Dream Riders

by Taylor Kole

  “We should raise the rate to five-hundred per session. What do you think?”

  “No. Of course not. The review is great, but it’s one comment. We need a few successful Dream Rides, then we will raise the price, at a gradual pace.”

  Marci studied her husband for seconds before double-clicking the banner that read, ‘Two-hundred dollars per session.’ She deleted ‘per session.’

  “A compromise,” she said. “Now, they’ll wonder if maybe it’s two-hundred an hour or if it’s two-hundred for the first time only. If they give us room to add… we’ll pounce.”

  A ding emanated from the television. It was another email from Mr. Labarge, with the same amount of typos as his review. Sifting through the many compliments unearthed the message: once he got his next paycheck, he wanted another ride.

  Marci squeezed Corey’s knee. “I knew we could market this, babe. I’m telling you, this gift will make us millionaires. We’ll be Dream Riders to the stars, friends with celebrities, sought by kings and princes. Because of that, Janey will have a better life.” Marci said. “Last night was good, but now we focus on—”

  “Making the most of today,” he finished her life mantra with her.

  Marci navigated their email accounts. Her regular nine-to-five job was at the local community health charities Monday through Friday. Yet even before Dreamriders.com, a third of their income derived from their three internet businesses. Marci’s two interpretations sites, and Corey’s editing one.

  Smelling the fresh coffee made him want a cup. The joules coursing through his body chased off thoughts of extra stimulus. It wasn’t simply the thrill of the previous night, where they had accomplished something impossible, helped a man in pain, and shared in his wonder. It was the thought of being alone once Marci left for work and Janey left for school. He would think long and hard on the vast philosophical quandaries of Dream Riding. He’d pace and talk to himself. That process delved him into great concentration.

  Corey sent his replies, and after scanning the time stamp in the bottom right corner, he went to check on Janey.

  He found her awake, standing two feet from her bed, legs splayed shoulder width apart, arms extended to either side, fingers pointed straight. She touched her left toe with her right hand, resumed the upright pose, then touched her right toe with her left hand.

  “What are you doing, honey?”

  She completed another revolution before answering, “Aerobotics help circumlate blood. That makes me wake up faster.” She did another two toe touches, then relaxed. “Chinese people do this every morning, dad, and they are beating us in math and science.” She padded to him and extended her arms.

  Corey lifted his daughter, planted a kiss on her nose, and set her down. Once her feet met the carpet, she powered past him and into the bathroom across the hall.

  A purr announced Smokey’s arrival. The cat ground against his ankles.

  Lifting the cat, he said, “You want a morning, kiss, too?”

  Smokey accepted the peck without resistance and looked away, as if that was all the affection he wanted to share.

  Smooching the cat’s cheek an additional three times, he said, “That’s for mommy using you as a lab rat.”

  Smokey strained to look even further away.

  Corey placed him on the ground, and, hearing the water running in the bathroom, returned to the kitchen.

  He kissed his wife’s cheek and leaned his rump against the counter.

  When Janey entered in her pink, two-piece pajama outfit, Marci passed her a warm mug of hot chocolate. Their daughter accepted it with both hands, sipped, and then moved to the dining room table. The family ate and prepared for the day.

  As Marci and Janey returned, dolled-up and prepared for work and school, the email chimed with a new message.

  They both dashed to the couch. Marci playfully bumped Corey to the side, and took possession of the mouse. She opened their email. The new message originated from Dreamriders.com

  Greetings, dream mavens! I’ve been dallying on your page for the last couple of days, and after reading your first review (bravo!), I am eager to experience a ride for myself!

  I live in Chicago. To dispel any travel concerns, I’ve booked a penthouse suite at the Bellagio from Friday, March 19th, through Monday, the 22nd.

  I’ll be available during any of those evenings (I assume bedtime is your operating hour) and I want to book an appointment.

  Dream Riding sounds like just the thing I’ve been looking for!

  Sincerely,

  Walton Zimbardo

  “That sounds promising,” Corey said.

