Heaven is Only a Dream

Heaven is Only a Dream


The hospital equipment’s slow methodical voice clamped Randall’s eyes open all night.  All he wanted was sleep, and the one place where he was supposed to get rest was the one place he couldn’t get any.  Randall stared at the ceiling from his sterile white bed and prayed for a miracle.  ‘If only there could be a power outage or an act of God to make it quiet’ he thought. 
         The ceiling tiles in room 413 of the intensive care unit at Buchanan General were the only thing keeping him sane.  Looking long enough, he would start to see trees, grass, and lakes in the ambiguous pin-prick patterns above him.  ‘Trees…’  Randall thought, would be the best cure for all his ails.  Through his vision above him, Randall could run through the forest, swim with the ebbing tide, and stroll through high summer grass.  Randall longed for all these things deeply, but what he longed for most of all was the swift return of his legs.
         At 3:40 a.m., Randall stirred to a sound he had come to loath.  The patient behind the beige plastic curtain dividing the room was coughing up the gallon of ooze that built up while he slept.  The man was placed with Randall the day before and had continuously kept him from sleeping more than an hour at a time.  The episodes lasted anywhere from twenty minutes to an hour, depending, Randall thought, on how close he was to death.  Randall always imagined a crow or buzzard when he had to listen.  That way he could be in nature, right down to the cries of the birds.  Tonight was a little different.  Tonight was more than Randall could bear.
         “Hey jackass!  Shut up or die already!  Some of us need some rest.”  Randall, not able to turn his body away, turned his head away instead.  Placing the pillow over his roommates face and extinguishing him occurred to Randall more than once, but he realized that he would need legs for transportation across the room.  He placed the pillow over his own head instead, wishing to close out the lung scraping cough permanently. 
           By the time three nurses burst through the door to help the dying man, he was practically exhausted into placidity.  Randall’s field of vision was confined to the meager area around his bed that the curtain allowed.  He could only hear them shuffle by in their nearly silent orthopedic shoes. 
         “Can you please take death boy outta here?!  If he’s gonna knock on death’s door, let him do it somewhere else!”  Randall’s plea, muffled by the pillow, was met with cold, dagger stares from the nurse attending to the dying man.  The red head, the one who got the creeps to be in the same room with Randall, pulled back the curtain to answer him.  With venom poised to leap from her tongue, the stumps under the sheet caught her eye, and she let herself smile, slightly.
         “Would you like me to go and fetch a wheelchair so you can leave the room, Mr. Evans?”  the red head offered, still smiling with the knowledge that the morphine drip and restraints would ensure the bed's claim on him for days more.  The comment struck its targeted nerve, forcing Randall to wrestle the notion of the remainder of his days in a chair.  He threw his trusty sound deadening pillow away from the nurse, in the direction he thought the voice was coming from, and tried to hoist himself up to his elbows in protest.  The effort forced his legs down into the bed, applying pressure to the raw, broken, and exposed bone just above where his knees once were.  The custodial gauze covering the wound was now gouging into it, scraping a porous quarry in the marrow.  Randall’s body shuttered back down on the bed once the pain registered, his every muscle instantly tensing like stone.  Down the hall, a patient admitted for massive ear trauma awoke when he felt, not heard, but felt the thunderous boom of Randall’s agonizing wail.  In room 413, the sounds of Hell’s writhing fury filled all space and all time.  The guttural, primordial screaming made Randall’s dying roommate pause and acknowledge that his own pain paled in comparison to the legless man’s beside him.
         Drenched in the effusive agony, the three nurses finished attending to one ailing man, then turned and attended to Randall.  Their remedy for his agony was simple; push the button to inject more morphine through the IV, and wait.  Waiting didn’t take long.  The drugs flowed quickly through the tube and within half a minute Randall’s cries subsided. 
         “That was probably an excessive dose, Arlene.”
         “Do you want to listen to this bastard anymore tonight?  I sure don’t.”  The red head smiled again, planning on safe harbor from Randall Evans until morning.  And safe she was.  His cries would have to wait for another day.  Randall’s agony got him the one thing he wanted most of all.  Randall got to sleep.





Randall Evans loved to be alone.  Ever since he was small, Randall’s happiest times were times in the woods, the park, or the zoo.  He loved anything away from people.  He often recalled his childhood getaway - a ten acre plot littered with forests and fish burdened ponds.  Tucked away between two farms, few people knew it was there, and fewer people bothered him. 
