’ll just have to trust me.

Let’s dial it back a bit. Maybe put on “If You Could Read My Mind” by Gordon Lightfoot. Brew some green tea. Draw a hot bath.

Take in some pacific images I took yesterday at the Bronx Botanical Garden:

www.vikingword.com/nybg/

Ah. There. It’s almost as if Calgon has taken us all away.

But even bath salts have their limits.

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To listen to Arik Bjorn read the “Preface” from his forthcoming book, “BRONX NIGHTS,” plus other chapters, visit his YouTube Page.