by Taylor Kole
Justin stood on Las Vegas Boulevard. The silver ball hovered twenty paces away in the empty street.
Two dots for eyes and an upward curve for a mouth rotated into view.
Corey's knees wobbled from the majesty.
He sensed confusion coming from Marci, perhaps due to the beauty she and Justin were creating, but he sensed concern as well. The emotions whirling around him were so pure and gentle and full of comfort, Corey never guessed his wife could be receiving help. But then he glanced to his left.
The Being held both hands in front of itself at arm's length, palms open, long fingers splayed.
It carried the same basic structure as the creature from Walt's dreams, but this one's skin shimmered blue like a polished bowling ball.
Sparkles burst all over his body in a unique rhythm, as if unseen lights searched the interior of its body, causing reflective glitters.
It lowered its arms. The ball in the dream faded and vanished. The dream jumped to Justin in a bass fishing boat on a placid river. Corey focused on the life form standing on the cliff with him. A part of him wanted to release his hold on the dream and run from this unknown, yet he sensed no danger, so he held on.
Slowly rotating its long head, it found Corey, examined him a second, and then, as if disinterested, returned its attention to the scene below them.
It had the solid black eyes of a Teddy bear, and sensing it represented the Jinni's opposite, Corey moved closer.
The Being's blue skin adopted a corona, mist gathered behind it. With the intuition of understanding that flowed in dreams, Corey knew the Being was preparing to flee. Not out of fear, but from an intolerance to being disturbed. If Corey wanted to stand on the cliff with him, fine, but if he chose to interrupt the Being’s agenda, it would leave.
Corey stepped back and the Being returned its attention to the stage below.
Remembering the vision of thousands of Jinn standing in rows, gossiping, and waiting for instructions, Corey focused on a topic of communication, basically a question as to what the Jinn and this being were. He concentrated his thoughts. A folded sheet of paper materialized.
The Being's head swiveled, it regarded the note, but soon returned to watching the dream, or perhaps staring at Marci.
The dream below them showed Justin surfing a blue sea, a dolphin bobbing in and out of the wave alongside him.
Corey pushed the emotion of gratitude for the Being's influence on Justin, as a thank you for what he had shown them through Justin’s dream.
It turned to him, nodded one slow bend of the neck and rise of the head. Corey sensed it considering the page of communication, but he also felt the drag of the dream ending. No. No. No. He wasn't ready to exit.
The heaviness progressed nonetheless.
Marci abandoned her steering duties and took notice of the creature, possibly wondering if it had assisted her in guiding such a powerful dream.
The hands of waking life gripped Corey and dragged him low. The dream world lost focus. The last thing he saw was the azure-colored creature returning its attention to Justin, a man possessed by the Jinni's counterpart.
TWENTY-ONE
Corey came to in time to see Marci exit their bedroom, enter the hallway bathroom, and close the door. Hopefully she had a lightness in her chest, and an upward pull to the corners of her mouth. They’d experienced magic.
Corey felt buoyant and hollowed out, but also as if a life-altering substance was filling that vacated part of him with grand information.
Lacking the will to move until the download completed, he imagined Marci having a similar experience at that moment. Since she previously considered herself an atheist, perhaps the truthful revelations about all life being part of a whole and united origin impacted her more. The uplifting emotions that had laced the dream left no doubt they had witnessed an explanation of existence that combined science, philosophy, and religion into a stream of comprehension.
That, plus the surge of waking from a Dream Ride instilled a will to change, to create positive actions that very day, to be an example of personal bliss for others.
Noticing it was 5:55 in the morning, Corey inhaled slowly then exhaled. He took a moment to gather strength, journeyed one step, and eased onto the corner of the bed.
He examined himself in the nearby mirror. Looking at his face often made him self-conscious, but this morning he felt unique, and loved for that. He tried to detect the atoms that constructed him. He wondered about the past histories of each of the trillions of particles that formed his vessel.
Quantum physicists claimed the same atoms in him had been present at the Big Bang. He had never considered that argument supported a theology, that the fully reunited galaxy (the ball before the bang) was God, or Heaven, or both.
If each cell in him carried a memory, and if that memory went back to the creation of the universe, or even to the nascent of life on the planet, that could explain déjà-vu, or past-life association, or why every discovered culture or tribe—no matter how far removed from civilization—worshiped a higher power. Because we remember.
Breathing more steadily, he wondered if the bi-racial young man on the hoverboard had been a real person, living out there, unaware his essence had shared itself completely with Justin—perhaps during his own dream—and that a married couple blessed with an unnatural talent had witnessed the exchange.
The toilet flushed down the hall, but the door stayed closed. Whatever Marci was doing was her business. He brooded on his thoughts so deeply that when Justin stirred, the movement caused Corey to refocus himself from a meditative state.
Reading the clock, he had sat motionless for almost forty minutes, and couldn’t recall having a single thought.
He crept to the bathroom and gently rapped on the door. “I’ll start the coffee,” he said before peeking in Janey’s empty room.
The couple reunited a few minutes later, staged the speakers, and waited.