         As an adult, Randall sought out the places and occupations that guaranteed limited exposure to the general public.  His nights were spent in solitude at Bill’s Auto Repair where he worked and his days were filled with avoiding extended conversations and prolonged interaction as he repaired people’s lives by fixing their cars.  “Alone,” as Randall often said to his mother, “makes sure no one gets hurt – especially me.”
         It was a week before on a Wednesday as Randall was trying to fix Mrs. Allen’s air conditioner, when he felt startled by the thought that the world would change today. 
An ordinary day filled with brake jobs and tune ups, the feeling hit him in the stomach and he stopped turning his wrench long enough to survey the room.  From under the hood, Randall saw the rusty brown station wagon belonging to Mrs. Amanda Clark pulling into the third repair bay.  Wincing at the thought of yet another brake job on the ogre of a car, he went back to his work and damned the fact that he was working by himself that day.  ‘She’ll just have to wait.’ he thought to himself.  And wait she did.
         Mrs. Clark carried a reputation that preceded her by the width of the Pacific.  At thirty-two, she had already been divorced three times.  The whole of the Bear Hills Sheriff's Office knew her by name.  The week before, she was arrested for pummeling a man twice her size in the temple at Kitty's Bar on the outskirts of town.  Officers spent twenty minutes trying to get her into the squad car.  When the man finally woke up, he said he thought someone slammed him with a baseball bat.  A customer of Randall’s was there when Mrs. Clark was hoisted off her unconscious victim, and said the man just wanted his cigarette lighter back.  “No wonder the woman can’t find a good man.” the customer said.  “She beats ‘em all down.”
         As Randall pulled the Allen car out of the garage, Mrs. Clark and her daughter, Rebeka, were waiting patiently by their wagon.  Randall looked away from them, but felt their gaze in his bones.  He couldn’t shake the feeling of change.  Like a cold breeze sailing through his soul, it kept him uncomfortable.  He parked the car, sat for a moment, and prepared himself for what he feared the most; conversation.
         “Hello Mrs. Clark. Rebeka.  What are you ladies up to today?” 
         “Hey darling, we just needed you to check the brakes one more time.”  The woman was wearing blue jeans a size too small and a white lace shirt that flashed her belly at Randall as she breathed.  Her bare feet were soaked in the dirt from the shop.
         “I was gittin tired of hearin Mama squawkin ‘bout the brakes making so much noise.  I told her it was high time to bring it in for you to have another look.”
         Randall’s ears always hurt when he listened to Rebeka try to speak.  At sixteen, she had spent a total of six months in school.  The rest of her education came from what her mother called “home school”.
“Oh stop, Rebeka.  You make me sound like a nag.  I just thought Randy here would be nice enough to have another look.  What do you say, Randy?”
         Randall did as he was asked, and just like the last time he checked it for whatever braking anomaly Mrs. Clark was complaining about, he found nothing. 
         “Nope, she's fit as a fiddle, Mrs. Clark”  Looking at the car, Randall felt the two women staring at him.  From five feet away, he began to feel their hot breath on his neck, just below the ear.  Randall took a step back.  “I think you’re just getting used to the new drums and pads, that’s all.”
         “But when mama stops, it sounds like someone’s killin' a pig, squealin' real loud.”
Rebeka was wearing gym shorts with the words HOTT STUFF on the backside, a dangerously translucent tank top, and flip flops.  ‘At least she has the sense to wear shoes.’ Randall thought.  She caught Randall reading her shorts while she waited for a reply.  He blushed when their eyes met and took another step back. 
         “Like I said - just new brakes for you.  I don’t see anything wrong.  Now is there anything else I can do for you ladies?  The store’s pretty packed today, and I don’t want anyone to wait longer than they have to.”  The waiting room at Bill’s had thirteen chairs in it.  One chair was occupied.
         “Well, since you ask…”
         ‘Here it comes.’ Randall thought
         “Rebeka and I were curious if you had plans tonight.  Wednesday nights are pretty loud down at Creek Tavern.  I think they even have a band tonight.  We thought you might like to tag along.”
         The last thing Randall ever wanted was the thrill and excitement of a drunken, rowdy crowd and ear splitting guitars.  Randall’s mind turned squeamish and scattered as he hunted for a response.
