Chapter 2: My Kingdom

There are several ways to wake up.

An alarm clock can suddenly go off rudely interrupting whatever psychedelic dream sequence you might be enjoying and throwing you back into a manufactured view of reality. A little metallic device, probably assembled in a factory in China, shocks you with a shrill repetitive sound to remind you of your position in the capitalist machine.

It can happen when you toss and turn all night until you kick the sheets off onto the floor, waking up shivering in the fetal position.

Or...you can just decide to end the dream.

A year and a half earlier, my morning started as it did every morning. I kept my eyes closed, as I felt my consciousness climb out of deep sleep. These are the moments when it all comes back to you; who you are and what you're doing here.

My name is Selim. I am 28 years old. I live alone. I am a Gemini. I'm allergic to prawns.

My eyes open halfway, and I stare at the ceiling that I know oh-sowell. Every night, before sleep whisks me away, I stare at the ceiling. As I regain consciousness in the morning, I stare at the ceiling. I know every bump, every discoloration, and every dent intimately.

Still on my back I turn my head, my neck putting up a sluggish struggle, and glance over at the half-eaten bowl of cornflakes on the table beside my bed. Since it had first been placed there approximately a month ago and no longer resembled cornflakes in any way, the only thing that indicated its true origins was the bowl it was in. I only use the bowl for cornflakes. Sometimes I could hear sounds coming out of it, like the bacteria in it have rapidly developed overtime into a conscious being. It's been there so long that I feel like I should start saying "good morning" to it when I wake up.

With my eyes still barely open I fling my legs over onto the floor and sit up on the bed. I straighten out my back with a groan. When I feel like I've remembered how to walk again, I slowly stand up. I hobble over to the door like an infant taking his first steps, arms outstretched, ready to grab onto anything for support. Passing the mirror by the door I catch a glimpse of my blurry reflection. My hair looks like a very badly made bird's nest. Not one strand in agreement with the other; civil war had taken place atop my head in the last few hours. Not that it matters...

I walk over to the record player, gently lower the needle onto the vinyl- which happens to be whatever I was listening to last night- and hit play. I move towards the bathroom, hearing the record crackle and then the familiar opening keys of 'Perfect Day' by Lou Reed. Nice.

The first portion of the day is spent on my throne, reading. This is one of the constant elements of the day; the morning poo, where I select one of the many magazines or books that I have on the rack directly in front of the toilet bowl and enjoy fine literature as nature takes its course. This particular day I chose to reread a special feature in a music magazine about the "Berlin period" of David Bowie and Iggy Pop, when they were both trying to recover from cocaine addiction and ended up recording some of their most inspired and emotional material. This is as close to celebrity gossip as I get. When all the demons have been expelled from my tummy, I walk out into the living room and survey my kingdom, planning the day in my head.

There are two essential factors that have to be in place for the modern day hermit...

The first is the internet. It is the single most significant development in our human evolution, connecting you with a vast world of knowledge, art, and people. It's a bit hard to initially comprehend how most of us can have access to this mind-blowing source of knowledge and growth, yet remain controlled and ignorant. Then you remember porn, social networks and games... and it makes sense.

The second is a dependable delivery system. Food, groceries, drinks, books, records; you name it. Whatever it is that the internet can't bring you, a quick telephone call can.

While I was still scratching my head and planning what to do, I heard the familiar fluttering and cooing coming from the living room window. I shuffled over happily and Frank was right there, as expected, ruffling his feathers. I ran to the windowsill, gave him a kiss on his little head and took the note attached to his leg. It said that the records I had ordered online had arrived downstairs. I gave another little peck on the head; he flapped his wings happily and took off.

I have a full outfit on a chair by the entrance for when I have to leave the house or more frequently to open the door for a delivery man: outfit goes on, door opens, delivery comes in, money gets paid, door closes, outfit comes off.

Clothes don't feel right. Most people spend about 99% of their lives with these layers and fabrics hanging off their bodies, yet for as long as I could remember I've found it to be incredibly unnatural and suddenly became very conscious of the foreign threads rubbing against my skin. It was only when I moved in here that I realized the full majesty of nudity.

I slipped into this ready outfit by the door and stepped outside. I turned around as soon as I closed the door to a familiar sight. Gamal was outside his apartment, ringing his doorbell. I sighed and walked over.

"Good morning Gamal," I said as I approached.

"Oh! Hello!" he exclaimed.

I put my hand into his jacket pocket, pulled out his keys and opened his door for him.

"Ah! Thank you; I've been ringing this bell for over an hour now."

"Yes, but this is your house Gamal; you can open the door with your keys."

