Come sail away, come sail away, come sail away with me, lads…
You hear that? That’s Larry. He’s in the next room. That’s his favorite song. “Come Sail Away”, by…damn. I almost had it that time.
Larry should know who did that song, but watch this.
Hey Larry.
What?
Who did that song, Larry?
What?
Who did “Come Sail—
What?
That’s all Larry says. Only sound that he makes. Besides singing, I mean. It’s a very strange place, whatever this is. It’s not hot, it’s not cold. The walls are all white. You start to see scenes from your life on those walls.
Like the time your parents raised your allowance. They looked in your room. Saw your bed made and your clothes put away. They raised your allowance a buck fifty a week. Your dad took you out for an ice cream cone.
Your folks seemed so happy. They seemed so pleased. So you took the money and ate ice cream with sprinkles. But you payed your sister to clean up your room…
We lived happily forever, so the story goes,
but somehow we missed out on the pot of gold…
…who did that damn song…it’s driving me nuts. Waste of time asking Larry, of course. Watch this.
Hey Larry.
What?
Who did “Come Sail—
What?
He’s in the next room, other side of the wall. I’ve never seen Larry, I’ve just heard him sing. Hard to believe that it all comes to this. Four walls and Larry and “Come Sail Away”…
Just you and four walls, and scenes from your life that play in your head with crackles and pops, like one of those old instructional films. Things you left broken. Things never done. Lies that you lived. Truths never spoken.
A gathering of angels appeared above my head,
they sang to me this song of hope
and this is what they said…
Who the #$%& did that song…you can almost see it, then it fades. But nothing else does. Not the walls, not Larry. Not “Come Sail Away”.
Not that lump in your throat. It waits. It stays. Cold as the ice cream you slurped down that day. The ice cream was good. In fact, it was great. The ice cream you got that you didn’t deserve. You hoped it might have that freezer-burn taste, like the Valu-rite brand your grandmother bought. As if that might atone. Or at least mitigate.
I thought that they were angels
but much to my surprise…
They can stop building prisons. Open the jails. Preachers can stop preaching about heaven and hell. It’s like straightening your pant leg, pulling up your sock. Four walls and a memory. You punish yourself.