         “I got Rebeka a fake ID last week and we need to break it in.  What do ya say?”
With all his might, Randall reeled in a thought and spit it out into the air.
         “You girls sound like you’re inseparable.  I don’t know if I could keep up with you all night.  I’m not the partier I once was.”  Having no history of loud and wild parties, Randall hoped his answer appeared genuine.
         “Me and Mama do everything t'gether.  I can’t think of the last time we were apart.  I don’t think I could manage all by lonesome.”  Rebeka had learned well from her mother.  Every time Randall saw her on the street, she was with a different man.  She didn’t like boys, he noticed.  Rebeka liked men and what they could afford her.
         “Well, as tempting as the offer is, I think I’ll have to pass this evening.  There’s a lot of work to do around here and I’ll probably be stuck here till late tonight.  Maybe some other time though.” 
         “You just said that you might be working late tonight, so I’m going to call up here around five to see if you’re free yet.  We’d really like you to come with us.”  Mrs. Clark smiled at him, making the hairs on the back of his neck twitch.
         “You do that, Mrs. Clark.  I’ll be working for sure.  Now you ladies take care, and be easy on those brakes.”
             After they left, Randall made the next customer wait as he stepped out back for a cigarette.  Smoking was permitted in the shop, but Randall liked to get away from the tools and cars and people as often as he could.  He stood still while losing himself in the open space, not noticing the refuse and dirt strewn across the parking lot in front of him.  The only thing in his vision was the forest and the trees.  In back of Bill’s Auto was an industrial green dumpster that was the color, Randall imagined, of fresh spring grass.  Anything that reminded Randall of nature was a welcome sight to him.  Nature provided a unique sanctuary for him.  A place where there were no people, only the air and the water and the life. 
         The strip mall that Bill’s was attached to was surrounded by other shopping centers and the asphalt connecting them.  For the majority of Randall’s waking life, access to his true forest home was limited.  The only grass he could find during his long days was in the form of his favorite green dumpster.
         He was glad that Mrs. Clark and her daughter were gone.  They always left Randall feeling that he had just been used or exploited in some subtle way.  Mr. Clark, or Jim as Randall knew him, was now living in Cheyenne, Wyoming after filing bankruptcy and selling his soul to escape his wife.  Randall often missed his friend, but understood the need to flee.  Rebeka never seemed to be affected by having an absentee father.  Her loyalty was to her mother.  “I don’t think I could manage all by lonesome.” Randall remembered her saying.  ‘That girl’s going to be just like her mother.’ He said to himself, and lit another cigarette.       
         Four o‘clock expired as Randall was still adjusting the carburetor on Mr. Pershing's Jeep.  Every few minutes he glanced at his watch to see five o’clock silently creep closer.
         “Sounds like she’s fartin’.” John Pershing said of the coughing and spitting from the aging vehicle.  Pershing was known exclusively for his singular wit.
         “Yeah, well I think she’ll have to wait till morning.  Nelson’s Auto won’t have the idle screw I need till tonight, late.  How ‘bout I give you a lift home and then drop off the Jeep at your place in the morning after I get it done?”  Nelson’s had eight idle screws in stock and was ten minutes away, but fixing the Jeep would ensure that Randall would be at work well past five o’clock.  Lying to Mrs. Clark twice that day was not on Randall’s agenda. 
         “Well, I suppose that’s alright.  You don’t mind giving me a ride home?”
         “Nope.  Let me clock out and we’ll go.”
         “Sounds good.  Hey, have I ever told you the one about the nuns and the baked beans?”
         After depositing Pershing at his home, Randall stopped at Nelson’s to pick up the parts for the Jeep.  The store was always deserted that time of day, so getting in and out without the threat of prolonged interaction was simple.  Plus, fixing Pershing's car would be easier at night since there would be no one around to bother him.
         On the way home for dinner, the clock on the cracked vinyl dash of Randall’s Volkswagen Beetle read eleven minutes after five. Randall winced at the thought of Mrs. Clark calling to check up on him.  The remorse was slight, but still present for blowing of the invitation.  Randall knew, though, that lying to Mrs. Clark was the only way to be left alone.  If lying paved his path to peace, so be it.  ‘I don’t want to be another victim.’ Randall thought.
