the sun moves
by K. Uwe Dunn
The sun moves but he cannot. (pause.) His roommate moves but he cannot. (pause.) The nurses move through the hall but he cannot (pause.) – move as in get out of bed, not move as in a wiggle of the finger or flick of the wrist, as he can do that and more, no, move as in sit up, stand up, go to the pot. (pause). In that way, he cannot move until someone comes. (pause). He does not want someone to come.
(He looks at the blank television). The TV doesn't work anymore. It turns on, sure, but it doesn't keep his attention, only the window, the window, the books, and the workers hold his interest. (He snaps his neck pillow, unsnaps it, and then snaps it again. pause).
Moving hurts. Well, living hurts, but moving hurts worse. (pause). Why lie in the chair when it's all the same to lie in bed? Sad, yes, sad, but more so resigned and relieved, yes, relieved. (pause).
Life hurts and life is work. Dying is the lazy man's dream. (pause). Death, like being crazy, is someone else's problem.
The sun moves, still, but he cannot move, still. (He reaches for tortilla chips. Crackle. Crackle. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch).
“You and your goddamn chips,” his roommate says.
“You and your goddamn existence,” he replies.
(They both laugh. pause).
Good thing for projects. (He lifts up his copy of Franz Kafka’s “Der Prozess” along with his German dictionary). “I never tire of the first chapter,” he thinks. (pause). “A man is arrested without prior notice, without reason. Like Gregor is, in a way.”
“You and your goddamn books,” his roommate says.
“You and your goddamn news,” he replies.
(Neither laugh).
(After half an hour of reading, he watches the funny gopher's fat jiggle as it scurries across the lawn. Then a squirrel runs down a tree. pause. A nurse aide, NA, enters the room).
A conversation: NA: The doctor wants you to get up. Him: I don't want to get up. NA: The doctor says it's good for you to get out of bed. H: Don't I get a say? NA: You've been in bed for two days. H: What's two more? NA: You'll get a bed sore. H: Don't worry about me. I know how to shake my butt. (Roommate laughs). NA: I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist. It's a state regulation thing. H: What about him? (gestures toward the roommate). NA: It's different. Different because he can move himself. H: And chooses not to. Hmmmm. (pause). NA: Come on, now.
…
(The sunlight creates shifting shapes on the black TV screen, fuzzy contours of forms as if behind steamed glass. Sometimes I attach narratives to these outlines. Today, the shape, half an eclipse with a white top resembling a habit, appears to be a kneeling nun. A praying nun. She’s praying for her roommate’s demise … The light slides again and now a big, white rectangle appears with a curved corner, like a dog-eared page of a book. It’s from Allen Ginsberg’s Journals: “I felt my body, like an independent serpent with a material universe life of its own, crawl over bend and curl in snakelike spasms of vomiting …”)
…
He has a dream (pause.) his wife gives birth to a child whose bones show through its skin. (pause.) He doesn’t recognize the place or the other people or children. Soon he loses sight of the child through the chaos and comes to realize his wife has given it away. (pause.) He’s relieved.
He wakes up saying his wife’s name but only finds his roommate. His roommate (pause.), his useless legs, the black TV, the shutters down, and his chips. (Crackle, crackle, crunch).
A dream will probably be the last thing.
Photo of K. Uwe Dunn
BIO: K. Uwe Dunn's work has been featured in The Atticus Review, The Gramercy Review, and Kestrel: A Journal of Literature and Art, among other publications. He is fluent in the German language, has a master of fine arts degree in painting, and lives in rural Pennsylvania with his wife, Isabella.