  “The Bellagio.” Marci expelled the words with wonder as she rose. “A penthouse suite, at the Bellagio!”

  He understood. A penthouse suite cost big bucks. This guy could be their ticket to real money, or to a lawsuit, or to jail, or something even worse.

  THREE

  The silence in the car as they drove to downtown Las Vegas allowed Corey to focus on how important and amazing this moment was to them, and possibly to the world. Marci concentrated on guiding their black Jetta through the hazardous nighttime streets of a boozed-up Las Vegas. Corey stared out of his window and tried to keep his thoughts away from any deeper meanings behind their talent, and whether or not it would work with their second customer.

  Pulling into the Bellagio from Las Vegas Boulevard took the Padeskys around an eight-acre lake. That scant drive was enough to leave the chaos of the city behind and make anyone feel like they were approaching royalty.

  Marci continued past the world-famous dancing fountains and stopped under a porte cochere.

  He was about to ask why they weren’t going to the parking deck, when Marci spoke, “Tonight, we valet.”

  “Great idea,” Corey said. “It’ll fit in nice with our first time entering a casino.”

  She tilted her head at him. “Three years and neither of us has ever stepped into a casino. That has to speak to our sensibilities.”

  “At least in this regard,” Corey said jokingly, but left the real answer unsaid: they couldn’t afford to lose one dollar since moving from California, because of him.

  The moment the Jetta reached a full stop, two smiling young men opened their doors and welcomed them to the Bellagio. As Corey moved toward the trunk, one valet helped him retrieve their bag of gear.

  Corey took possession of the bag, placed it on the ground and marveled at the statues, the bright lights, the marble flooring. This was luxury.

  After joining him and squeezing his hand, Marci pivoted them for a view of the famous fountains. Onlookers shuffled around the choreographed spouts. An actor, dressed as SpongeBob, posed between a couple as they snapped a selfie.

  “All of this in the middle of the desert,” Corey said.

  “It’s beautiful,” Marci said. “Are we ready?”

  Corey nodded.

  Entering the pristine lobby added a lightness to Corey’s step. Piano music trickled in from the lobby bar. An upside-down colorful volcano of sorts—the size of a UFC octagon ring at its base—sprouted from the ceiling. Thousands of hand-blown glass artifacts covered the surface.

  A concierge shared directions to the hotel room elevator and pointed them through the casino floor. Corey wanted to explore the conservatory and savor the elegance. Instead, Marci powered down the hall with a directness he had to follow. Everything was fine until they reached their client’s floor. Something about walking down a long silent hallway agitated Corey’s instincts. If a predator rounded a corner or exited a room, there was no shelter or escape. And Corey wasn’t the most fleet of foot.

  They reached Walt’s door and knocked. The penthouse door yawned open. An older woman stepped into view. She had brown hair, speckled grey in spots as if dipped in an urn. She was as tall as Corey at five ten. With big bones and wide hips, she doubled his weight. Her blue eyes were cloudy and, though Corey knew the notion impossible, they seemed to stir.

  Pulling the door all the wa
y open, she said, “Good evening.” She spoke with a vampire’s baritone, slow enough to where Corey smirked in anticipation of her switching to a laugh. None forthcoming, Marci spoke:

  “Okay then. I’m Marci. This is my husband Corey.” They entered.

  The suite fulfilled its promise: spacious, opulent, decorated with vases, heavy drapes, a jaw-dropping view of the neon city at night.

  A security man stood at attention watching them. He was big and fit, with red hair. He didn’t smile, but Corey presumed it was his job to suspect Corey and Marci were assassins, so he didn’t take it personal.

  Walton Zimbardo stood near a walnut table. Approaching fifty, his wavy black hair was either professionally dyed or the results of a genetic lottery. A navy blue sport coat rested on broad shoulders. A slim belt held up his jeans, and the toes of his light brown leather dress shoes ended flat. With his right arm across his midsection, propping up his left, he covered his mouth with his fingers and studied the couple with eyes as green as polished jade.