He laughed and said, "Still, they say that it might rain tonight."

"Yes, yes it might." I replied, shaking my head.

I made sure he was inside and began making my way down the stairs. Gamal was a retired salesman, pushing 80 and already comfortable in his senility. It's always seemed like a weird act of fate that I was to share the floor with a senile old man; let's just say that children run past this floor when they come to it. I often walked out to find him ringing his own doorbell or standing out in the hallway in his underwear. He was the coolest person I knew.

Then again, I didn't know that many people...

15 floors later, I was walking out into the entrance of the building. Karam, the doorman, was in his usual spot on a chair by the door and staring blankly out into the distance. Karam was obviously a stoner; his eyes always half-open with the bottom half bloodshot. I always found it amusing that he is supposed to lookout for the safety of the building. The Nazi army could roll up in big tanks following marching men chanting, ‘Hail hail hail,' and it would surely not awaken him from whatever psychedelic trip is going on in that head of his. Sometimes he would not reciprocate my salam greeting, but I wouldn't think anything of it, I know he's just jaded. I would hear him answering about a minute later as I climb the stairs.

"Good morning Karam," I declared.

No response.

"Good morning KARAM!" I shouted.

A three-second lag occurred, and then he slowly turned his head towards my direction, jolted up, and said, "Oh, good morning basha!" as if he had just noticed me.

"Did I get a package today?" I asked

"A package...yes! Yes, there is a package!" he stuttered with a big smile. Then he stood motionless, grinning at me.

"Well...can I have it?"

"Of course basha..." he said as he ran inside to the mail room. He emerged a second later with the familiar looking brown package and handed it to me.

"Kol sana wenta tayeb ya basha," he said with his eyes to the ground.

No, it wasn't my birthday, nor was it the New Year, or any kind of anniversary. I had learnt, overtime, that this was a way for people in Egypt to ask for money without actually asking for money. It's a highly ingenious psychological neuro-linguistic programming, for people are used to giving money out on occasions and holidays, so by pretending that it's an anniversary, the victim- me in this case- is manipulated into handing money out. I handed over a note and received the second part of the "technique"; he thanked me by saying mashy, which means "okay." Not "thank you," but "okay," which further programs us to believe that we did what we should have done...and perhaps we should give even more in the future, if we want to receive that coveted "thank you."

It's true that I see through this technique, but I have to tell you that it's not something I dislike or disrespect; quite the opposite, I admire it. The world is unfair, and you have to do all you can to get by. God knows that if I was in his shoes I wouldn't hesitate about robbing someone like me. Not violently of course; I assume I would be of the snatch-and-run sort. Nonetheless I thanked him and walked back up the stairs. We do have a lift in the building, but I swore never to ride it anymore. A few years ago it stopped suddenly between floors, and I was stuck for over an hour with a little old woman and her poodle.

I walk in, the door closes, and the clothes come off and are sloppily flung back onto the chair.

I immediately began tugging at the wrapping around the package, trying to get it open, already feeling my heartbeat accelerating. Opening a new pack of records was as exciting to me as undressing a woman. Of course, it goes without saying that at the time I had never undressed a woman...

I first spread out all the records in the pack, which are usually around 8, out on the floor and studied their covers one by one, tracing my fingers all around them, for vinyl record covers are artworks in themselves. Then I begin pulling out each record from its sleeve, holding it up to the light and tilting it around to examine every groove and make sure that there was no damage that occurred during delivery.

Finally I start with the play list, every track on every record blasts from the speakers throughout the day as I do every sort of imaginable, and unimaginable, dance around the flat. The robot, the windmill, the sprinkler, the crazy chicken, etc.; it's amazing how much fun these are when done alone to a great soundtrack.

When all songs had finally been ingrained in my head and I could no longer move a muscle I collapsed on the bed. After a few minutes of relaxation I reach over and grab the pen and notepad from beside my bed. I stared at the same words I had been staring at for the past month, unable to write an appropriate ending to my latest short story. This was the 20th story I had begun since I had started my self-imposed exile four years ago and it seemed to be destined to join all the others that had been abandoned without an ending. Once again it appeared that the plot had spiraled out of my control and I could no longer figure out the direction. After blankly tapping the pen against the paper for about an hour, the bolts finally began turning and the words came. I spent forty five minutes on a paragraph. But it was a really good paragraph. I placed the notebook and pen back on the bedside table and faded out into comfortable sleep with a smile on my face.

This is my kingdom.

I am the royal family, the president, the vice president, the head of the treasury. I am the democratic, republican, socialist, communist and opposition parties. I am the enlightened minority and the oppressed masses.

I couldn't be happier.