There are little men in my lungs, tiny construction workers in filthy work clothes and stained hardhats with flickering headlamps, skin soiled black from the smoke that surrounds them as they tirelessly haul carbon monoxide up and out, buckets passing from hand to hand like a fire brigade, the gas billowing from my mouth and nostrils in great gouts, like God leading the Jews through the desert; they're like the ones in my head, frantically digging that hidden language out of my brain, spattered with gore and tissue, heavily gloved hands pulling back folds of membrane for bright veins of occluded information, ripe and ready to burst, like sea creatures brought up from the deepest of trenches. Simon was tapping at his jar again.
It wasn't unusual to wake late in the evening to the soft plink of Simon feebly knocking his underdeveloped knuckles on the glass, his actions hindered by his suspension in brine and formaldehyde. You soon learned to ignore the sound, most times, as to respond to his call was to find yourself trapped by his lidless gaze, owlish eyes the size of ostrich eggs holding you captive with a penetrating solemnity and glacial patience; it was a look that somehow suggested that Simon and his jar had always been here, surviving kings and prophets, religions and dynasties, and that Simon and his jar would continue long after the spark of our own stumbling monkey civilization had burned out.
Once caught in such a gaze, one found themselves helpless and open to suggestion; many's the time one of us would walk into the storeroom, seeking a fresh light bulb or road-salt for the parking lot, and instead find some hapless soul entranced among the bent radio antennae and broken furniture, staring slack-jawed and slowly loosening the lid to Simon's jar – which was always contrary to Simon's desires, as all he usually wanted was for someone to change the channel on his small black and white RCA television set on the shelf across from his perch.
We always meant to get that lock fixed.