         Bill’s Auto was comfortable for Randall late at night.  He got to choose his own music, bide his time, and not worry about interruption.  ‘Almost like the forest.’ he thought.
         With the Jeep now a job of the past, rendering Pershing incapable of comparing it to a bodily function, Randall’s attention was pinned down to the task of replacing the floor boards in his own car.  The job would take hours, but the solitude was invaluable.  With the car raised and two gaping holes in the floor, Randall was content.
         “Hey Randy.  Whatcha doin?”  Mrs. Clark was standing in the open bay door, leaning against the wall to support an unsteady stance.  From where Randall was standing, he could see her eyes constantly searching for a target that wouldn’t stir her stomach.  Her lace shirt was now unbuttoned at the top, exposing her to Randall and tempting him to ignore his strict rule to avoid what would amount to trouble.  Her breathing was slow like sleep, and made Randall think of a king size bed with all of the gratuitous trimmings a harlot could desire.          
         “Oh, hello, Mrs. Clark.  Little late for a brake job, don’t you think?”  Randall felt cornered and started sweating.
         “I called just like I said I would.  Bill said you’d gone home, and he didn’t know nothin' about you having to work late.  You didn’t tell me a little white lie cause you’re shy, now did you?”
         “I didn’t want to be rude, Mrs. Clark.  I just had a few things that I needed to get done.  That’s all.”
         “Well, I don’t mind, Randy.  In fact I think it’s kinda cute - the shyness I mean.”
         Mrs. Clark sauntered away from the door toward Randall, slowly and off balance.  At five feet, he could smell the eight shots of tequila she devoured before she got there.  Randall took a step back to lean against the work bench behind him, almost slipping in the oil he neglected to clean up before he left work that day.  He braced himself on the table and watched the woman struggle to maintain a straight line. 
         “Where is Rebeka this evening?  I thought you two were inseparable.”  Randall longed to change the subject anyway he knew how.  He pictured Jim Clark crossing the country in retreat.
         “Oh, she’s still down at the tavern.  I told her to stay put while I came down here to see if you were still busy.  Why?  Would you rather she was here with me? That would be easy to do, if you like.”
         The thoughts of a good time with Mrs. Clark now turned into thoughts of arrest to statutory rape.  Randall pushed himself further against the table and wished he had waited until morning to fix the Jeep.
         “Why are you always backing away from me, Randy?  Do you like being chased? Is that it?  Well that suits me just fine.  I could chase you all night.”  She took a step into the oil and her foot slid backwards under the full weight of her form.  Her head plummeted down, driving the bridge of her nose into the corner of the table next to Randall’s hand.  The impact snapped her head back as her body succumbed to gravity.  Randall heard her neck pop and watched her body go limp and listless before it came to ease in the pool of oil that had taken her life.
         Randall Evans didn’t move a muscle for ten minutes.  He stared down at the corpse by his feet, suddenly recalling his feeling earlier in the day that the world was about to change. All he could do now was find a way to sweep this incident under the carpet and move on with his life.  ‘I have my peace and quiet to consider.’ he thought.  He couldn’t do anything for Mrs. Clark now, and he knew it.  And what of the road that she
was leading Rebeka down?  'Rebeka was probably better off without her.  I didn’t ask for any of this,’ he thought, ‘and I won’t pay for it.’
         He finally motivated his feet and went out back for a cigarette.  With no one around to bother him, he could have quietly smoked in the shop.  The body, however, nudged him outside.  Randall was about half way to the filter of his second butt when he saw the answer to all of his problems looking him in the eye.  He saw through the haze of his cigarette the reminder he held so close to his heart.  Dreams of freedom took the shape of the wilderness.  The dumpster, grotesque and rusted and rotten foul as it was, presented to Randall a salvation which he never would have considered until today.  “The forest is my home.  The forest will be hers as well.”  Randall dropped the still smoldering cigarette to the ground and rushed back inside. 
         One hundred and thirty pounds of dead and lifeless weight was difficult for Randall to maneuver into the passenger seat of the Jeep.  Mrs. Clark  never looked like a chore move around, but with her legs and arms living a free and independent existence, orchestrating a swift transition from the floor into the high vehicle exhausted Randall to the point of needing a nap.  He turned the ignition and the Jeep purred like a kitten in a barrel of cat nip.  The night would be Randall’s cloak, and the forest would be his savior. 