Justin opened his eyes and moved to a sitting position. The burly man met Corey’s gaze and held it for a few seconds. He repeated the look with Marci.
Corey imagined they would be chatting for most of the morning, perhaps all of the day and into the night. He’d brewed a larger pot than normal, and considered the ingredients needed for a three-person breakfast.
Justin stood.
Corey considered asking Justin how he felt, but thought any sound could interrupt critical processing.
Corey and Marci shared a look as they followed Justin to the door. He forced on his work boots without speaking.
“Are you okay?” Marci asked.
Without responding, Justin rolled his broad shoulders, checked each face as if about to speak. Instead, he exited through the front door.
Once the rattle of the truck engine confirmed his departure, Corey said. “He’s speechless.”
“I can’t blame him.” Marci moved to the window as the truck turned around in their driveway, and gradually faded down the road.
“That was amazing,” Corey said.
“Spectacular.” Marci turned to him, a grin so wide it bordered on creepy. “Could you feel the personalities of those people zipping into him?”
“Of course, probably not as intensely as you, or even Justin, but it was like an empathy overload.”
“I knew small things about each person, like how one woman loved her husband so much she was like a superhero. Or how embarrassed one guy got each time he passed gas, even when alone.” Marci chuckled lightly, and dabbed a tear from an eye.
“Do you think those were real people? Like, we could track down the first kid?”
Marci’s facial expressions dropped. Hardness replaced it. “Why do you have to ruin it, Corey. That was the most beautiful ride to-date and you muddy it up with… stupidity. Of course they were not real people.”
Did she see what I saw? Did we feel the same atmosphere?
“Look.” Marci plopped onto the couch and powered up the computer and television. “Your fri
end is a kind man. Maybe that one in a million person who truly wants what’s best for everyone he meets, even above himself. With his help, I facilitated a powerful dream, but there are no aliens, or Gods, or time-bending warlocks living inside any of us. When we Dream Ride, our brain waves push outward and mesh with those of our clients. It is a one-hundred percent temporal experience, and if we ever make a mistake and get snatched up and are prodded and tested and poked and locked away for life, we will learn the science behind what we do.” She opened their email account.
Despite her quick dismissal of the most profound moment of their lives, and his need to defend them, Corey found himself interested in the latest email as she opened it.
They had received a scheduled Ride and payment from the married couple who had wanted to Ride together. Corey and Marci had been unable to combine their dreams. Instead, they set their phone’s alarm clock to vibrate, split the night into two sessions, and satisfied the husband and wife’s ambitions of growing closer.
Marci opened her notepad and recorded the information into her planner.
“I have to say something else,” Corey said.
“Is it going to be sane?” Marci dropped her pen on the open book and waited for him to reply.
He should keep his mouth shut, wait for her mood to change, but she was his only confidant in their secret world. He had to express himself, even if only to have his theory debunked. He pressed on because she had to have contemplated the same possibilities. Stubbornness, perhaps fear, kept her from seeking the truth.
“I want you to think about something.”
“I think about things all day. Like how to run our business, how to raise our daughter without antiquated theological beliefs that might limit her options, where we will be in ten years.”
“I believe the Jinni in Walt is a demon, and the one in Justin is an angel.”
Marci studied him for a few seconds. She then marched into the kitchen and returned holding the house phone at arm’s-length. “Then call your old professor and tell him what you think.”
Dan Palmeter was the most intelligent man Corey had ever met. His loving wife believed he possessed such a rare and powerful mind, and she argued for him to inseminate surrogate mothers so they could populate the world with his genetics.
Dan had been absolutely stunned when Corey announced his retirement from the field of philosophy. When he heard why Corey quit his studies, he laughed. When he accepted Corey was concerned for his future sanity, Dan told him to stop being stupid and pretty soon stopped talking to him altogether. The last time they spoke, Dan had told Corey to call him if he ever regained his senses.
Marci pushed the phone closer.
Corey shook his head.
“No? You worry about his reaction? How about Natalie, Sammy, Deacon—any of the old friends we no longer have. Would you care to explain to them how you were visited by an angel?”
Corey picked up on the subtext: they no longer had these friends because of him, and the seedling of a lump in his throat expanded as he wondered, am I doing it again?
“Let’s get a group consensus about your ‘revelations.’” She pressed Talk on the cordless handset. “I really think it would be good for all of us.”
With her insinuation of a fraying mind, the dial tone adopted the drone of a heavily sedated mental patient.
The maddening sound ended with the push of a button. She tossed the phone on the couch.
“I don’t want any more of this crazy talk. The thought of this being too much for you, and me pushing too hard for selfish reasons has aged me ten years in the past two months. There are no psychics, mind-readers, or telekenetics. No demons. No angels.”
A half a minute ticked by with him staring at the carpet. Finally, she said, “I’m going to get Janey,” and darted into the kitchen, where the car keys hung on a rack.
“It’s six in the morning.”
“I’ll knock loud enough to wake them.” She slammed the door on her way out.
Corey listened to the Jetta reverse and then stop in front of the house. From a crack between the curtain, he watched Marci shimmy the manila envelope from their mailbox, load it into the car, and drive off. His inability to hold his tongue probably emboldened her to work-out a deal with Florence Zimbardo. With her as the only client, there would be no angels, no demons, and little logic for him to counter. He still would. He wanted to Ride strangers; men and women of faith.
