A time to talk: Barking at the sun

Brian O’Neill

guest columnist

The summer solstice was a hot night. I thrashed around in bed, sweating and thinking wistfully about the cold air of December.

A guy could sleep in December, but this was too much! A part of my brain, the clever one that spews out sarcasm, ironically pointed out all the times in December when I had wished for June.

I hate that part of my brain.

After I finished arguing with myself, I dragged my damp pillow downstairs to the couch, where I finally drifted off to sleep.

I dimly recall a dream involving mudwrestling with kitchen appliances. The blender was a bad dude.

I woke up late with a sore neck, boxer shorts stuck in various body cracks and a bad attitude. Worst of all, there was no time for my morning coffee and paper.

I needed a scapegoat, so I stalked into the office to berate my wife for not waking me up. She looked at me, my hair sticking out in clumps, hands clutching a couch cushion with drool marks, the imprint of a drink coaster on my forehead, and she raised her eyebrow.

She gave me a mercifully brief butt-chewing, and then — and this is why I love her — she waited until I had left the room to laugh.

In my opinion, it’s never too early to admit defeat. I skulked off to the shower and turned it on. Cold. Luckily, that helped staunch the blood flow when I cut myself shaving.

I found myself beginning to take some perverse satisfaction from the unbroken consistency of bad luck. However, it was time to drive to work, so I was hoping my situation would improve.

I got in my car and hit the highway. Nothing broke. No one crashed. After a few minutes, I leaned back in my seat and contemplated blue sky.

The brilliant sun, the cause of my ruined sleep, produced a stray sunbeam that hit the corner of my eye. That one shot of ultraviolet, Vitamin D-soaked, unfiltered light was all it took to ruin a perfectly bad mood.

In an instant, I was as glassy-eyed as a Rastafarian in a head shop. The sun streamed down through my windshield and I bathed in it. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and — no, wait! I’m on the freeway!

It took me a moment to regain my bearings, during which I drove over a lump that was either a banana sandwich on rye or maybe a possum. For the rest of the drive, I stayed mostly in my lane, but my mind was not on the road.

Without thinking, I turned on the CD player and selected the disc that is a constant on my stereo, and the greatest source of musical sunshine the world has ever known — Mr. Bob Marley.

I had forgotten Bob through all the long nights of winter. I had forgotten my memories of warm ocean breezes, soft white sand between my toes and the taste of rum as I sucked it out of my shirt (I spilled my drink).

These recollections, which included an astounding headache and the taste of cotton in my mouth, chased away the remnants of the previous night.

As I cycled through his songs, Bob did his best to answer all my questions about how best to handle the morning’s challenges.

Bob, what do you do when you wake up late and can’t get out of bed?

Bob: Get Up, Stand Up.

You are so right, Bob. But what if your wife’s mad at you, and it’s got you feeling low?

Bob: No Woman, No Cry.

I get that, but that’s not really an option for me. Perhaps you and I could share a deep secret, something that would bring us to a new level of peace and togetherness?

Bob: I Shot the Sheriff.

Too much information, Bob. Think I’ll switch over to the Beach Boys — less thinking involved.

I was singing and laughing out loud as I pulled into the parking lot at work. No more did I worry about sweaty pillows, mud-stained blenders or the tight-feeling of underwear in all the wrong places. It was summer, the sun was shining and all was right with the world.

In the words of the immortal Bob Marley, “Is a foolish dog bark at the flying bird.”

Amen, brother.

A Time to Talk columnist Brian O’Neill can be reached by e-mail at btoflyer@comcast.net.