He's In Charge

Heron Dream

I’m Friedrich Nietzsche. Or that’s what it feels like? Very presumptuous of me to think I could embody the mental state of someone who died 125 years ago by reading a few of their books. Oh well everyone thinks like that. I’m walking through the street, on my way to work washing dishes at the local bar. I hated being a dishwasher. I thought I was above it.

There’s a heron spearing a fish. One moment you’re a fish the next you’re a fish with a heron-beak-shaped hole in you. The sound it makes reminds me of a video of a guy getting stabbed that my friend showed me in high school. It’s less dramatic than in the movies. Just a body trying to figure out why it’s dying, flailing with zero purpose beyond recognition of pain.

The heron swallows the fish and stares at the water. The fish is flailing in pain inside of the heron and the heron has completely forgotten. Can fish feel pain? There’s an experiment that says they can. Poor fish. Maybe one day I’ll be a fish. If so my pity is useless. Just a proxy for anything meaningful so I don’t think I’m a sociopath.

I get to work but they don’t need me in the kitchen. I’m going to be a busboy today. I’m serving the customers and the rich ones on the second floor are making fun of me. At least I think they are. Ego makes you feel like everything is about you. If I’m not the center of the universe why can I only see from my perspective.

The rich people make me dance on the table. They throw money at me. Lots of it. I think my parents will be happy about this money. Maybe I can afford to live on my own after tonight. Probably not.

The heron hasn’t caught anything for a while. I can see some fish but they are too big for him. Mayan Cichlids. They are invasive here but I could never bring myself to kill one. They have little families and hide in the rocks. If Nemo was real he would have turned into a girl and fucked his dad. At least that’s what they say. I wonder what Freud would have thought about that. I would be okay if the heron ate the Mayan Cichlids. He is a little heron with a little Mohawk. He is the Lightning McQueen of birds. He could be a good dog if not for his soulless eyes. Werner Herzog hated chickens because he let a group of children torture one and filmed it. He justified this hate by going on rants about how stupid they are. This heron isn’t stupid. He is the master of his environment. He would never allow himself to be selectively bred to be too muscular to walk or shit out eggs in a battery cage for his entire life. He is the master of his environment. Same eyes, though.

I’m dancing more now. Really getting into it. All eyes on me. Everyone reviles me I can see it in their eyes. “Look at it dance” a stereotypically banker-looking fat guy with a top-hat says scornfully. My soul wants to hurt him but my face smiles because I want his money. The heron would have hurt him. He is a master of his environment.

There are dollar bills all around when the flooding starts. A deluge lifts the chairs and tables. People drown around me as I dance. The people on the second floor are very entertained. I have to keep dancing so I can move out. Their laughter turns to hysteria then cries then laughter again. This dream needs more herons.

I’m walking home, soaked from the bar. I hope the rich people died. I see a man in a golf cart and I am terrified of him. I hide until he leaves. It’s very late now. The herons are sleeping but I see a Great Blue standing under the bridge. The water is too deep there but it is standing.

I get anxious. A musical number plays in my head. “He’s in charge” the voices cajole to the tune of a merry-go-round. The music grows faster and louder. The voices mock me.

Glass breaks. Neighbors are shooting at each other from across the street with rifles. Cars crash as families try to evacuate. Maybe they hear it too. Maybe the heron does. Maybe he doesn’t mind. I’ll never know because I ran until everything was black. When I woke up I cried for the first time in a while.

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