Can't Find a Better Man

What causes us to seek the company of others? I write this alone but with the din of voices outside somewhere—a neighbor or a passerby.  I am not lonely, but I know that I will seek out others soon enough and if they provide nutrition or protection. This episode approaches the need we all have for company in all circumstances. Even as I write this, I image you, the one who is reading this, and my heart feels little less afraid. 

 "Rainy Night Aubade" and "Pillar of Salt" -- with "Five Quarter Tone Etudes 4" by Ed Martin

"Time Without Clocks" and "The Poem that Compares an Awareness of Mortality to a Stuck Pickle Jar" -- with "Tap Out" by John Mayrose

"Gravitational Constant" and "Autology"  -- with Aversion to Submersion" by Tom Washatka

"Listen to Your Mom"  -- with "A Walk in the Woods" by Bill Gillard

"Love Like Love" -- a song by Bill Gillard

"The Glint of Steel You'll Bite" -- with "Gahu" by Nani Agbeli

"Shopping Cart Prophet"  -- with Killarney" by Nadje Noordhuis

 "Visions of Half Sleep" is a dreamlike soundscape, a collaboration among artists in northeast Wisconsin. It is Bill Gillard's words and voice along with music by many.

More from Bill Gillard

Website: www.billgillard.com

Instagram: billgillard3

Transcript

SPEAKER_04 0:00

This episode is titled Can't Find a Better Man. It features music by Ed Martin, John Mayrose, Tom Washotka, Nani Eich Valley, Nadia Nordhaus, and Bill Gillard. Hypnagogia, Presomnal, Anthipnic Sations, Phantasmata, Praedormitium, the half-dream state, dreamlits, the wakefulness, sleep, transition. These all describe the land between wide awake and deep sleep. The borderland realm where we are neither alert nor unconscious, awake nor asleep, where we are neither our daytime selves nor the free roaming spirits of the dream realm. We are there right now in this pre-dream condition. Welcome to Visions of Half Sleep, a radio show by Bill Gillard that features music by artists from all over Northeast Wisconsin. The idea is that the show takes place in the middle ground between wakefulness and deep sleep, the time between when your head hits the pillow and when you've completely vanished from this world. The words and music ease you into this other world, the place we live for one-third of our lives. Poems and stories are by Bill Gillard, and the music is by Nanny Agbeli, Greg Sabulski, Joanna Dane, Lauren Dempster, Paul Dietrich, Bill Gillard, Ed Martin, John Mayrose, Tad Newhouse, Nadia Nordhaus, Offsite, Tom Washatka, Drew Whiting. Find out more about the show, about the musicians, the writing. All of it's at billgillard.com. Dreams have a species of coherence. Fragments of one vision rest on another and careen off still another until something new is birthed. But we do not enter the dream world in a mad rush, no. The journey from wakefulness passes through the middle realm of half-sleep, a rocky highland where we spy deep dreams as they build scenery and fill their casts. We are aware and yet not. We shudder as the dream realm flashes into bright life. Memory is patient. As humble as the heart. Somehow whole again. In a dream. Her face, her face is alive. I've seen her. I've heard her thunder and steaming earth and broken clouds and rain. Her face, the image. Gathers the sea ahead of it, sprawls northward, impertinent packing a wallop, they say on the radio. I worry for my gentle house, my obedient tools, my timid basement. So I organize the shelves in my garage. As the first drop stump against the roof. I let fall the door stand in my driveway. I face southwest. As if to shelter my invalid garage from this thundering schoolyard bully. A single raindrop hangs from the tip of my nose. I let it fall into my mouth. Another raindrop hangs from the tip of my nose. Hands on hips, I blow that drop back to the southwest. Who can comprehend how a wind begins? Whoaks in the language of the spring breeze, made by her swaying hips beneath the light of the rising full moon, and the music of the freight howling love at the darkness. Noon is the board accountant who tells Bell that no, he will not be getting a tax refund. Instead, he owes the coming year's salary to pay for reconstruction of the road that runs through campus. 4 p.m. is a girl on a bike cruising the campus lonely. Her parents didn't think about how it all might pan out for her among geriatrics with low noise tolerance, gardens filled with prize-winning fragilities, and loud boys. If only there were an ice cream truck, Belle's late afternoon self muses. 4 a.m., the other side of the globe from that forlorn girl, is the much-desired ice cream truck driven by a 16-year-old kid who read the fine print and understands that his pay is determined by the number of miles he puts on the white Ford, not the number of creamsicles he drops into the sticky hands that clench sweaty coins. His chimes Doppler up each sleeping block as he turns deserted corners at 50 or better. 