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Dedicated to Nick, my favorite trumpeter.
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The Trumpeter
Zakuyoe
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I: Insomnia
I can't sleep. As always.
That's usually how it always is. I ‘go to bed’ at about eleven, with the intent of finally catching up on sleep, but I end up lying awake on my bed for hours afterward. And I know this wouldn't happen if I weren't so bored; I would always fall asleep early during the school year because by nighttime I'd be more than exhausted, but now that I was on summer vacation there was nothing to tire me out, no reason to sleep early… though, I don't think five in the morning is exactly ‘early’ anymore.
I heave a sigh, glancing around my room through squinted eyes. The blinds to my bedroom are slightly parted, a soft glow from the moon illuminating the room. I can faintly see my old binders from the previous school year, though they merely look like a pile of black on my desk; the few posters on my wall appear the same way. In fact, my trophies are the only things to not appear monochromatic, and that was only because they sat quite close to the window on my bedside table.
I had earned those trophies from math competitions. Math, I suppose, was my passion. During the school year I dedicated every other Saturday morning taking tests and competing with other students from other schools, and if I did well enough I received trophies for my accomplishments; as of now I have twenty-six sitting on my bedside table. This upcoming year I'd be competing at the Calculus division, and though I was quite excited I was also nervous.
But thinking about that wouldn't help me or my current case of insomnia. I toss the comforters off me, and they land with a thud on the floor as I drag myself out of bed. Being that my eyes are already adjusted to the lack of light, I find it easy enough to hobble over to the computer on my desk. It's already on, granted I'd already tried resorting to it four times through the course of the night, and so it's not long before I find myself loading my instant-messaging system.
No one's online. No surprise. No one's going to be awake this early in the morning.
Except my dog, Rosco. I can hear him in the corner of the room, looking curiously in my direction. He’s probably wondering what I’m doing this late at night, much as I’m wondering why I can’t sleep when it’s already so late… or early.
Sighing, I look around once more, yet again in an attempt to occupy me with something. I look past the posters and onto the next wall; it's much less crowded, and right now there’s hardly anything, and it only looks like a blob of grey; the light of the computer doesn’t help, either. It's supposed to be a wall reserved for pictures, but there are only two pictures up there right now. One picture is of Amber Polanski, who is perhaps the closest female friend I have. She'd helped me through some tough times, and I'd always been rather thankful for her help (though not at the time). She also competes in those math competitions with me, and we happen to have a lot of things in common.
The other is of Gregory Kauffman, my best friend. He and I are inseparable—or at least, we used to be. There was a time where we did almost everything together, but as of August of last year he had begun dating Amber. Of course, we're still best friends; we just don't spend as much time together as we used to. And though to him spending more time with Amber seemed the higher priority, I tended to disagree.
Grumbling under my breath, I turn to Rosco. I really do hate these moments; sometimes I wish I did have school, because at least then I wouldn't be so bored. I wouldn't have this insomniac issue to deal with….
“Hey, boy, you feel like sleeping with me tonight?” I ask him, clapping my hands together, and he eagerly comes to me. I begin to vigorously scratch his light layer of fur, yet there’s something about him that’s bothering me….
I look to the corner of my room, where his bed is, and even though I can’t make distinctions between colors very well, I can still see that something particularly acrid in smell in on his bed….
“Aw… aww… Rosco!” Rosco merely pants at me, his tongue hanging out quite innocently, as if taking a crap in my room wasn’t against any of the laws I’ve set for him. “Stay, Rosco… I’m gonna have to find something to clean this up with….”
I don’t think he understands me, though, because he follows me right out the door. I decide to let him follow me—he’ll probably cause a riot if I try forcing him back into my room—and as I blindly find my bathroom door, I push it open and flip open the lights. After allowing a moment to get used to the bright light, I make my way to the cupboard under the sink and reach inside for a particularly thick, plastic bag.
When I find what I want I leave the bathroom, Rosco tagging behind me. I return to my bedroom and flip open the lights to my room, and again I need a moment to adjust to the brightness. I rush over to the corner and pick up Rosco’s… excretions…and I quickly run back to the toilet, depositing it in there before flushing.
I go back to the room and find Rosco staring expectantly at me, wagging his tail at me. I ignore him, turning to my clock—it's nearly six, now.
“I’m not taking you for a walk,” I tell him, putting on my coat as he follows me. “No, Rosco, you’re not coming with me—stay!” He looks at me with wide eyes, but he returns slowly to his bed without further ado. I sigh, watching my dog, and once he’s seated comfortably in his corner once more, I turn to leave the room, shutting the lights behind me.
I’m not really sure where I’m headed. My first instinct is to go to Amber’s, except I know she won’t wake up for me; I called her at six in the morning once, on a Saturday, and she didn’t talk to me for the rest of the weekend. It’s definitely something I don’t want repeated, especially since getting Amber angry with me isn't on the top of my priority list, so I pull out my phone to browse other options.
I barely even look at phone before I instinctively dial Greg’s number.
Would he mind?—I
don’t think so.
“Wha…?”
“You up?” I ask, and all I can hear at first is a bunch of grumbling.
