Bob Bickford & Donnez Cardoza 

I heard from an old friend last night, on the telephone.

“It’s all gone crazy,” my friend said. “The markets are crashing, people are getting shipped to actual concentration camps, tornados are spinning everywhere. Did tornados used to be this bad?” 

Their voice shook, just a little. “The ones in charge are eating off gold plates and playing golf. I’m scared to death.”

“The goblins are a little nuttier than usual lately,” I agreed.

My friend is reasonably successful and well adjusted, with childhood frights all rationalized and dealt with. They have stuffed the old terrors into a cardboard box and sealed it with sturdy tape, like the rolls they give you at the UPS store. That box stays in the closet with the door closed. If the scary monsters and super creeps wake up sometimes, scratch and call to be let out, my old pal turns up the music and sketches a bathroom renovation on the back of an envelope.

“What do you do?” my friend asked. “When you’re scared?”

I thought about it, but only for a moment. It seemed important to get it right.

“Usually, I make two pieces of toast,” I said. “Eat them with margarine and a glass of milk, like a magic spell. I try never to fall asleep with an empty stomach.”

 I’ve slept hungry, you see.

“When I go to bed, I make sure I have a good blanket,” I said. “It’s important.”

I’ve also slept cold, more than once.

“Then, I check the dogs,” I continue. “They had boiled chicken tonight, with a piece of pizza. They have soft beds, and today they played hard. I watch legs twitch and know they’re running in their dreams. I wonder where they go, and I feel happy.”

I turn my pillow to the cool side and make a list of the people I see with my eyes closed, the ones I worry about. I think about the darkness beyond the window and feel glad that none of them are outside in the cold, tonight. I want all of them to have a warm blanket, not scratchy and not too heavy, the kind that makes you safe. I hope nobody is falling asleep hungry, that they had a good dinner. I hope they aren’t scared. I hope they played with their friends today. I whisper those things, like a charm.

“That’s it,” I said. “I do that, then I’m not scared anymore.”

“Doesn’t seem like much,” my friend said, considering. “The world is more complicated than that.”

“That’s all there is,” I said. “I’ve walked around a lot and kept my eyes open. Most of the world is make-believe. We build tacky golf resorts in paradise. Pave over roses, walk right past crying kids. The world is bullshit. I don’t believe in any of it.”

I have a deal with the Universe, the only promise I care about. Warm and safe and fed, everybody. Friends and play. Nothing else matters. 

“The world isn’t complicated,” I said. “By design.”

When we cheer because illegal immigrants will spend the night beneath bright fluorescent lights, not sure about where they’ll be sent or what will happen to them, we break our contract with the Universe. When we’re relieved the White House doesn’t smell like curry, when we feel satisfied nobody will go to sleep fed by food stamps bought with our tax money, we lose the only promise that ever mattered. 

We get so angry we forget to bring a warm blanket. We’re going to wander in the dark, lost forever. Cold.

Galaxies shine beyond this one, pulsars and quasars, showers of colored light. Sunny Tuesday afternoons we don’t have to work, cold drinks, green branches that droop over waterfalls. The nightmare falls away—the shouting, the stock markets and borders, the crowded freeways and defense spending, the interest rates and bond returns, the private jets and resort vacations and fine dining—it all gets forgotten, like none of it happened. The truth is, none of it ever did.

Warm and safe and fed. That’s our deal with the Universe, and we take it a single dark night at a time.

One tick-tock hour, I’ll sit up in bed and swing bare feet onto the cold floor. I’ll leave the front door open behind me, go outside into the dark. If I’ve stayed the course, the Universe will be waiting on the corner, sitting cross-legged atop a mailbox, a shimmer wearing sunglasses. Her skin will be dark, but her hair will be pale. She’ll hop down and reach for my hand.

(The Universe wears a hippie t-shirt. She looks a lot like you, Ghost.)

“Did you get something to eat?” she’ll ask. Her voice sounds like old movies, the silver screen. “Are you warm enough?”

I’ll look back over my shoulder once, and hope the people I see when my eyes close, the ones I worry about, have a good dinner and a warm blanket. I hope they played with their friends today and that somebody loves them.

“All set,” I’ll say. “I had some popcorn and a glass of apple juice. Let’s go.”

“Cheese popcorn?” the Universe asks.

“Absolutely.”

“Good.” Her smile will be perfect. “Warm and safe and fed—nothing else matters. Let’s go.”