6:30 in the morning is the neighbor bringing in the garbage cans and starting his lawnmower. Belle would like to murder 6:30 in the morning. Dusk's raven-haired beauty is home for 10 minutes as night comes on. She sits for a moment to catch the last bits of Terry Gross. She smiles at Belle for her reflection in the storm door. As they hug, Belle makes sure she faces the moon that rises like a gift over the Abbey's tower and through the budding trees because she loves the moon. And Belle wants her to keep loving him. The light fades, and he's tired, but not yet sleepy, hungry, but not yet frail. Hopeful that the remaining wakeful hours bring one or two more bits of joy. Then her phone dings. She's got the night sky app. A minute of waiting in the ISS slips between wispy clouds and winks brightly down at them. Two people who don't know the precise time, whose calendars rarely agree. Two lines that seem parallel, but that have diverged. Clouds between their bright goodbyes in the gathering darkness. Crowds out the knuckles. His rings no longer fit. He leans into the jar of pickled herring, twists it against his Christmas sweater, and grunts. Those little fish living under the polar ice. Skittish about all the things that didn't end up eating them. I wonder if anything makes a man afraid when he knows exactly what will kill him. And soon he holds the jar out to me. Another thing I won't miss. But I was bolder then. During the course of his 45 minutes, I gently shoved Hassan's chair inexorably forward across the polished wood floor, until his feet hung in the air a foot above the tier below. And he punched helpless at my calves whenever Father Doyle turned. Not often to the chalkboard, until with a slow crash, Hassan cartwheeled forward into Bruce Chow's indignant back, both of them sprawling onto the floor, clutching knees and ankles, until the eclipse of Father Doyle, whose seismic rage dimmed the lights, flayed the skin of innocent Bruce and Hassan, and it left me paralyzed, but why what I had wrought as a silent bystander for all Father Doyle knew. And the most courageous act I'd ever seen was when Hassan looked back at me with anger in his eyes, then instantly relented. He could see the fear in my eyes, I guess, and my D in physics. Then set his desk upright, apologized to Father Doyle and to Bruce, then sat down and reopened his physics notebook. I don't know why he didn't ID me. I certainly would have. Except maybe Hassan. This giant of a young man. Knew he could catch what Doyle was throwing. And in that moment when he made his decision, he wasn't sure maybe I could. Maybe that's why. And he wasn't wrong. Let me tell you, Father Doyle was just about the scariest thing since the H-bomb that we learned about in chapter four. Certainly not written better, although few of any age could say they have. Spent not nearly enough time in a canoe in Maine. I've lived longer than Poe and happier. But the horrors of the blood spring a page just as sure as spring days do loved ones eager for more than my company. I've lived longer than Fitzgerald, his boat long since surrendered to the current. While mine marooned in rushes, born neither to the past nor the future, on a battle erect in mud. I've almost caught up to Richard Wright and Emily Dickinson, whose mirrors would have envied mine, white and male and free, and who made great art despite the slings of outrageous fortune. These words too, lounge on an easy couch while I do other things with what little time I have remaining until I end up on the poster. Sparse, talent, squandered. And that's it, my big idea. A biography series about people not listed among the great, but people like me, for whom a single life never got started, for whom the main channel of the river diverged along the way in all of this tall grass, when the water table dropped, a drought of a life human, a broken poetic form. A radio experience that is one hour long. It's poems, music, and stories, the illusions that flash in your mind in the moments before sleep. Stories and poems by Bill Gillard, music by Bill Gillard, and others. All details are available at BillGillard.com. This episode is titled Can't Find a Better Man. It features music by Ed Martin, John Mayrose, Tom Washotka, Nani Aikbeli, Nadia Nordhaus, and Bill Gillard. Bruce shielded his eyes from a late October sun, whose rays slanted in through the windshield. You could use the visor, his mother reminded him. I don't want to, Bruce replied. He pulled into the lot and put the car in park. And then he put the visor into position. He felt a little foolish doing it, but he wanted to show his mother that he could be trusted with the car once in a while on his own. And that he knew what he was doing. And now that he had a job to go with his brand new driver's license, well, how could his mother argue? He needed a car of his own. Even something as antique as his mom's 1999 Maxima would do just fine. Make sure you listen to everything your boss says. Okay, Mom. That's the thing about jobs. You don't get to make decisions on your own. You find out what the boss wants, then you make sure you do it and nothing else. Bruce silently undid his seatbelt. You got that? Yes. All Bruce could see in the window of Alician's self storage was a reflection of his mother's car in the bright sunshine, looking a little beat up all. Of a sudden. It used to