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I wake up from my dream screaming “Till Death Do Us Blart”. What does it mean? Blart as in the character Paul Blart? My heart is racing. I wash the cold sweat off my body and go about my day, all the while thinking about this string of words. It’s calling out to me, but why?
At work I’m blocking scenes in my head for this hypothetical Paul Blart sequel. I’m fleshing out the plot. I’m developing my characters. I’m visualizing the funny pratfalls Kevin James will do in this new Paul Blart movie. I don’t get any actual work done and leave early.
As I’m driving home I see a fat guy in too-tight jorts and I start laughing. I laugh so hard I have to pull over. This will be in my movie; MY Paul Blart movie. This is great, I don’t even need to write jokes! I’m nearly obliterated by a Mack truck as I swerve back onto the road.
I don’t eat. I hardly talk to my wife that night. She won’t understand, she never does. I force myself to sleep as soon as possible in the hopes that I’ll have another premonition. I feel like Moses at Mount Horeb and a dream about Kevin James is my burning bush.
But the dream never comes. disappointment consumes me. I’ve never felt this kind of sad before; an emptiness. Or maybe I’ve always been empty but now I can sense it. I call in to work that day. And the day after. And the next. My wife thinks I’m ill. I am. My heart is sick.
A month passes. I’m fired from my job as an air traffic controller. ‘Till Death Do Us Blart hangs over me like a storm cloud. It clings to my body like a stink, though that may just be how I smell now. I don’t bathe. My wife begs me to wash my ass, but I pretend not to hear her.
She’ll leave me soon. That’s fine. I spend most of my time sleeping, trying in vain to catch hold of that dream once more. The screenwriting software (Celtx, it’s free) on my computer stays open all day, nary a word written, just the blinking indicator of what could be.
A year goes by without much consideration. I am the modern day Rip Van Winkle. My mortgage defaulted, my car repossessed, I can’t remember that last time I ate or drank anything as I lay upon the basement floor, looking up at the swirling ceiling above. Is it getting darker?
My eyes are getting weary. My back is getting tight. I can feel the end drawing nearer. I’m crying? I think I’m crying. I reach out to the heavens and in my final moments I see him. I see Paul Blart riding towards me on a Segway trailed by a beautiful corona of white light.
“I wonder if those movies are any good”, I think before it all goes dark.
Soon after the rats would find me.
Soon after the rats would find me.
