WHO IS IAN JOLIE?

O Lonely Night

Harvey flipped his pillow once again and turned over in his bed, ruffling the sheets like disturbed clouds. He stared at his alarm clock: three thirteen in the morning, and there was no sound or movement in his own little, personal environment. He liked his room because of that. His room was secluded from any and everything else, and it made him feel secure.

He wondered for a second what was happening around him in the other rooms on his floor. Most people were probably fast asleep by now, but perhaps some were awake, wasting their time away watching television or reading books. Perhaps some were hard at work, writing the next Great American Novel even. A funny thought, he wondered how many other people were staring at their alarm clocks on this very night at three thirteen in the morning and contemplating the exact same thoughts he was having just now. But then the thought slipped. It was now three fourteen in the morning, and time had past like it always does and always will. Harvey realized then that thoughts, like moments, were ephemeral, and in this permanent sea it was all evaporating, water into the air. Water unto the air, released like fountains.

Harvey smiled then let out a soft chuckle. What did that even mean? He was tired, for sure, but at the same time he knew he could run a marathon. He knew he sure wanted to. Water. Water unto the air, released like fountains? Like fountains.

Harvey really did need to pee. He had needed to pee since laying down in bed. He should have gone when he had the chance. Now, getting up to go to the bathroom would require actual effort. He would have to think about his thoughts and actions, and even in his hazy, half-awake state he knew he preferred not thinking to thinking. Somewhere in his mind, he knew he would have to pull open his sheets, brave the cold air, step out, walk to the bathroom, then lower his pants--all work which he'd prefer not to do because he knew that wasn't the end of it. Then he would have to flush, pull up his pants, walk back, brave the cold, and settle himself back in bed, and that he knew took not only effort but concentration. He knew he did not have concentration. At least not now.

He glanced at his clock again. Three fifteen. Which was funny because three divides evenly into fifteen by a factor of five. Harvey chuckled once more and said into his cold, lonesome room, "You'd think I'm crazy, but I'm not. It's funny."

Then three sixteen happened and the idea passed. Fuck it, he thought. He needed to pee, and he was more conscious than ever. He felt he could run a marathon. No, two marathons. Maybe even three. He knew he'd need some practice, but still.

Harvey got up, braved the cold, walked drunkenly to the bathroom, and dropped his pants. He let out an orgasmic sigh as a stream of water was let unto the air, released like a fountain. It was a yellow, acidic fountain, sure, but in the end still a fountain.

Slowly a smile crept on his face, and he tried to suppress it, but trying to suppress a smile is a lot like trying to scream at a baby to try and shut it up--it's just not going to work. Harvey held his breath. He was awake now, for sure. Like, five marathons sure. If he started laughing now, he knew pee would be let loose upon the walls, the floor, the toilet seat, like a smashed hydrant, water totally gushing, like, everywhere.

And damn it, he let out a pack of hyenas. God frakking damn it.

*

Harvey woke to the blasting beep of an alarm clock that seemed to pound his forehead with every subsequent beating pulse thereafter. He gave it a brief second's thought, then checked his bed sheets. Completely dry. He breathed a sigh of relief, then checked his alarm clock: seven in the morning, exactly on the dot.