Something wakes me up. I don’t know for sure where I am, of course, but I sort of got used to that a while back. I’m still sitting in the rocking chair with my feet up on the milk can. What woke me up was the opening of elevator doors.
The elevator doors are about fifteen feet in front of me. The man coming out of the elevator toward me is dressed in a bright purple outfit that includes tights and a cape. There is a hood over the top of his head, and he wears a pair of goggles that make his eyes look comically large. There is a large bright orange letter ‘C’ emblazoned on his chest.
He approaches me and stops about two feet away, looking at me expectantly.
“What the hell? I know you, don’t I?”
He throws back his shoulder and proclaims, in an over-the-top cartoon voice, “I… am CATEGORY MAN!”
“Ah, yes. We were actually friends once.”
His voice settles to a more normal level and tone. “Yes. You loved clear categorization, or thought you did, until you found it threatening and asked me to leave.”
I have a feeling this is not about some kind of big reconciliation, so I just shrug. “Things change, though they often stay the same too.” He does not respond. “When you show up, you usually have some pronouncement to make. What is it today?”
The squaring of the shoulders again, and the cartoon superhero voice. “Autobiogeneology!”
“A combination of autobiography and what Nietzsche and Foucault would call genealogy. That’s what this is.”
I lower my eyes and think it over silently for a couple of minutes. He stands patiently waiting.
I look up again. “Sounds plausible. But as usual, nobody asked you, did they? Nobody in distress and needing to be saved by you, right?”
He sighs. “That is correct.”
“So is that all?”
“No, there is one other thing.” He looks back at the elevator, and a medium-sized lamb emerges from it. It trots a few feet away from the both the elevator and us, and proceeds to lie down on the tiled floor. He looks back at me. “This should remind you of something, in a broad way.”
My mouth must have been hanging open since I saw the lamb. I close it and blink. “Is it the obvious reference? The album?”
He nods. “Yup.” With that, he turns in a very definite my-work-is-done sort of way and walks back into the elevator. The doors slide closed.
I look at the lamb again, and I’ll be damned if it doesn’t smile a bit and wink at me. I hear the soft, very familiar tinkling of a piano.
I close my eyes, knowing that I’m supposed to go back to sleep now. (Which assumes, of course, that I was awake.)