be Bruce's father's car all those years ago. She probably never meant to keep it for so long, but when the person with the good job in the family dies, the other people make do with what he leaves behind. So they pushed this car as far as it would go. Only the two of them. How long would it last? With money so tight, Bruce didn't want to follow that through to its logical outcome. The man on the phone at Mr. Virgil sounded nice, so Bruce wasn't too concerned. And it wasn't like it was his first real job or anything. The summer before he had worked as a substitute ice cream man. And he sold balloons at the Fox River Mall too, but only for maybe half a day at a time. But that was a story for another day. Anyway, I know you'll do well. Look at me. She licked her finger and rubbed Bruce's face around his lips. He pulled away spasmodically, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Stop it. Come on, that's just gross. Okay, but it won't be my fault if you show up for work one day with peanut butter smeared across your cheeks. Then she smiled. Go knock him dead. I'll pick you up in the morning. Is seven good? Bruce opened the door and got out. He checked himself in the plate glass window. He looked small and crooked, half in shadow and half in bright light. He tried to dress for the night, but what does one wear to a job that has no contact at all with another person? He was medium height, medium build, sandy brown hair, okay face, all averageness as far as Bruce's eyes could see. Looking around, the building was in good shape. Like most in Rosemont. Clean parking lot, new looking masonry all around. Even out here on the highway, the rough side of town. The storage places were nicer than the churches in Campbell Town. Bruce held his breath, took the first step toward the door. His mother cranked down the driver's side window. Don't forget your dinner or lunch or whatever it is. She handed him the white plastic bag. She filled with enough sandwiches and snacks for a polar expedition. Bruce sheepishly took it, mumbled thanks. In the distance he heard church bells. Inside the office, his eyes needed a couple of seconds to adjust. The interior was dark but cleaned, well maintained. The silence made the place seem more like a church than a place where people stored the junk their garages wouldn't hold. He stood at the counter, which stretched to the walls, covered by old posters of nature scenes, hung some of them limply from tacks stuck in the walls. The place had an air of disuse, although it was clean. Somewhere behind a counter, the door opened and closed. True. He was nervous. His job was important, after all. Maybe the start of something big. From out of the shadows, Mr. Virgil stepped into the office. He was youngish, maybe in his early 30s, well dressed, as if he were at a party on a yacht rather than working at a grungy self-storage place. Strode confidently up to Bruce and extended a hand. Glad to meet you, Bruce. I see you found the place okay. Bruce stepped back and returned the greeting, glad his voice didn't crack. They spoke for a bit, mostly Mr. Virgil asking Bruce questions about his school and home life. Sure, his new boss was the young Republican type, free market this, private property that. But he had an energy about him, a charisma that Bruce found engaging. He stepped outside to look around the place. Mr. Virgil spoke as if the place were his life's work is the greatest storage place in America. Here's Building One, he said. You'll see that we've got two buildings here separated by a driveway over here. One is bigger than two by a little bit. He pointed out that both were two stories tall. They were laid out in L's that almost nested into one another. These, Mr. Virgil pointed at the one-car garage doors that line the outer first floor of both buildings. And the interior rooms hold all manner of our constituents' surplus. Some of these outer chambers have cars in them. Just about all of them are occupied. See, once people find objects they love but have no use for, they need the extra room. That's where we come in. Mr. Virgil stood proudly with his hands on his hips. He put his hand on Bruce's shoulder tonight. You're to do three things. First, you pay attention. Someone comes in, maybe wants a room, get their info and tell them I'll call them in the morning. At 8 30, you walk the yard. Tell anyone you meet that we're closing at 9 sharp, they need to get out. At nine, you lock the gate. The lights in the yard are on a timer. No need to walk the grounds after nine. Stay in the office and monitor the cameras. Call me if anything unusual happens. Don't call the police. It's usually something I can handle easily. At midnight, a man should drop off the dogs. They should sniff around. Make a racket if anybody does anything. They should be gone before sunrise. So all you have to do is make sure everyone's out by nine, then watch these monitors. And it goes without saying that you don't touch anyone's things. That's rule number one. Bruce nodded and tried to look serious. Five minutes later, Mr. Virgil was gone. Bruce sat alone in the office and watched the dust dance in the thin