“I am Plantman, keeper and protector of The City’s indoor flora,” screamed from semi-sleep.
Thirtieth birthday.
BEING, The Bakery Girl, Muse, Music. Crowded room. Family. Happy home. Not well. Freezing. Terrible cold. My cubicle my deathbed.
The Bakery Girl, beautiful buxom. Music’s huge shirt draped Muse’s carved diamond rare-beautiful.
“Freezing,” tried to say.
Words came Egyptian. Ancient Egypt—me. Supposing Ra. Sun god. God Sun. Father sun whole ghost. Amenhotep. Akhenaton. Nefertiti warm fragrant. Night. Ozymandias. Ramses. Cheops. John. Paul. George. Ringo.
“I’ve seen him fucked up before, but not like this,” said BEING.
“Surprised he’s not dead,” said Music.
Body fluttered chills.
“We gotta get him to a hospital,” said Muse. “There’s something wrong here. Really wrong.”
No disagree. She touched. Muse hand, my forehead.
“My god, he’s burning!”
Cab called. Music and BEING stuffed me back seat.
“City Hospital,” said The Bakery Girl to the cab driver.
Pursued pure talk. Egyptian say, Egyptian say. Nonsense.
“He’s talking like a crazy man,” said The Bakery Girl. “He’s babbling something about Egypt.”
“You okay?” asked BEING.
Explain. Explain the situation. Head Plantman. Pharaoh’s palace. Plants dying. Blame me, blame me. Danger for life!
“Take it easy,” said BEING. “Try to sleep it off.”
Eyes closed. Sun in my head huge; sparkling Nile; glyptic peasants. Heads balanced bowls teeming snakes.
“Wheat,” I said. “Wheat not snakes.”
“He’s okay,” BEING whispered. “Drank too much or something.”
“Happy birthday,” muttered The Bakery Girl.
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