Incidental Dreams from a Myoclonic Jerk

By Joe Bugden

Incidental Dreams from a Myoclonic Jerk is Joe Bugden's first published collection of short stories. The collection is inhabited by characters drawn from unexceptional circumstances, whose lives are touched by love and loss, by regret and remorse, and who are placed in small and domestic settings as an examination of the everyday, and a

• Language: English
• Publisher: Debbie Lee
• Release date: Feb 3, 2024
• ISBN: 9781761096778

Book preview

IN THE MIDST OF A SOUTHERN FALL

Each human life, like a wave in an ocean, rises out of a vast past. It takes shape and form, emerging with its own identity, its own potential, presence and power. But only for a time, a short time, before it’s consumed by its surroundings and becomes part of tomorrow’s vast past, inseparable and indiscernible from the merged matter and the energy that brought it forth in the first place.

A strong easterly had been blowing all night. It had been forecast for days, so when it arrived, no one was surprised that the morning was likely to reveal, as it did, a coastline littered with a wash-up of kelp and other detritus. The larger rock pools bubbled with dirty foam, and the beach had been pummelled and trashed. Bodies of small birds, too weak, too young or old to battle against the battering winds, lay occasionally upon the sand, still and ruffled and with their mouths open, in some silent, final call to something or other. Their eyes already gone.

In two or three days, the seaweed would begin to rot and stink, decomposing and releasing gasses that made the beach smell like a sewer. If the weather remained hot and still for too long, it would become overwhelming, and the breeze could carry the smell along for miles. But eventually the ocean would do its thing, and we would wake up to a pristine beach, impeccably preened and picturesque. The rubbish will have entirely disappeared, as if it had never been there at all. That’s what the ocean does best; it shows you what it holds in its hand, but for a moment, then hides its secrets so you can never find them. No matter how hard you look.

From my window, I could see a small fishing boat bobbing about, about half a mile offshore. I know most of the locals’ boats and can usually identify who owns what when they’re out there. But this boat was unfamiliar. It could have belonged to a visitor, I suppose, but the beach, at the moment, was not for the faint-hearted. Even that far offshore, the smell would have made for a rather unpleasant fishing experience. There was only one person in the boat; well, only one that I could see. There could have been a second diving, I guess; they dive out there sometimes, after the overnight storms that unsettle the seabed and expose the crabs and crays.

I’ve never bothered myself to study the tides and ocean forecasts that closely. I don’t surf and I don’t fish, but I know enough to know that when the conditions are right, there can be up to a dozen small boats out there, all looking to exploit the bounty below and catch what they can. That’s not to say you’ll never see only one boat out there, but it is unusual.

From one end of my deck, I have quite a good sight line up along the beach, and I habitually sit out there in the mornings – at least to have a cup of coffee – even if I have to retreat inside if the wind gets up.

I leant on the balcony railing, scanning the sand and its various contents. From here, it was all just an array of sea junk, nothing stood out, nothing discernible from anything else. No treasure chests or any such thing had been washed up that I could see. The air was still clean and fresh, despite the unsightly visual clutter. But that would change, and likely by mid-afternoon the pungent decay would become airborne and be blowing my way. If I am to go beachcombing, I really should do it now, while the breeze is in my favour and death still fresh. The small fishing boat was still out there. It had moved a bit, maybe a hundred yards or so further offshore. I could still see only one person in the boat.

As I closed the door behind me, my dog whined, wondering why she wasn’t joining me for her daily beach walk. She was giving me the Look. Those eyes. Now that cry again, and a dainty, half-serious claw at the glass door. I almost weakened and went back for her, but I knew that she would dig up all sorts of filthy carcasses and rubbish, and end up coming home, jowls smeared with blood, covered with remnants of guts, and make the house smell even worse than the stock standard wet dog smell. Descending the steps, I could hear her crying. It was almost heartbreaking. Almost.

At the end of the duckboard decking where it meets the first areas of sand and grass clumps, I could see, then hear, squalls of gulls, their squawks and calls rising away from the clump of confusion and competition in which they were engaged. Something special, some easy pickings had their attention.