shaft of light that knifed through the back door. Slowly, sunset stole that diversion. Bruce poked through the rental agreements and new constituent information packages that lay in folders on top of the file cabinet. Inside the top drawer were a dozen combination padlocks. They all said the classic on them and had red faces with white numbers from one to thirty-nine. The loop of steel was likewise painted red. The single sheet of paper in the drawer had the numbers 37, 6, 3, and the letters RLR written on it. The combination? But for which one? He tried the first lock. It opened immediately. The second one as well. The third, fourth, all of them had the same combination and none other. Maybe some customers needed a lock. Not a bad item to have on hand in a place like this. Probably can make a killing on the markup. But all the same combination? A large hardcover notebook and accounting ledger that had begun to yellow with age sat inside the second drawer. The many pages appear to record everyone who had ever rented one of the storage rooms. There were dozens of entries on each page. But in the light pencil scratches, he can make out a single number or letter here or there, but nothing like a complete word. In the column where he expected to see the dates, he saw numbers like 1923 and 1977, so maybe they weren't dates at all. Bruce laughed. Imagine paying for room to store the junk of previous generations. Those must be some irreplaceable yet completely unnecessary items. Deeper into the book, the pages were stiff with age as if they had not been separated in many years. Studying the ledger, he didn't notice the shadow outside, the hand on the door, the slow, steady force that opened it behind him. Bruce turned a page, tried to make out the faint handwriting, still with no look. Silent footsteps crossed the linoleum and stopped directly behind Bruce. A hand reaching. And the young man oblivious. The hand touched his shoulder, a scream. Ah, Bruce spun too quickly. Dropped the book to the floor. A brown haired young woman smiled through the pink bubble she clenched in her lips. Renee, I almost had a heart attack. Serves you right. What's kind of security guard are you, anyway? Bruce picked up the book and tried unsuccessfully to wedge it back in the drawer. I'm not a security guard, okay? Assistant property manager. That's what I am. Assistant property manager. Where'd you come from, anyway? Renee had no car and Rosamont was a few miles down the highway. George dropped me off after work. I think he likes me. She boosted herself up on the counter and searched with her face for his, lips ready to kiss. Stop it, Bruce snapped. What if a customer walks in and I'm all lovey dovey with you? Renee looked back into the empty parking lot. She started to laugh, and finally Bruce joined her. You know I need a career. Any real girlfriend would be more supportive. Career? Renee gestured around the office, but then sagged when she saw the hurt in Bruce's eyes. Okay, all kidding aside. I'm proud of you for getting this job. I'm already figured out how I'm going to spend your paycheck, you know. That made him smile. They were mismatched, always had been. Bruce was known as the steady, straight kid, a good student, honest, hardworking, and Renee was the party girl. Sure, she got decent grades too. But if there were good times to be had, Renee was in the middle of it. Their friends were shocked when they came out that day at lunch. They demanded a public kiss to prove they were a couple. But they were together now for longer than anyone, including themselves, had expected. He turned back to the drawer. Can you help me with this? Bruce had gotten the book halfway into the drawer, but no further. Just help me get back into the drawer, okay? Renee took the book out, spun it once, flipped it, and it slid easily inside the drawer, exactly as he had found it. Bruce grumbled. She reached around and grabbed his bottom. You know, I'm pretty good at this too. Please stop that. How had she gotten those books into the drawers? That book into the drawer so easily. You know I don't like it. Renee took the book out of the drawer, spun it once, flipped it, slid it easily back inside the drawer exactly as he had found it. Bruce grumbled. Okay. Please stop that. How had she gotten those books inside the drawer so easily? You know I don't like it. Why do you do it? Because I love you, you dork, and you don't know a good thing when it's spread out naked on the floor at your feet. Bruce scooped up Mr. Virgil's phone, walked past the counter and out the front door. Renee followed him. I'm sorry, she said. That was their routine. Bruce walked behind the office building, a low one-story house with a garage attached. He held out his hand as he walked. Renee fell and stepped next to him, her hand curling warmly into his. You don't have to say sorry. That was their routine too. Thanks for the help with those books. I really couldn't figure it out. You're welcome, she said. They walked her head on his shoulder to the driveway between the buildings. The sun had gone down, the air had cooled considerably. Bruce saw no one working at their