Burridge Unbound Read Online Free

Joanne leaves and I’m stunned by how completely she takes all vitality with her. In a moment the apartment is a caveof gloom. The storm outside intensifies and my insides protest the richness of the food just as a headache arrives and the walls start to close in. I settle back in front of my computer, my steady friend, my refuge. The night stretches in violent wonder pulsing around our planet at the speed of electricity. And so conveniently in English! Thank God for the British Empire and American know-how.
The South China Morning Post
and
Hong Kong Standard
publish pictures of the flooding Yangtze River, run stories on the villages officials have decided to sacrifice in order to save the large city of Wuhan.
Dawn
and
The International
in Karachi write about the suspect caught there in the African bombings of U.S. embassies, and about the MQM factions killing one another in the streets. The Colombo
Daily News
speculates on the standing of Clinton after the confession of his “inappropriate relationship” with Monica Lewinsky. And in Santa Irene, AP reports a protest of students about the tripling of tuition fees and inflation in general. The Asian economic crisis has even affected drug profits, the article says.
    On and on I travel and read, but I’m one man against the night and the odds are ruinous. Eventually the screen dulls, my eyes tire. I breathe and breathe – little sips of air, but from the diaphragm, a
qigong
meditation that sometimes sends subtle waves of energy through my body. But tonight the air has a hard time passing my throat. And now my leg makes it impossible to sit anyway. I pace the short section of rug past the west window to the north and back, try to keep track of how many times I turn around (as if that statistic will somehow keep me anchored). I should have exercised today. Why didn’t I? Everything was so good. I felt as if I could go forever. Who needs to eat, walk, touch the earth, talk to a human being face to face?
    It all sours so fast. What kind of wonderland was I inhabiting? This is my true reality. Total exhaustion. But stay awayfrom sleep. Sleep is torture. The Kartouf own sleep and Burridge has been banished from its gates. I dial Joanne. I should just let her have her evening but I can’t. I need to know that she’ll be able to come.
    “Bill? Are you all right?”
    “Yes.” I breathe for a moment. It’s true. Just having her to call has calmed my heart. I’m still pacing, but it’s manageable now. I’m okay. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I had some anxiety, but it really wasn’t so bad and now it’s fine. I shouldn’t have bothered you. How’s the refugee camp?’
    “Soaked with rain,” she says. “It seems like old times. Are you sure you’re all right?”
    “I seem to be fine. I think I just needed to know I could reach you. I’ll do some more computer.”
    “How many feminists does it take to change a lightbulb?” she asks.
    “I don’t know.”
    “That’s not funny!”
she says. “You should put on Abbott and Costello.”
    I tell her I will. Slapstick suits me fine most of the time. Buster Keaton, Chaplin, Laurel and Hardy, the Marx Brothers. Nothing too lowbrow for my taste. I have a nice collection. They remind me of childhood Saturday mornings watching cartoons with my brother Graham. Bugs Bunny and Road-runner. Woody Woodpecker. Popeye and Olive Oyl. Just reading the video titles starts to cheer me up. Suddenly I wish to God Patrick were here to watch with me. We’d snuggle on the couch and share a blanket, stuff ourselves with milk and cookies. Charlie Brown.
The Grinch Who Stole Christmas
. That little puppy pulling the huge sleigh, teetering on the brink of oblivion.
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
. The two outlaws trapped on the cliff. Sundance won’t jump because hecan’t swim. Why does Sundance end up with Katharine Ross?
    Katharine Ross
. Whatever happened to Katharine Ross? I’m soaked suddenly in sadness about her. She was so