         At three a.m. on the Jeep's radio clock, Randall pulled gingerly back into Bill’s.  He turned off the motor and sat silently for a few moments contemplating the life that had just been lost and the effect it would have on himself and her daughter.  If he could stick to the story that he had been at the shop all night and that Mrs. Clark never came by, then he was in the clear.  Rebeka, on the other hand, would pay the price for the loss of her mother for the rest of her life.  Now left with no guidance from a parent, Randall was sure that her path would be lonely and self-centered.  For the first time in his life, his heart went out to another soul.  He pitied her for having to live the life that he was sure that he could not. 
         The fact that Randall left his cigarettes on the workbench finally got him to leave the comfort of the Jeep.  Deprivation of nicotine for two hours was starting to make him shake, and he was sure that without some soon, his lungs would implode.  He stepped out of the vehicle slowly, now having no reason to hurry, and lumbered toward his pack of Lucky Strikes.           
         “Where’s Mama?!”  was all that Randall heard before the baseball bat came swinging to the back of his head.  His eyes closed instantly and he hardly felt himself slump to the floor.  “Where is she?  What have you done with my mother?!”  The voice was hazy through the cloud now filling Randall’s head, but the sound resonated into his aching skull.
         Randall felt himself being tugged, then dragged.  Without the ability to fight off the assault of a fire ant, he was now at the mercy of his assailant.  “Fine.  Don’t tell me whatcha done with her.  But you’re gonna keep hurtin till ya do.”  The pulling and dragging stopped. 
         Rebeka Clark walked from her victim over to the control lever for the hydraulic lift that the Volkswagen was on.  “Last chance, stupid!” 
         The only response Randall was capable of was a feeble whimper, and the inadequate sound sealed his fate.  Rebeka pulled the lever and the one ton antique nestled slowly back down to the ground, coming to rest on Randall’s upper body.  Though he knew the sound by heart, he had neither the presence of mind nor the strength to move from the cars path.  The intolerable weight brought Randall back to his senses.  He was immediately aware of where he was.  He attempted a yell from the pain, but the burden on his chest only permitted a yelp.  His lungs failed the sufficient capacity for the scream that would have more accurately described his discomfort.  His only remaining liberation was his legs, and to express his pain they began to kick involuntarily.
         “Oh, ya still got fight in ya? Well let’s fix that.”  Rebeka moseyed over to the fire box on the wall and removed an axe that was older than Randall and Rebeka combined.  Once in hand, she raised it high above her head and ran to her waiting victim. 
         “I know you took her!  Her shoe’s on the floor over yonder and there’s blood next to the table.  Last chance or I start choppin!”
         Randall’s wild kicking and a feeble moan were his only reply.
         Rebeka brought the axe down and the blade met a knee cap on it’s way up.  The impact shattered the knee and blood instantly soaked through Randall’s gray work pants, turning them black.  The right leg stopped moving after the first strike, but Randall’s ability to scream came back with a vengeance.  His cry filled the shop and made Rebeka pause before her second blow.  She realized the damage she had caused with the axe, and grinned, craving more.  She swung the axe again to the same leg, hitting just above the knee and cutting deep to the bone.  Blood flowed across the floor under Randall, leaving him swimming on his back.  The blood left from Rebeka's mother was now indiscernible from that of Randall.  The third strike landed in the same spot, splintering the bone and severing the now lifeless limb.  Randall submitted to the pain and passed out from shock.  The second leg was a simpler task for Rebeka, now that it was still.
         “Put the axe down, now!”  Two police officers walked into the shop as Rebeka was nearing separation of the second leg.  A woman walking her dog heard Randall’s agonizing cries and flagged down a passing patrol car.  The officers now stood in the doorway attempting to gain control of the situation.  Rebeka never heard the mans order or the shots that were fired as she brought the blade of the axe down for one last hack at her victim.  Both officers fired their weapons.  The wound to her leg finally made her acutely aware that she was no longer alone in the room.  The bullet striking just behind the left ear a half second later brought her to the ground, dead before she got there.  Randall heard nothing.

         
         


         “Mr. Evans, are you awake?”  The nurse was bright eyed and chipper.  Her shift had just begun, and the wears of the day had not taken their toll yet.  She also was not on duty to hear Randall’s early morning cries of agony.  “It’s seven o’clock.  Time for your breakfast.  I’ve got eggs, toast, and a soda.  Just what you ordered.”