storage room, saw no cars or U-Hauls rolling in or out of the gate lately. By his reckoning the place was empty. And it was almost eight, another hour and he could settle in for the night with his books and the music on his iPod. And if Renee stuck around, they could just talk. Not bad for the first day at a new job. So what's in these big buildings? Seems like just a lot of junk, if you ask me. These rich people have huge houses. They buy more and more till they can't even fit it into their house. Bruce reached the back of building one. He gave it a tug and for a moment it opened. Then it was as if someone grabbed him from the other side and pulled him back. It slammed shut. Bruce stumbled backward, and Renee caught him. Open a door much, she laughed. Bruce stood again, reached for the door, and carefully opened it. The door squeaked against the steel frame, but it opened smoothly. Strange, Bruce thought. They entered the long hallway, endless rows of locked doors on either side, a dim intersection in the distance. Too weird, Renee ran ahead, punching the doors, counting at one, two, three, four, as she banged along the corridor. Bruce was glad Mr. Virgil was not here to see this. He ran after Renee and grabbed her by the arm. Please stop that. Renee jerked her arm away and yelled again, running down the hall, banging on each door. Why should I? That's the problem with you. No sense when to make a racket. Bruce followed behind her. He walked stiffly again, vaguely embarrassed by Renee. This was also their routine. She stopped at the end of the hall where the doors became less frequent. These must be bigger rooms inside. I'll bet one of these is bigger than my apartment. If only we could get inside. Look around. Maybe there's gold or diamonds or drugs or something we could use. You can't steal from these people, Renee. Besides, they're all locked. Bruce had put his hands on the lock of the door, familiar red outline, the word classic engraved into the red metal, same as the locks in the file cabinet. When Renee wandered off around the corner, Bruce played with the lock. What were those numbers? He tried a few combinations of six and three and thirty-seven, or was it 36 and 18 or something? The last spin of the tumbler, 3763. He pulled the lock toward him, and to his surprise, it snapped, pulled the door wide open, stood staring into the dimness. Renee. No answer. In the dimness he saw the room filled to the edge with plain cardboard boxes of all shapes and sizes, all neatly stacked. He touched the boxes, felt their density, their great mass, as if they were filled with sand or metal. Suddenly two cold, thin hands covered Bruce's eyes. Boo! Renee whispered in his ear. Bruce jumped, spun, and dropped the lock. The door across the hall slid closed as silently as it had opened. Renee flipped the timer switch on the wall next to the door. Ah, don't ever do that again. They both looked down to see him grasping her wrist tight, too tight. Let go, please. Bruce dropped her wrist, muttered sorry, turned to close the door. Who left this one open? She pushed past him and touched the boxes as far as up as she could reach. What is all this? Any idea? No. And we don't belong here playing around with this stuff. She opened one of the boxes, took out a small stack of photos. I mean, look at these people. They came and went in a blink, and who cared? They probably hated black people and worked till they died. She dropped the photos on the floor, and look at this thing. She held up an antique scythe. So these farmers love their short, miserable lives so much that they passed their lawnmowers down to their grandchildren, who then keep it all locked up here. Can you see how insanely stupid it all is? She opened another box and pulled out a long white dress. Somebody got married or not? Look, she held up the price tag still tied by a small string to the sleeve. That's a country song right there. She dropped the dress to the floor, and at that moment the main hallway lights went out, leaving only the emergency lights at the end of each hallway to illuminate the place. Must be a timer, Bruce thought. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the near darkness. He took her by the shoulder, gently spun her away from the room. He closed the door, relatched the handle, slid the padlock into its hook. He closed the lock and spun the tumblers. Renee's eyes widened. You did it. How did you know the combination? I didn't open it. It was open. I'm just closing it. Renee stepped back. Are you lying to me, Bruce? I told you you can do anything you want as long as you never ever lie to me. Bruce stood with the lock in his hand, staring at it. He said nothing. I don't want anything to do with a liar. I told you I've had way too much of that in my life already. She turned and walked away. Wait, okay. Bruce caught up to her. I don't want you messing around in here, that's all. He pointed at the nearest lock. See that one and that one and that one over there? I think I could open all of them. She pulled him close, her hands in her back pockets, her fingers flexing. Show me, please. Just one more. I only want to see what's