The Glass Top Coffin (standard:drama, 2253 words) [4/12] show all parts
Author: Stephen-Carver Byrd	Added: Dec 31 2002	Views/Reads: 2626/1900	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
***Part 4*** Old Black Men And Bottle Dreaming

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

Jordan held the emerald 7-Up bottle (the exact match of his own eyes) up
to his face and gazed into it like a crystal ball. In deep shades of 
purples and blues he could see landscapes quickly form then disappear. 
One landscape held its own and Jordan could see the image of people 
talking in a tight circle. When the picture focused for a brief second, 
he could see that one person in the circle was a young woman and she 
was weeping. The others were trying to calm her. The image blurred 
again then swirled into a bright magnitude of sparks and green mist. It 
grew larger then twisted itself into another landscape. He could see a 
hefty size dog running full speed through a field toward its master who 
held out two welcoming arms. The animal leaped through the air and 
playfully hit its target full speed sending both master and beast to 
the ground in a heap. Jordan could faintly hear the serious laughter 
coming from the master and he chuckled to himself at this funny scene. 
Then he waited patently for the image to transform itself. Jordan had 
always had a special way of looking deep inside himself and seeing 
images most people could never imagine. He loved doing this little 
trick with the bottle and if he concentrated hard enough it always 
worked. Sometimes what he saw could be humorous and lighthearted, and 
then at other times the images could be downright horrifying. He was 
always prepared to pull himself quickly away should an image get out of 
hand. 

The colorful disfigurement inside the bottle began to reshape,
structuring itself into a man standing on an isolated beach painting a 
seascape. The colors then slit apart and danced together forming into a 
beautiful chessboard. At first, the pieces appeared to be moving by 
themselves. However, upon closer inspection, Jordan noticed that two 
translucent men who were sitting on opposite sides of the board were 
actually moving the chess pieces. Both dressed in Victorian style 
clothing, one was leisurely smoking a cigarette while the other was 
seriously studying his next move. 

At this point, the image washed away creating another landscape that
looked very familiar. He recognized a large home that sat just a few 
hundred feet down the road from Mr. Moore's grocery. Jordan must have 
passed it a thousand times. Mr. Moore had once told him it belonged to 
a Mr. S.L. Anderson, a wealthy businessman. The land surrounding their 
home was almost two-thousand acres, but the Andersons weren't the least 
interested in farming. Their land was simply leased out during growing 
season. The large house was in sharp focus, but something off to the 
left was blurry and giving a slight show of movement. Jordan 
concentrated harder and the blurry object began to solidify itself. 
Jordan recognized it as one of the old, bowing black men. As usual, he 
was attired in frayed denim overalls and a straw hat. He was plowing 
what looked to be a small garden area in the side yard. 

The old black man was using a large brown mule who was greatly
struggling with the drought stricken ground. Jordan noticed that the 
man had a long strip of wire and was beating the mule with it and 
yelling something to the animal. It sounded like, “Yit-oop!, Yit-oop!, 
Moan up!, Moan up now!” The poor mule's tongue was hanging a foot out 
of its mouth and snot and slobber dispensed with each heavy breath. The 
ill-fated beast looked as if it wouldn't make it much longer in the hot 
sun. The old black man beat into him again with another loud pop of the 
wire. Large whelps were now forming to its side, and bright red blood 
had begun to ooze out. The mule raced foreword then slipped and went 
down hard, such as a deer will do should it receive the perfect shot. 
The old man struck the mule hard over its head, and only the terror of 
the wire made the animal jerk itself off the hot, rocky ground. The 
mule's blood-shot eyes looked wild and full of terror. It lunged 
forward, desperately trying to escape, but the large heavy plow had it 
anchored tight. Jordan began to scream at the mule's master, but at 
that very moment, the old black man looked across the road and saw the 
boy watching him. He dropped the reins and the wire then properly 
placed his straw hat over his heart and began to bow to the boy. He 
smiled genuinely, always bowing, up and down, their old dark eyes never 
leaving you. 

“Lay off that mule!” Jordan screamed in a stormy voice. “And quit that
damn bowing!” he firmly added. However, the old man continued to bow 
and smile genuinely. Jordan stepped forward in his vision but failed to 
see the oncoming car to his left. It screeched and swerved on the 
highway, missing the boy only by inches. The next sound he heard was 
the old screen door slamming open. Jordan momentarily broke away from 
the bottle and saw Mr. Moore standing on the top step looking down at 
him, the seven-up bottle smothered close to his face. Mr. Moore knew 
all about bottle dreaming. Jordan once explained it to him in fine 
detail, including the fact that he got many of his story ideas by using 
it. 

“You know there's a place in town called Rex Hill,” Mr. Moore said,
shaking his head. “That's where they take all the loony cakes that've 
flipped out of their heads. A state institution is what it is. You keep 
up that bottle dreaming and most likely that's where you'll end up, in 
a little padded cell with a goddamn typewriter.” Jordan wiggled a few 
fingers as if to say, I'm ok, just leave me alone for right now. Mr. 
Moore got the message and went back inside the store. “Yes sir,” the 
old man mumbled, “Heard they have to put some of those idiots in 
straightjackets so they won't throw their own shit at the nurses.” 
Jordan joined back with the bottle. He was riding on a good trip. 
“Bottle dreaming” was very addictive once you got into the grove of it. 
Like the alcoholic, he was on a binge and there was no stopping at this 
point. He tried to restore the old black man and the mule, and at 
first, it began to take some structure, but then it dulled and washed 
away, leaving nothing but a subtle darkness. 

Within the shadows of the transitory image, a fuzzy white light began to
spread and tangle into its own luminosity. It grew transparent, much 
like smoke rising from the tip end a cigarette, almost ghost-like in 
appearance. Then it smoothed gracefully into an oblong shape. As it 
focused, Jordan could clearly see that it was a large white bathtub. In 
the tub sat a baby girl no more than two-years old. An old woman was 
preparing the bathwater and the baby was sitting in the filling tub, 
splashing happily with her toys. A bright red towel with a swimming 
yellow mermaid hung above the child‘s head. The old woman was on her 
knees holding the bath toys in the air, flying them like an airplane. 
Then she pointed to the child's gold, wavy hair and snapped her fingers 
as if there was something she had forgotten. The old woman struggled 
carefully to her feet then pointed some firm instructions to the little 
girl. Jordan watched as the old woman quickly left the room. As she 
did, he could see the small child's head slip quickly below the rim of 
the tub. Her small hands and feet were sticking up above the rim, 
kicking in joy. Water splashed to the floor and Jordan chuckled at the 
fun and excitement. Then everything became disturbingly quite. There 
were no movements in the bath, no more water splashing. The image 
rolled slowly forward toward the tub. Jordan peered into the bathwater 
where he saw a large glob of silent blond hair floating in soapy water. 
The baby had drowned. 

Quickly trying to escape the image, Jordan swiftly jerked backward,
banging the back of his head rigidly against the storefront. He was 
free of the vision, but his head was spinning like a hurricane. The boy 
sat the bottle down and noticed that dazzling white stars surrounded 
it. This wasn't another vision, rather just plain, throbbing reality. 
Suddenly he heard a boisterous sound directly to his right and then he 
caught a glimpse of a large dark shadow moving rapidly toward him. 
Jordan flinched, holding an arm up in defense. It stopped just inches 
away and Jordan recognized it immediately. His heart sank deep. It was 
the tattered pickup truck of Wally Perkins. 

Continued - Please see Part 5


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