Prelude to a Scream by Jim Nisbet Page A

of a tree, and a tatter of yellowed newspaper with dark glistening stains on it. He closed his eyes against the tears that filled them, rediscovered his voice, and screamed, “Where the fuck am I?”
    â€œPipe the Christ down over there, man,” said a sleepy, gravelly voice.
    He moaned.
    â€œThat’s better.”
    He opened his eyes. A tear spilled over his downside cheek. He was on his back now, and the pain in it, though somewhat subsided, throbbed insistently. His side felt like it was in a vise. He tried to imagine the pain as something distinct and separate from himself, something with which he might become but marginally acquainted. He failed.
    The cypress limbs quivered gently above him. I’m hurt, he thought. It’s time to admit it. “I’m hurt,” he said aloud.
    â€œTrust in the Lord,” said the gravelly voice. “’Less you got inshore-ance.”
    â€œNo, really,” he reiterated, in a horse whisper, “I’m hurt,” as if accepting the truth of the matter. He was hurt. If this isn’t hurt, there is no chrome in Indiana.
    And he was outdoors. Under a tree in a sleeping bag, between the tree trunk and a heap of steaming feces. Insult added to injury. To hurt.
    He’d never owned a royal purple sleeping bag.
    A crow flew overhead, calling to inaudible friends.
    In his time he had invoked a few hangovers, and knew from experience that the thing to do, when awaking in unfamiliar surroundings, was to remain calm and locate the aspirin. In due course, whether it was sufficiently degrading or not, the rest of the story would tell itself.
    The present degradation seemed a bit extreme, however. Usually the pain in a hangover was in his head and not in his back. Had he been mugged? It seemed unlikely that a mugger would leave him in a sleeping bag afterwards. Besides, he’d had very little money when he… When he…
    When he what? Goddammit…!
    The twenty dollars. He’d conned the young hooker out of it. A proud moment. Instant karma? What goes around, comes around? What he stole, got stolen?
    Con a hooker, wake up under a tree?
    Well, hey. In Sanskrit, “karma” means “action.”
    Beggars can’t be choosers.
    A bum in the bag is worth two in the cardboard…
    Be calm, be calm. In due course, the rest of the story will degrade you.
    Royal purple, a color the gay boy-scout troop might deem standard issue, and there was a big wet spot underneath him, oh dear, not far from the pain in his lower back. Had he been dragooned into a troop of gay boy-scouts?
    This hangover might stack up with the really big ones…
    The bag was zipped to his chest, his arms were inside, and in fact it was quite cozy in there. Too cozy. Perhaps he was sweating. His eyes drooped to half-mast again… snapped open. There seemed to be quite a bit of sunlight filtering down through the thickly matted cypress. So maybe the breeze shaking the tree would be the leading edge of a fog bank… That is to say, it could be the edge of a bank of fog… if…
    If he were still in San Francisco.
    If he weren’t in Indiana.
    Land of deciduous consciousness.
    The cypress was a good sign. San Francisco has lots of cypress.
    If he was still in California, everything was still half-way okay — right? Doesn’t that stubborn optimism go hand in hand with the New World experience?
    From close by he heard the sound of a filling sprinkler head, alternately spitting air and water.
    â€œOh shit,” said the disembodied gravelly voice. “Here it comes, amigo. Rise and shine.”
    From the other side of the cypress he heard the rasp of a zipper and whispers of nylon and the hollow thump-thumps of shoes being clapped together.
    â€œGoddamn earwigs,” grumbled the voice, somewhat cheerfully, if Stanley wasn’t mistaken. “If it ain’t the fleas it’s the lice and if it ain’t the lice it’s the