so important these rich people can't do without. Bruce had no resistance to that smile. He opened another door. The inside of this was very different from the first room they had seen. For one thing, they could see all the way in. At one corner was a low pile of mattresses. Along one wall sat a table covered in books of all shapes and sizes. The floor was mostly open space. The hallway light angled across its dust-covered surface. Renee slipped past Bruce and danced across the room. She jumped onto the mattress and rolled to her side, propped up on one elbow, padded the mattress next to her, and winked, Come on over here, you handsome man. She lay on her back with her knees up. Bruce rolled his eyes. Come on, Renee. Why do you always have to do this? Bruce Renee's eyes opened wide, surprise and shock in her face. Come over here quick. Bruce walked over to her. When he got next to the bed, she laughed, pulled him on top of her, hugged him tight with her arms and legs. Bruce struggled, but they stopped. It's like you want me to get fired or something. Why can't you just be a normal person once in a while? I swear, Bruce, you're the one who is abnormal. I don't know why I spent time with you. It was the way their conversations frequently went. This time Bruce didn't move, he lay on top of her, thinking, maybe she was right. Maybe I'm the one with the problem, he thought. Okay, you win, she said. She walked out of the room in a cloud of dusty anger, and Bruce laid there, head cradled by his arm, and he heard the fire door open and shut, the sound of her footsteps diminishing into silence. Another messed up night for Renee and Bruce. She's so friendly, Bruce thought, but she's not a good listener. Why can't I ever have a say in what we do or where we go? It seemed to him that she had a fixed set of ideas, what was right, what she wanted, and if Bruce didn't conform to that, well then she'd be finished with him. Well, I mean, but to be fair, she could be flexible. She was often patient with him, tried to rein herself in, especially in public, especially with his family. Somewhere behind his head, he heard a scrape of metal against metal, as if a stuck door were opening. Renee! There was no answer. He shouted again louder. Nothing. He got up and sat at the edge of the pile of mattresses. The scraping didn't sound like a fire door, not exactly. It seemed like it came from somewhere inside the wall. He walked to the hallway, no one was there. He closed and locked the door to the mattress room and walked in the direction Renee had gone. He passed through the first fire door, still no sign of her. The four-way intersection, still no sign of her. Renee, he shouted again. He heard a far-off door slam. Maybe she was playing a game now, her silence saying, Come find me. Bruce trotted after the sound, opened the door ahead. Stairs led upward to the second floor above him. He heard a loud squeak of metal on metal, then a slam, another door. He was getting closer, he could feel it, and it's starting to have fun. At the top of the stairs, he pushed through the door and scanned the hallways to his left. A fire door was just swinging shut. He ran down that hall, excited for the chase, blood flowing through his body and his mind. Maybe that room with the mattresses would see some action yet tonight. He pushed his way through the fire door to find himself at a four-way intersection. He thought he heard a sound to his right. He ran after it, winding his way around corners, pushing his way through one door after another. Finally, he stopped to listen, silence. Mostly. No running footsteps, but again the same lights scraping coming from somewhere beyond the door in front of him. He pressed his ear. The sound neither faded nor grew louder. The lock, a classic, the same one he knew. With no one in sight up and down the hallway, he spun the wheel, let it fall at 3763, and the locked opened in his hands inside. A thin, pale figure stood silent and still. A man, small, underfed, fraying brown tweed blazer, his head wrapped in a scarf, his entire appearance antique, as if he had stepped out of a history book. His skeletal hands opened and closed at his sides, as if unaccustomed to movement. Bruce took a slow half-step backward when the man lunged at him. All at once strong arms gripped him, and Bruce was dragged into the room. He wanted to scream, but the pressure was simply too much. Darkness spun around him as if he had been devoured by a ravenous beast. The ghostly arms threw him forward into the room where he tumbled headlong into the darkness and smashed his head against something edgy and hard. He came to rest face down on something soft. Something soft and bony. He felt an arm and then shoulders. He pressed into something wet and lifted himself up and off. In the dimness, a person in a gray dress, or was it white? Behind him. The door slammed shut. Renee's shoulders, her hands. He'd know them anywhere. Outside the scrape of metal against metal and the click of a lock being reattached to the door. He pushed himself to his knees. Renee's body, yes, dressed in white. She was all there, except that her head was gone.