On the sand, I picked up a stick. It was a pretty good stick, certainly the best of what was about. It had achieved a weathered, aged patina that I chose to interpret as a metaphor for where it had been and what it had seen. It had elegant lines of curves and twists, of gnarls and scars. It was, as I say, a pretty good stick, and when you walk along, well, you always need to carry a good stick, don’t you? From among the many available, I chose a shell and considered it, turning it this way then that. I felt its weight and assessed it for balance and form. The weight felt right; it had mass. So I chucked it at the gulls, right into the middle of their melee. I don’t much like gulls. They’re too opportunistic.

I should have brought my dog along, after all. The scatterings were mainly vegetation; nothing to really tempt her. Once, on our morning walk, she discovered a seal, dead on the sand, and started chomping into it, which surprised me. But what do I know about the attraction of a dead seal, fresh on the beach?

I found a better stick, longer, just the right length and thickness at the handle and tapering away gracefully, but not too thin, at the tip. It didn’t sink into the sand too far.

I turned and threw the first stick back towards the gulls, but I missed by a mile. Stupid gulls.

My walk that morning took me almost to the far end of the sand, where the rubbish began to thin out as the beach curved round to face the south-south-east. From where I stood, looking back, the small boat was now out of sight, perhaps hidden by the swell which was developing. A wind was blowing up and the sky was darkening from the south, so I decided to go back and take my dog for at least a short walk while things remained reasonable.

It had been seven years this fall that I moved down here from Maine. The time felt right then to pack it all in and see if I could build a new life, a simpler life (so I told myself) further south, somewhere between, say, Charleston and Savannah. That was our plan. I would move down first, find a place and set up, and Jill would follow after she left her husband. We would make a new life together, Jill and I, begin our new life in the midst of a southern fall. But that didn’t happen. She didn’t follow me. She couldn’t leave him, she said.

She broke my heart. We’d been carrying that dream for so long. I had been prepared to give away everything for it, and for weeks I pleaded with her to come down. But I backed off after a few months. It was becoming unhealthy to persist. She did visit me after I’d been here about two years, but she didn’t stay. We had a cup of coffee and made small talk, skirting round anything that really mattered. And other than that, which really mattered, nothing else mattered in the least. Jill finished her coffee, we looked at the view, and then she left. We haven’t spoken in five years. I hope she’s happy. I genuinely do.

The gulls were still there, so I entertained myself chucking shells and pebbles at them as I passed. They were swirling and circling and making a racket. I don’t remember ever having seen gulls act that way; usually they swoop and snatch and scrap over the prize. There were a few herring gulls, which are larger and a bit more regal in their demeanour than the common variety, which, I guess, is often the way. It looked as if the ocean had delivered them a smorgasbord from which to choose, but there was something there that attracted the birds more than anything else nearby.

I could see my dog on the deck, and she could see me. How the hell did she get out of the house? She was sticking her head between the timber vertical slats of the gate, then pulling back, doing a 360 and repeating the routine. At the top of the steps, I extricated her head from between the slats and unlatched the gate, and she clambered down to the bottom, then turned, smiling and beckoning me to take her for a walk. I discovered that the door to the house was open. Perhaps I hadn’t closed it properly. I turned back to the steps and she scooted off ahead towards the sand as I followed, stick in hand.

The boat had gone. Likely disappeared round the headland as the weather was coming in.

My dog was doing the vacuum cleaner thing: scanning the sand with snout down, hovering just above the surface honing in on various scents for possibilities. Whether it was the gulls themselves, or what was keeping the gulls there, I don’t know, but my dog picked up some speed as she too headed into the fray. Most of the gulls scattered, squawked and then dropped back in to claim a position on the edge of the ring. I should have brought the leash with me, I thought. I’ll have to drag her out of this mess. I ran at the scrum of gulls, screaming like a warrior to try to disperse them so that I could grab my dog by the collar and move her away. Most of the gulls flapped off but the more determined stayed their ground, refusing to relinquish their poll position so close to the epicentre of attraction.

