Beyond the Ceiling

"Well I for one am v-v-v-v-very interested to see wh-wh-what's going to happen next."
--Franklyn Madson, Dead Again

For one insufficiently merciful moment, as my eyelids fluttered open on the morning of October 17, 2003, I forgot the events of the previous night, and looked forward to Game 7 between the Red Sox and the Yankees. The insufficiently merciful moment passed.

I couldn't deal.

The ceiling, then. I started with the ceiling. Off-white, as many ceilings are. Stippled, as many ceilings are.

The ceiling I could handle. Anything else would have to be determined on a case-by-case basis.

Why, given how long I stared at that unremarkable stretch of plaster, am I so eager for tomorrow night to be here? Is my memory so short? Is my thirst for vengeance so relentless? Am I so brazenly confident that this year will be different?

Call me foolish. Call me doomed. Call me grossly mistaken in my priorities.

Thing is, no matter how long I stared at the stipples in the ceiling, they never looked like angels comin' for to carry me home. They never assumed the cold, twinkling shape of a malevolent constellation, delivering me an ungracious destiny through the cynical agency of syndicated horoscopes. They didn't even resolve themselves into the crudely effective reverse "L," descending on my forehead where it still is sitting, still is sitting.

I didn't really expect the first two. The third, well, maybe I'm a little lucky, if only a little. At any rate, I don't feature myself staring at the ceiling with the same eyes this year.

You heard me. I didn't stutter.