Maybe it was good to keep Riding Walt. They had discovered something. Even if his mind unraveled, he would follow the evidence, compile the data, and follow this road to its end.
TWENTY-TWO
Walt Zimbardo dreamed he stood in a dingy kitchen with faded yellow linoleum counters and floors and fake wood cabinets. Dead flies, mosquitoes, and roaches littered the overhead lights. The room smelled like used cooking grease.
Walt had never been in such a crummy house; never driven through a neighborhood dilapidated enough to offer something as atrocious as this. A disheveled woman stood across the kitchen from him. As soon as he met her eyes, she hissed at him in Spanish. He couldn’t remember offending her, but her scraggly hair and cellulite offended him. She suddenly held a kitchen knife and pointed it in his direction.
A revolver appeared in his hand. It’s weight was comforting. Now he could defend himself, if he had to. He didn’t want to shoot this crazy bitch. For all he knew, she was yelling about how she’d kill Florence for a chance to be with him. Who could blame her for that?
He patted his hands in a calming gesture.
She focused on the gun as she continued to yell. She slashed and stabbed at the air. Her curses brought spittle. She crept closer, backing him up. The moment he met a counter and glanced to his side, she charged.
He pointed the gun at her. She kept coming so he fired six rounds. The scene froze. One bullet missed, one punctured each of her tits. Three others bored holes in her face. The dream shifted.
Same kitchen. The Chicano woman was there but unharmed, calm, and clean. No knife, but still ugly. With hands on her hips and a scowl on her face, she seemed like a disgruntled spouse. His gun was gone. Six strangers to both of them occupied the dingy, and now crowded room.
In crisp English, the Chicano woman yelled to the room. “He murdered me! He shot me all over.” She pointed to where the bullets hit her.
The members of the room stiffened.
Her standing in perfect health seemed a non-issue.
Walt said, “Hey, she had a knife!” The faces soured, so he added, “She rushed me with the knife. I didn’t want to shoot her. I even fired a warning shot.”
“He’s a liar!” said a man wearing a purple stocking cap.
“With the rope?” asked a man in a white tuxedo.
“Using a candlestick?” asked another as a dense metal object swung toward Walt’s face with terminal velocity.
His eyes burst open at the moment of impact. The dream images blended with the elegance of his bedroom, and intensified the confusion of waking unexpectedly. His heart knocked. Those idiots. He hadn’t wanted to kill that woman, but she was a psychotic bitch liar, and hideous. She should have stayed dead. Then, a flash of guilt. When have I ever thought of killing another person, a woman for that matter?
Rubbing his eyes, he cursed. The whole world is stupid, except me.
Tossing his legs over the elevated, throne-size mattress always brought Alfred, his loyal and loving long-haired Hungarian Puli. He scratched behind the dog’s ear. He hesitated his normal scratching of the head and snuggling of the face, leading to a few morning licks.
Instead, he thought about how useless guilt was, how this dog expected him to obey its wishes. He squeezed the animal’s hide with all his might, balling up the flesh.
Alfred yelped, whined, and struggled to break free. Walt held on. This is much better than a germ-infected lick.
He released his grip and rushed to a standing position, intending to kick. Unfortunately, the old canine had more
sense than expected and dashed out of range just in time to avoid a foot to the face.
Alfred stared at its master with signs of hurt, meant to manipulate, but Walt was done being guilted. Alfred raced from the room.
Walt sang the whole time he showered. He heard Lashinda humming in the master suite as she tidied his bedding and smiled. Keeping the water running, he exited, dabbed himself dry, and entered the master suite, naked.
“I’m sorry Mr. Z,” Lashinda bowed her head, brought her small meaty hands to her chest, and rumbled toward the door.
He watched her leave with a grin plastered on his face.
His male organ had elongated. She was a big woman, an absolute monstrosity to envision nude or him plunging any of her sweaty and foul lady holes, but throwing her off her normal day of living the good life felt good.
With added excitement, he returned to his routine, but vowed to surprise Lashinda again. Next time, he’d pop-out fully aroused, scramble to the door, and block the exit—see how the faithful Baptist handled that. Perhaps she’d kneel and pay homage to the lord that actually affected her life.
Exercise, then he conducted consecutive business meetings over the internet with a few worthless ventures. However, they’d granted him experience. Because of his many dealings, Dream Riding would cross the planet, and be worshiped.
Lunch, where he resisted the temptation to tell Wendy, his second maid and part-time fling of Cooper’s, that she had something on her rump, to come closer, so he could brush it off in an inappropriate manner.
However, as if sensing his mischief, she kept her distance, and stayed silent. Perhaps Lashinda had shared the story of his morning surprise.
The day progressed into such an excellent one, he half expected to get the signed paperwork from the goofballs in Henderson.
His monthly mani/pedi allowed him to fantasize about his future in such detail he decided to invite Kendra for a business dinner. They stayed past the meal and shared a dessert, all while planning for the midnight deadline.