“Fuck, Lloyd, it’s… six? Why the hell would I be awake at this time?” He mutters a few more curse words, and I can faintly hear him moving about. “I am now, man. Fuck, I don’t think I can go back to sleep.”
His continual cursing doesn't faze me too much. I've become quite used to it. “Sorry,” I say quickly into the phone. “So….”
“What'd you want?”
I pause. “You wanna do something?”
“The fuck?” he spits into his end of the line. “You woke me to hang out? Couldn’t wait till… I dunno, later?”
“Sorry,” I apologize yet again. “So… wanna?”
“I guess, but you better not ring the doorbell…. Folks won’t be too happy.”
I frown at this. “I thought you said your parents weren’t home?”
“They aren’t,” he says, “but Ant is. And he’s much worse than I am, trust me.” Ant, or Anthony, is Greg's little brother, and he's… well, a monster. He's worse than Amber when it comes to waking up, if that says anything.
“If you say so,” I reply. “So… I’ll meet you in a few, then?”
“Guess so. You inviting anyone?”
“What?” The question seems to reverberate through my mind, as if asking such a question wasn’t capable of producing a proper answer. “Er… you actually think anyone’s up?”
“No,” he replies, and from the sound of it he’s brushing his teeth now. “You got me up, though… it’ll work for others.”
“Not everyone wakes up as calmly as you do,” I tell him, turning the corner. The sun’s already beginning to rise, and in the distance I can make out Greg's house, which is slightly larger than mine. Not that that’s the least bit surprising, as Greg's dad makes a lot more money than my dad does. Still, I’m not really complaining much, because mine’s still a pretty decent house.
Greg mumbles something incoherent on the other end, perhaps so because of the toothbrush in his mouth, and I ask him to repeat himself.
“I don’t think I wake up calmly,” he says, spitting into what I presume is a sink. “Ant says I’m pretty nasty waking up.”
“I’ll take your word for it then.” A random car honks at me as it passes, and from the driver seat someone flicks me off…. “I’m at your house, Greg. Open the door.”
He gives a small grunt before the line goes dead. I grumble, stuffing the phone back into my pocket as I step onto his porch; it’s not really a porch, because it’s much too small to be one, but there’s still enough room on the wooden flooring to fit a chair or two… maybe three.
I lean against his door; how long was he planning on taking? He sounded as if he had already finished brushing his teeth… surely sneaking down the stairs couldn’t take too long, could—
Next thing I know, I’m on the ground, on my back, and in agonizing pain.
“Aw, fuck!” I exclaim, rolling to my side. “What gives?”
“Your fault for leaning on the door in the first place,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “You coming in then?”
“I’m sorta in,” I tell him weakly, rolling over some more. “I’m in. Happy?”
“Guess.” He gives me one last appraising look before shutting the door, turning on the lights so I can see where I’m going. He reaches a hand in my direction, which I gladly take, and once I’m up on my feet again I take a good look at Greg.
He still looks tired, even if he claims he can’t go back to sleep. Yet he looks really out of place, especially because he’s fully dressed in his over-sized grey sweater and light blue jeans. Not that that’s surprising, because he always wears that sweater, but it’s just… odd… seeing it accompanied with his disheveled hair and mismatched socks.
“Didn’t have to dress up,” I tell him as we ascend the stairs. “I wouldn’t have minded.”
“Gee, Lloyd,” he snaps; “if you wanted to see me that badly in my underwear, you should’ve told before I changed.”
“Sorry,” I mutter, but he raises a finger to his lips, silencing me. He nudges his head toward a closed door, and, understanding his point, we both tiptoe silently past Ant’s room.
Once we’re in Greg’s room, however, we can’t resist the urge to break into laughter. I’m not even sure why we’re laughing—maybe it’s because it’s barely even six and the two of us are still fully awake. But the fact remains that we’re cracking up, with Greg sprawled on the floor and me on my side, on his bed, and the justification or cause is way past our minds at the moment.
“Who’d you call?” he asks me between laughs, standing up from the floor.
I look at him
blankly; who’d I call…?
Oh… that.
“I didn’t call anyone,” I tell him honestly. “It kinda slipped outta my mind, sorry.”
“That’s fine,” he tells me, and I watch him as he jumps onto his bed. It causes the bed to creak, even launching me slightly into the air; and he lands with a thud beside me, his arm smacking me right in the mouth.
“So, Lloyd,” he begins, as if he hadn’t hit me, “what’s the real reason you’re here?”
“Real reason…?” I ask, sputtering what’s either blood or saliva… and I’m hoping it’s the latter.
“Sure, Lloyd. You don’t wake me up at six-o-fucking-clock every morning, do you?”
“No… I guess not.” Greg gives a laugh, heaving a sigh as we look at the popcorn ceiling. “I just… couldn’t sleep. That’s all.”
“Couldn’t go to anyone else?”
I shake my head profusely. “Nah, you're the only one who wouldn’t have murdered me.”
“You thought I wouldn’t have?” He turns to me, and as I glance sideways at him, I can see a devious smirk developing on his face. “You’re right here, Lloyd. I could potentially murder you for waking me up, too.”
“But you wouldn’t do that,” I tease, sticking my tongue at him. “You love me too much.”
“Next to Amber,” he says simply, and with that we become immersed once more with the ceiling above us.
-Zak