  Corey noticed a wedding band. That meant at least one person thought he was sane. He rested the duffle bags to either side of him, six feet from the man.

  Walt dropped his hand. “I’m just trying to get a feel or sense as to whether you’re the missing link in my plans for a grand future. If we’re cosmetically bonded.”

  Marci spread her arms, “Well, what do you see?”

  “I’m not seeing anything,” he frowned, stepped close, and revealed teeth white enough to blind, “But that’s good news. My only talent is detecting bullshit. Name’s Walt.”

  As they shook and exchanged introductions, the older woman who opened the door slid behind Walt; a blank stare was her welcoming feature. Perhaps she was the Yin to Walt’s Yang.

  Noticing Corey’s attention, Walt said, “Ms. Kendra Houghton. She keeps me tethered, protects me from my impulsivity. Don’t mind her initial reservations. You folks do make a bold claim.”

  “It’s one we’re here to back-up,” Marci said, and presumably figuring the older woman held sway over his deep pockets, Marci marched to Kendra and reintroduced herself.

  “Nice to meet you, Ms. Houghton.”

  “It’s all first names once we pass business hours,” Walt said.

  “Fair enough,” Corey said.

  “I assume we’ve all Googled each other over the past few days, so you know a little about me and I you.” Walt motioned to the table.

  Marci blurted, “Your father is Constantine Zimbardo, the billionaire venture capitalist.”

  “The exporter of corporations—and American jobs—as he’s called,” Walt said. “In his defense, government regulations and tax rapes forced his hand. With massive wealth as the bi-product, he’s not complaining.” Walt removed his sports coat. Kendra accepted and hung it around his chair before stepping back into her observant role. Peering past the couple, Walt eyed the pair of duffle bags. “How about we get into the nuts and bolts of what I’ll be experiencing, and the area that’s of greater interest to me, how?”

  Marci fielded questions about how the couple used lights, sounds, and scents to influence a dream. Corey stayed silent. Marci was the better liar.

  Walt listened intently, asked the predictable questions of safety and duration, other people’s results. Once they hashed it out, he sat silent, and brooded. Finally, his face took on a serious look. He tilted his head at Corey. “I sense you’re leaving things out.”

  Corey tensed. Are we that transparent?

  “Of course we are,” Marci stated.

  Her speaking up helped Corey orient his thoughts. “Our methods are guarded because they are the core of our business, and although complex, we want to keep them proprietary. Many of our adjustments and techniques are made on the fly. They are constructs we have fine-tuned over time.”

  Walt scrunched his features, then exhaled “Well, comparing your descriptions of how, with the experiences described by Mr. Labarge on your website, the method sounds rather dull.”

  “Not in the least,” Marci said.

  “It is paradoxical,” Corey said. “Complex and elementary, but a Dream Ride will exceed your expectations.” Corey cleared his throat. They needed to reel in this catch. If he started referring Dream Riding to his inner circle, Marci could raise their rates and hit her dream of overnight success. Corey also wanted to know that they could penetrate numerous alpha rhythms (what he figured represented the most logical method for how they infiltrated dreams). Client number two would all but prove they could do this with anyone.

  Walt stared at them, his lips pressed together, his brow tight. Kendra stepped closer as if ready to shuttle them out at his command. If Walt Zimbardo, the trust fund baller canceled, they might never get a better chance to upgrade their client base.

  Marci said, “Your subconscious needs only the slightest nudge to take the lead, and it will. The mind is capable of imagining every scene and emotion, and much more. We use a poor man’s hypnotic mantra once you are under. I wouldn’t say that to most people because they hear hypnosis and think mind control, but that’s not how it works.” Marci paused.

  “I understand hypnosis,” Walt said. “A patient cannot be made to do things the ego considers counter intuitive to its well being.”

  “Exactly.” Marci moved her hair behind her ears.

  “And you offer a money back guarantee?” Kendra said.

