The Old Barn

Barnard breathed in the microbe. He had been waving a crostini topped with salty, black caviar and a dab of sour cream under his bulbous nose when the particle danced from the briny roe, riding the swift inhalation current into the spacious nostril. It struggled to free itself from the morass of prickly hairs gently waving back and forth with Barnard’s steady breathing. After wresting itself from this hirsute mess, it made its way to the back of the throat, slightly below and facing the septum, where it clung, allowing the virus inside it to begin attacking cells and multiplying.

One batch of baby viruses bobbed up to Barnard’s brain, mingling with the most inane of thoughts. “Why did my parents name me Barnard? Didn’t they know how quickly the other kids would start saying ‘Barnyard, you stink?’ And how come everyone chose to call me Barn instead of Barnie? And why did I continue using that nomenclature into adulthood? I suppose my parents could have nicknamed me Nard.” The viruses traversed the ganglia in rhythm with the synapses stimulating Barnard’s self-deprecating speculations.

A much larger group of virus spawn took up lodging, appropriately, in the largest of Barnard’s body’s organ systems: the skin. They infested his fingertips, and felt the stem of the flute as their host lifted the glass from the table. Another cluster congregated in Barnard’s lips and touched the rim of the glass as brut champagne enveloped his tongue, swished from cheek to cheek, then flowed down his throat.

One small contingent of the emergent pathogen settled on the tip of the tongue. Clustered in the taste buds, they were awash in the yeasty tartness of the sparkling wine and succumbed to the alcohol and lost their purchase. They slid from their perch in the mouth and into the gullet to meet their dooms, digested by enzymes.

An industrious group of microbes ascended the optic nerve, spreading out along the back of the eye. They began to interpret the images focused upon the retina by the lens. Sitting across from Barnard was a large lady dressed in a gaudy cocktail dress with a plunging neckline. Her elaborate coiffure framed her round face like a big, blonde helmet. She had painted her face with a series of pastels: blue-green eyelids, pink-rouged cheeks, and cherry red lips. None of the make-up could hide crow’s feet around the eyes and laugh lines at the corners of her mouth, and her forehead was significantly creased.

The woman busied her hands with utensils and crostini, waving her hands about her while she talked. She made herself a decadent tidbit of toasted bread, expired milk, and fish spawn; which she quickly delivered to her ample mouth, chewing slowly, puckering her lips, rolling her eyes upward. She savored the delicacy, jaw masticating over her quavering décolletage.

One final group of viruses to note made its way past the sinuses and into the hammer, anvil and stirrup of the inner ear. A few intrepid individuals went even further and latched themselves onto the tympanic membrane. In short order, these microbes could hear all the sounds accosting Barnard’s ears. They heard the grinding movements of Barnard’s jaws as he ate his first course. They heard the clink of metal on ceramic, and metal on glass, and glass on ceramic as Barnard maneuvered his utensils around the table to facilitate his feeding. And quickly enough, they were able to link with their kin in the mind, and the fingers, and the lips, and the eyes. And they could hear what the lady had to say.

“My! My! My dear Barnard!” she cooed in between bites of toast and caviar. “You’ve done it! You’ve made it one more year. Here’s to you, my sweet, old Barn!” She raised her glass of champagne.

Barnard clasped his champagne flute and raised it toward his partner’s. The spot where the microbes in his lip so recently pressed [clinked] against the rim of the other glass. And in a voice with a slight hoarse rasp, Barnard said:

“Cheers!”