SPEAKER_00 48:20

Like the hook you draw on the bride and drink. Draw me.

SPEAKER_04 48:31

You bride me like some shiny village barrier. The angle letter is a great me. And I suppose that one test floor to another. It's better. One star to me. What are we? So I want to know before we dance what metaphor free. The sign facing Houston says so. End of junior year, Joey stands outside the window reading flyers. People put up on the window, bands forming, bass players needed art shows. The city just being the city. Joey wants to go in, but doesn't feel worthy. A ragged guy pushing a shopping cart bangs into the front door of the place. He pushes it open, tries to wedge his way through. Joey angles to see the guy inside push back on the cart and yelling what sounds like rushing. Inside the cart, too big and too long. A wooden rectangle teeters. The ragged guy's looking for cash. He makes a deal that leaves the cart half full. The wooden rectangle going inside. The ragged guy pulls out of the doorway and continues down Houston. Joey's vision goes blurry, like he's watching his own eyes see the street. The inside of his chest pulls him toward that door. And inside Many Worlds Electronics. He squints at the darkness and his heartbeat thunders. Inside is a single narrow aisle with shelves that burst with wires and circuit boards, diodes and replacement electronics. Shelves from floor to ceiling hold hundreds of small boxes filled with dials, small and black, one to ten. Big ones, 87.5 to 108.1. Shortwave, temperature, anything. He makes his way to the back of the store where the Russian-sounding guy is looking at all the stuff he just bought from the ragged shopping cart guy. On the counter in front of him is a pile of wires and speaker parts. Next to that is the wooden rectangle. Joey is pulled closer. That box shimmers like it knows him. Sequential circuits, it says on the back. Joey stands there, silent. The Russian-sounding guy says, What am I gonna do with this thing? It's all broken. Then he sees Joey. You're a musician. The Russian-sounding guy states like it's a fact. Joey doesn't know why he says yes, but he does. That's a keyboard. The Russian-sounding guy makes like he's playing a piano. He asks, Can you fix it? And then something happens totally out of character for Joey. He says yes. Those two simple affirmatives. The one new possible path ramifies in front of him. Mackie, that's the Russian-sounding guy. Tosses the rest into a box, makes a be my guest hand wave to Joey behind the counter. How about you fix it and then we talk? Joey wedges himself through the narrow gap and lays hands on the dented and begrind Prophet 5. Black and white keys, stray wire, circuit to nothing. Three knobs appear intact. Joey looks up again. And it's after 10 at night. His mom's gonna kill him. Can I come back tomorrow? And Mackie says, yeah, tomorrow.

SPEAKER_03 55:19

And Joey's out the door, saying to himself, yes, and yes, and yes, and yes, and yes, and yes, and yes, I'm gonna go.

SPEAKER_04 58:48

Surrender our will, our purpose, ourselves, to visions of half-sleep that flow from that midnight realm, our fragile lives, these tired lights, they make soft shadows. We float silently toward sleep's moonlit gate, gosser life in this black blankness, this nightly death summoned. We surrender now to haunt the land beyond the moonlit gate of dreams. In visions of half sleep, visions of half sleep, visions of half sleep. Visions of half-sleep is a radio show by Bill Gillard that features music by artists from all over northeast Wisconsin. The poems and stories are by Bill Gillard, and the music is by Nanny Ike Belly, Craig Sabalski, Joanna Dane, Lauren Dempster, Paul Dietrich, Bill Gillard, Ed Martin, John Mayrose, Tad Newhouse, Nadia Nordhouse, Offsite, Tom Washatka, and Drew Whiting. All details are available at BillGillard.com. We'll be back next week at this time. More visions of half sleep. Until then. Pleasant dreams. This episode is titled Can't Find a Better Man. It features music by Ed Martin. John Mayro.