  “There’s really no need,” Marci said.

  “It makes no difference to me,” Walt said, though skepticism remained on his face. “Please continue.”

  “Say, for instance,” Marci said, “You want to be a superhero. To instigate flying, we would move your hands so they hung over the edge of the bed, direct a slight breeze against you—”

  “—Add some appropriate sounds,” Corey added.

  “Yes. That is a very basic example, but my husband and I are experts, we can generate gladiator battles. Walks along beaches—”

  “Car rides with loved ones,” Walt added with a grin.

  “Exactly,” Corey said. That grin allowed him to relax. They’d netted this client.

  “How are your dreams, Walt?” Marci asked. “Do you dream often?”

  “Every night.” Walt beamed as if dreaming was an accomplishment, which Corey guessed he agreed with. It baffled him when people said they rarely, or never, dreamed. With many studies claiming dream frequency correlated with intellect, or peace of mind, maybe dreaming a lot was something to be proud of.

  “I wake many times having just escaped a dream,” Walt said. “Yet in my grogginess, I often return to sleep without giving it any thought. When I have an exceptionally intense dream, I like to write it down and try to decode its meaning.”

  Marci said, “The Talmud states: a dream not interpreted is like a letter to the self unread.”

  Corey nodded simply to be included.

  “I like that,” Walt breathed deeply, his face darkening. He exhaled slowly and added, “And I have nightmares.”

  “That’s common,” Marci said. “Fifty percent of adults report at least occasional nightmares. In my experience, they often carry the most meaning.”

  Walt rocked his head side to side, “It might be more fair to say most of my dreams are nightmares.” He met Marci’s eyes. “I can’t work on their meaning because I never remember them. I wake with my heart knocking, my blood racing, and scared out of my wits. But when I try to remember what shook me, I just feel confused and disoriented.” He breathed deeply and glanced at each of them. He continued in a softer voice, “I fear if I ever do remember what actually caused my fright, I’d lose my mind. Do you think it’s because I’m getting older?”

  “I don’t,” Marci said. “And, those are not nightmares, Walt.”

  “Could have fooled me.”

  “I’m not minimizing your experience,” Marci said. “Quite the opposite. But you’re describing something more rare. Nightmares occur late into the night. If they are bad enough to wake a person they carry s
imilar physiological symptoms: increased heart-rate, perspiration, but the person wakes alert, oriented and with a clear memory—at least momentarily—of what frightened them.

  “The symptoms you listed relate to a different disorder called night terrors. They are extremely rare and little understood. Most victims of night terrors have an amnesia so deep hypnosis can’t uncover what scared them. Night terrors are the granddaddy of dream evils.”

  “Sounds ominous,” Walt said.

  Kendra placed her hand on his shoulder. He squeezed it, and she moved to the seat next to him.

  “Is that why you called us?” Corey asked. “To help with these night terrors?” The prospect of riding a man’s nightmare—the dark swirls of a mind—sent Corey’s eyes darting toward the door.

  “No. I’ve grown used to them. Although over the past eighteen months their frequency has increased—as have some of my real world mistakes.” He frowned. “Perhaps we will attend to the terrors, but as I told you, I have an affinity for the dream world.” He smiled. “Specifically for how they have influenced great men throughout history. That’s why I’ve flown out here.”

  “Dreams have influenced many notable philosophers,” Corey said.

  Walt said. “I’ve come to believe dreams influenced a majority of the dominant figures—good and evil—whom we know by name.”

  That was a bold claim, especially since dreams influencing philosophers covered a past interest of Corey’s. Dreams played an immense role, particularly in eras when divine meanings lurked behind everyday acts, but most leaders…

  “My favorite story of influence is the violinist, Tartini,” Walt said. “The Devil appeared to him in a dream. Tartini handed him his violin and marveled as the Dark Lord played the most wicked and intricate melody Tartini had ever heard. Waking, he wrote down every note and composed Devil’s Sonata—possibly the greatest classical work of all time.”