         Randall opened his eyes but stayed quiet, watching the obese nurse shuffle around the room with the elegance of an ox.  She came to the bed and straightened the sheets around his distressed appendages.  The nurse looked at Randall and saw that he was awake, forcing him to break his silence. 
         “Thank you.  I don’t quite have it in me to take care of myself right now.  Scrambled, right?”
         “Yes, there scrambled.  You should have a little more faith than that.  With a hundred patients to look after, I’ve learned to memorize orders on the go.  Will you be requiring anything further, Mr. Evans?”
         “No.  I’ll be fine.”
         “There is a police officer in the hall who would like to have a few words with you.  Do you have the energy to have visitors, or would you like him to come back some other time?”
         “Now is fine, nurse.  Thank you.”
         The officer was standing in the hall within earshot of Randall’s reply.  He swept into the room, brushing by the nurse as she left.  A large framed man, the only feature  Randall remembered about him in hindsight was the shine of his balding forehead. 
         “Mr. Evans, how are you this morning?”
         “Well…awake.”
         “Good.  First I would like to offer my condolences about your injuries.  I have an uncle who was crippled in Vietnam.  It hasn’t been easy for him, so I can imagine how you feel.”  The officer’s tone was slow and steady, making him sound as though he was constantly trying to move a boulder. 
         “Thank you.”  Randall looked down and realized for the first time that morning that he may never walk again.  Hate grew in him toward the officer for pointing it out. 
“What can I do for you, sir?”
          “My name is Jacobs.  I am just doing a follow up on the Amanda Clark case.  I thought that I would just drop by to see if you had any new information for us.  We are trying to wrap it up, but not with any loose ends.  I think you know that we still have not located the whereabouts of Mrs. Clark, and anything you could tell us would be helpful.”
         “I think I already told the other officers everything that I know.  I was working late that night, trying to fix my car, and Mrs. Clark stopped by on her way home.    She was probably there for five, maybe ten minutes.  When she finally took the hint that I was busy, she left.  I think that’s about it.”   
         “Yes. Yes.  We have all of that information documented and you should know that you have been a big help to our investigation.”  The officer’s gaze was as steady as his speech, making it hard for Randall to tell his sincerity.  “The thing that puzzles me is the shoe that was found at the scene of the crime.  Why do you suppose she would have left her shoe there if she was on her way home?”
         “Well, as I said before, she was pretty drunk when she got to the shop.  I imagine she didn’t realize she didn’t have it when she left.”
         “I don’t know if you have ever been drunk, Mr. Evans, but I have, and never have I forgotten my shoes if I was walking home.  Do you see where I have a problem here, Mr. Evans?”
         “I actually never have been drunk, Officer Jacobs, but I've forgotten about things in my life that others would think impossible.  The fact remains that I didn’t even know the shoe was there until the last officers that were here interrogated me about it.  Now if you don’t mind, I did just wake up and I wouldn’t mind the opportunity to eat my breakfast in peace.”
         Jacobs stood solidly for a moment and considered whether to further his inquisition.  “I think that would be ok, Mr. Evans.  Please understand though that we will be in contact if any more information needs to be verified with you.  Here’s my card.  If you think of anything else, give me a call.”  The officer’s gaze locked on Randall, waiting to see if he would give some sign of cracking, some sign of fear that would give Jacob’s something to go on.  Randall simply looked at his uneaten food.
         “Thanks again, Mr. Evans.  Have a good day.”
         Randall turned his head away from the food after the officer left.  Even though the smell alone was making him hungry, he was not ready to eat.  Randall wanted to go back to sleep.  In sleep there were dreams and in dreams there is heaven.  A heaven filled with trees, lakes, mud, and grass all waiting patiently for him behind closed eyes.  Dreams were the only place Randall would be capable of running, or even strolling, through the forest ever again.  With his eyes closed, he could almost smell his beloved forest.  He began to feel himself running down a deserted path as slumber squeezed a tentative grip around him.  He could almost taste the precious pure air that held the nectar of life.  Randall’s roommate began his hourly death rattle as Randall was approaching his heavenly lake, and brought him back to the harsh reality of room 413.  Heaven would have to wait.