As I neared, maybe three yards or so away, I saw it. Christ! Is that the diver, was my initial thought. It was someone in a full-bodied black wetsuit, lying face-down, tangled in straps of kelp. I charged at the gulls and kicked the last of them out of the way to clear some space. My dog stood and leaned in, sniffing, but no more than that. The gulls came back and I kicked at them again.

When I turned the body over, I was taken aback. He seemed to be wearing some kind of wetsuit that covered his entire face as well as hands and feet. I tried to find somewhere to get his pulse. I checked his wrist then his neck, but could find nothing. The mask seemed to be vacuum sealed to his face and I tried to clear his throat passage. There was no sign of life at all. I began to apply CPR and – I must admit – hesitated beginning mouth-to-mouth. But when I did, after I guess maybe twenty seconds, the smell almost made me puke. I couldn’t do it. I simply could not do it. He must be dead, I told myself. That’s why the gulls are here. They know. He must be dead.

I looked along the beach to see if anyone else was about as I didn’t have my phone with me. There was no one on the beach at all. I couldn’t leave him to the gulls. But, if he is dead, what can I do? I dragged him away from the water. I’m not sure why, but I did, then half turned him over to face away from the sun. I ran back to my house and called 911, telling them to send an ambulance. They told me to go back to where the man was and stand by to guide the paramedics when they arrived.

I locked my dog inside the house and took a bottle of fresh water, a sponge and a pair of gloves, and ran back to the man. The gulls at least made it easy for me to know where he was. I shooed the gulls away again, but they were damn determined to return. I turned the man over a little and began to try to remove his face mask, but I could find no join between it and the bodysuit. I turned him more onto his stomach to look for a zip at the back, but there was nothing that I could see. And nothing down the front. Nothing at his wrists or ankles. Then I looked closely at his mouth, his lips, his eyes and the palms of his hands. It wasn’t a mask. He wasn’t wearing a mask. Or a suit. It was his skin. His skin was thick, veined with thin white lines running across a smooth shine of dark purple. He had no ears. My God. His fingers were slightly webbed. I had to push stupid, illogical thoughts from my mind. I clutched at reason and science. It must be a wetsuit of sorts. It must be; perhaps a new synthetic model for competitive swimming or deep, cold sea diving? But it wasn’t. It was his skin. Did this person have some terrible condition? It must be that, something like that.

I looked up to see a paramedic running towards me, with bag in hand, while another seemed to be unloading a stretcher from the back of the ambulance.

‘Hey,’ said the paramedic, placing her bag on the sand.

‘Hey,’ I replied. I recognised her from around town.

‘Is he dead?’ she asked.

‘I think so.’

The paramedic knelt down and turned the body over to look at his face. ‘Jesus Christ! What’s this?’

‘Is it a wetsuit? A swimming mask?’ I asked.

She opened his mouth and put her finger in as if to make sure his throat was unblocked, then moved her face closer to his. ‘My God!’ she exclaimed.

‘What is it?’

‘The smell.’

‘Well, if he’s dead…?’

‘I’ve smelt death. I know what death smells like. Even death at sea.’ She opened his eyelids as the second paramedic arrived. ‘That’s not your normal death smell. And this is no wetsuit. This is his skin.’

‘What have we got?’ the second paramedic asked.

‘Well, we’ve got no sign of life and a body that – that appears to be covered with very unusual skin,’ she replied.

The second paramedic knelt down to look more closely at the face. ‘What’s that smell?’

‘I know. It’s strange.’

‘So, no pulse at all?’ he asked.

‘No. I can’t find anything,’ she replied.

‘Is it ichthyosis?’ the second paramedic asked his colleague. ‘Have you heard of ichthyosis?’

‘Yep. I know what it is. We had a case study about it as part of some training I did years ago.’

‘OK. Let’s get him to the hospital and they’ll do the examination.’

The two paramedics placed the stretcher next to the body, untangled it from the kelp then deftly lifted it onto the stretcher and secured it with straps.

‘Those gulls are a pest,’ she said. ‘Do you live close by?’

‘Along there,’ I replied, pointing to my house. ‘Maybe three hundred yards.’

‘OK. We’ll need your details and the