text: Linoleum: A Tale of Loss and Madness Bob’s eyes flickered ceaselessly around the small room, seeming to fall everywhere at once, everywhere except for the wall they avoided. He smoked and paced, never still, exhaling reinforcement into the smoke-filled room. Bob’s hand shook, it usually did. The pitching cherry caught his eye, a drunken firefly in the haze. Bob’s eyes stilled, as he caught the rhythm of his hand’s dance, then with earnestness, he took the lead. His hand blurred, penning a disappearing masterwork in the air, the cigarette burning down towards the callous. He moved frantically, he saw it all coming together, it was-- Bob yelped in pain and outrage, hurling the butt, and sucking his fingers, as the manuscript faded into nothing. He yelled hoarsely in frustration; he shook, a bull considering a charge then, stopped. The only other occupant was an old dog, asleep in the corner. In a display of nonchalance, that his jerking eyes called a lie, he pulled another cigarette from the crumpled pack. He aimed the pack back to his pocket, but his shaking hand missed, and Bob watched the pack fall to the dirty linoleum with a frown. He sighed, let the cigarette and resumed his pacing. “Possessions never meant anything to me.” Bob declared. The dog snuffled in his sleep. “I’m not crazy!” Bob exclaimed over his shoulder, more forcefully than the unasked question warranted. The dog looked up in sleepy confusion. Bob draped him with a glare, then waved it off with annoyance and plowed into the smoke. It seemed to bristle at his trespass, but was unable to veer from its indifferently welcoming nature. From deep in the haze there was an almost inaudible whisper, “Well, that’s not true.” Emerging from the smoke with new resolve, Bob tried to stick out his index finger, but stopped half way, realizing it was still in use holding the cigarette and opted for his little finger instead. “I’ve got a bed,” he listed. He added his ring finger to the count, “and a guitar.” Now, he was just holding his hand up in the air. There was a yap from the corner; the old hound had decided to join in, not really interested, but refusing to be left out. “And a dog,” Bob agreed, with a nod of affection to his only companion. Bob tried to add another finger to the list, but wiggling his thumb didn’t seem right, and the rest were all in use. “Named Bob,” he shot at the dog, getting frustrated and stalling for time. Bob the Dog cocked his head slightly, and gave a guttural inquiry as to whose fault that was. The dog being right didn’t improve Bob’s mood, and the finger list situation was deteriorating rapidly. With a growl of frustration, Bob hurled his cigarette at Bob the Dog, it sailed wide and the dog pretended not to notice. Bob shook himself out and changed gears, he looked down at his free hands with determination. He wiggled his fingers and cracked his knuckles with a victorious laugh and...still couldn’t achieve the dexterity to hold up three fingers and keep two down. Bob deflected his frustrations back at Bob the Dog, pointing at the floor in accusation. “Who pisses on my floor! “, he accused, pointing, till his scowl turned to a lecherous grin. “That’s right,” he screamed in triumph, “I’ve got a floor”. He fell to his knees on the grimy linoleum holding up his four outstretched fingers, and kissed the floor in victory. Bob the Dog gave a disgusted snort, and began licking his asshole. “So, what?” Bob threw at the dog, “So, what!” Bob the Dog looked up from his grooming, and skeptically waited for a point. “So, what...”, Bob seemed to be out of ideas. “I’ve got pockets?” he tried. “Full of ....” Reaching into his right pocket for a lifeline, he found, “...Kleenex,”. Shit, but he had another chance. “And...,“ Bob reached deep into his left pocket and found nothing but his leg. The bottom was broken through. He pulled his hand out, releasing a galaxy of dust that floated, alive for a moment, and then sunk down towards oblivion. Bob tried to find a meaning, “Lint?” he said, feeling there should have been more. Bob the Dog the Dog stood up, circled once and flopped back into the same position. The dog glanced back at Bob sadly and then closed his eyes. Shit, he’d thought he had more than that, but he had nothing, nothing but... “Holes.” Bob whispered. He looked down at the muddy, stained, indistinguishably colored linoleum and saw the fallen pack of cigarettes. His eyes stilled, as he seemed to try out a thought. He started slowly, like he was sounding out the words, “Where everything important to me just...”, then gained some long-buried confidence, “seems to fall right down my leg.” Bob stopped, and looked down, the crumpled softpack waiting lonely below. “And onto the floor?” he tried, uncertainly. That wasn’t right, something there; but he was losing it. Bob the Dog’s chest rose and fell peacefully, snuffling softly, still, it was Bob’s only chance. “My closest friend?”, he implored. Bob the Dog snorted groggily, looked up and met Bob’s eye. Bob was pulled into the dogs mind, some senses expanding so far, others, nearly gone. He was content, and as he accepted his place he began to feel the symphony of life and death that was forever playing all around; beautiful, sad, deranged; it was everything that was and would be, and every being that lived had a part the song. Bob fell back into himself, it was like jumping from bed into a frozen lake. The symphony and comfort were gone. Tears filled Bob’s eyes. Bob the Dog farted. Bob gaped up in disgust and was met by a big shit-eating grin. The Dog’s point now seemingly proven, he turned in a circle, and peacefully melted down to a blob on the floor. Bob looked down. “Linoleum...” He turned in his circle and then lay down into the floor. “Linoleum,” he whispered. His head drooped and his cheek joined with the floor, in cool comfort. “Supports my head. Gives me something to believe.” Bob’s eyes closed, the floor was warm. He slept and dreamed, or maybe just remembered. He was a young man meandering happily down the water’s edge, holding a cheap metal detector in one hand and a brown bagged bottle in the other. Smiling, enjoying the day, oblivious to the glares of the surrounding people. “That’s me,” laughed Bob. He was so young, in his prime and loving. He was singing, and Bob sang along with himself. “On the beachfront, combing the sand, metal meter, in my hand...” Young Bob trailed off. He never had figured out the end. He roamed on up the beach, stooping occasionally to pick up a few coins and deposit them in his worn khaki cargo pants. “Sporting a pocket full of change”, Bob sang softly, finishing the tune. That sounded alright, or maybe it was shit. He dug his toe into sand and felt warm linoleum just below the surface. He looked down and was standing on cement. Bob was older now, the world had tried to wear him down, he was beaten, but still had the spirit of the boy on the beach hidden underneath. Bob’s face lit with a sad wistful smile, “That’s me on the street with a violin under my chin, playing with a grin.” He’d loved to play the violin, these were his most peaceful memories. Bob closed his eyes and listened for the tune. His smile wilted as the grating screeches of music and incoherent lyrics resolved. People shied back. “Singing gibberish.” All his strings were broken. Security moving in. Bob squeezed his eyes shut, trying to wake. He didn’t. He was restrained. His last moments of freedom. “That’s me on the back of the bus.” Bob was back in the smoky room. In front of him the door, on the wall he didn’t look at, opened. Inside was a white room with no sharp corners, a single prisoner inside. “That’s me in the cell.” Bob met his eyes, and both pairs stilled. Bob In The Cell lay down, softly repeating a mantra. “That’s me inside your head.” “That’s me inside your head.” “That’s me inside your head.” Bob closed the door.