Nightmare

Nightmare 3/10/00: Name, Rank, Serial Number.

by R. Eric Swanepoel

The Capitalists have captured me. They tie me to an Ikea kitchen chair.
They put atropine drops in my eyes, to dilate my pupils. A halogen
searchlight is switched on.

What is your name?

John Arthur Middleton, Dr.
Arthur to most.
John to salespeople, ingratiatingly.
Dr. Middleton, formally.
Dear, to my mother.
Love, in Manchester.
Stupid fucker, pull yourself together! to myself. Too often.

What is your rank?

Public, I fear, rather than Private.
Today I was captured by 21 video cameras.
On the streets. At the cashpoints. In the shopping malls.
Today I received five unsolicited E-mails, and two items of junk mail,
addressed to me.
I am in the phone book.
I am in their computers.
You can ask my acquaintances, my friends and my relatives about
me.
Yes, my rank is Public. Definitely not Private.

What is your serial number?

If it's numbers you want I can give you plenty.
Date and time of birth.
Birth weight.
Street number, postcode.
Height, weight, blood pressure, resting heart rate.
Credit card numbers.
Bank card number.
PINs, BT CallMinder access code.
Insurance policies.
Debts - negatively, you see, I'm very wealthy - do you want to know my
debts?

There is quiet. I hear them breathing and mumbling. I imagine them
deciding which box to tick: co-operative, unco-operative, enigmatic.
They tick, I think, enigmatic.

Thank you, Dr. Middleton. You may go back to your cell.

As if I had a choice! They escort me (I think it's called!) an arm on
each elbow.
I am left in the blessed darkness with ruined eyes.

But I am triumphant!
They think they know it all, but they do not know the most important
thing.
The only thing that matters.
It is now seven minutes past noon, on the 3rd of October in the year
2000.
One year, nine months, 12 days, 14 hours, 52 minutes and 22 seconds ago
she broke my heart.
One year, nine months and four days ago, she patched it with false
hope.
A day-and-a-half later she shattered it, well and truly. This time a
thorough job.

I invent a Zen koan: How is it that a broken heart goes on loving she
who broke it?