The last dream, though far less violent, had really spooked him. Jamie’s eyes had popped open. A mist of sweat ran down the sides of his face. Again he heard the moaning and the sounds of scratching, but when his eyes flicked towards the door, there was no pacing shadow at the bottom. He tried to sit up, but his body wouldn’t respond. He tried to turn his head to the door, but it wouldn’t move. The room became silent. His breathing, the scratching, the moans, everything stopped, like a conductor had drawn a finger across his throat, silencing each element of the assembled mass. Jamie felt blood pumping in his chest, pulsing at his temples. His eyes scanned the room. Moonlight shone in through the edges of the curtains, casting bands of light and dark over his bed and down the walls of the room. Then he saw a movement in the shadows, someone stepping out from the corner, dressed entirely in black, walking towards him. Jamie lay there, transfixed. Then the wailing began, and he saw the figure’s eyes, icy blue, almost white, staring at him as they came closer and closer and…
Jamie had woken for the last time after that dream. By then his room had grown lighter with the rising sun. He lay on his back, afraid to move, for fear his body would prove unwilling to cooperate. His eyes went to the clock on his desk. It was just after ten. His eyes scanned the room. Nothing but bare walls, scattered clothing, and books. He took a deep breath, then sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and crouching with his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. He clenched his toes, digging into the industrial carpet on the floor, feeling the bumpy concrete beneath. His fingers clutched fistfuls of his hair, wiry and course. His skin felt clammy and damp, his entire body was coated in a film of dried sweat. Jamie stood and paced the room, stretching his arms, feeling his muscles pulling taught against his bones. He scooped up his shower bucket and a change of clothes and left the room.
A group of girls walked past him as he headed down the hallway. The television murmured from the lounge around the corner. One or two doors were propped open. It was the first time Jamie had seen any signs of life in the morning. Of course, it was the first time he’d gotten up later than seven since he’d arrived on campus. He staggered into the bathroom and stepped into the shower stall closest to the wall, locking the door behind him. He stripped off his clothing, running his hands over his arms and chest, still feeling detached from his body after the dream. He looked down at his limp penis, and remembered the aborted blowjob from the previous night. He hadn’t had sex in over a year. One of the many areas of his life that had been cut off. He turned on the hot water, absentmindedly cupping his dick with one hand as he tested the water temperature with the other. He stepped under the stream of hot water and ran his hands through his hair, stepping forward to let the hot water spray into his face. He breathed in the steam and leaned against the wall with one hand.
He considered going to the gym or running, but didn’t think he’d be up for it. It probably wasn’t the best idea drinking so much; he obviously couldn’t handle it as well as he used to. The dreams were his body telling him to take it easy. He soaped himself up and stood under the coursing hot water. He thought back to the last dream, to being paralyzed in his bed. That had actually happened to him once, right before his mother took him to Dr. Price’s office for the first time. He’d kept the problem in the art studio to himself for close to a month, that is, until the incident with the alarm clock.
He’d stayed up late the night before, sketching in his notebook and watching Letterman and Conan until close to 2 a.m. He’d always wondered if fatigue might have triggered it. When the alarm went off the next morning he’d tried to roll over to switch it off, but he couldn’t move. Just as in the dream, his body wouldn’t listen. He was completely paralyzed. The alarm had continued buzzing, growing louder and louder until he heard his mother’s voice calling for him to get up. He heard her footsteps clomping down the hallway toward his room. Then the tremors began. He’d finally managed to turn his head towards the door when his body began to shiver, only it didn’t pass like the chill from a draft or that first gust of fall: it continued rattling his body. He could hear the sheets on his bed shifting and whipping back and forth. His mother stepped into the room, framed by the doorway, as her jaw fell open. Jamie had been unable to move, simply looking up at her as she became hysterical. That was the first day he met Dr. Price, and the first time he ever heard of early onset Parkinson’s. All in all, it had been a pretty shitty day.
Now he stood in the shower, breathing in the hot steam, imagining it billowing into his lungs. He pictured curls of vapor swirling through his skull, relaxing the tissues in his head. Then he closed his eyes, and tried to envision the implant, buried deep, deep inside his brain -- he saw it suspended in place, and tried to picture the tiny metal barbs clenching the tissues, all the while sending out little jolts of electricity, keeping him from going apeshit. He opened his eyes suddenly, turned off the water, and dried himself quickly. After dressing, he realized he’d forgotten to bring a hat or sweatshirt with him. The scars were always pink and swollen after a shower. He stepped out of the stall, picked up his things, and hurried down the hallway, back to his room, before anyone had a chance to notice him.
The rest of the weekend passed strangely. Jamie stayed in his room for most of the morning, trying unsuccessfully to do some drawing, before throwing his sketchbook against the wall in disgust, and going out with his camera in the afternoon. He came back in the evening, just as the group from the floor was heading out to the Commons for dinner. The food was a nice change of pace from Gracie’s, and he had a chance to talk with a couple more people from the floor. That guy Nick, who had had the Futurama vs. Simpsons debate with Steve on Friday, turned out to be a pretty humorous guy, albeit it a tad extreme. As Gabe put it “He’s a software engineer… Boy is he ever a software engineer.”
Apparently the highlight of the last four years of Nick’s life was an event that took place the previous spring, when Bill Gates was at a technology conference in Europe. As Gates and his entourage were entering a hotel before a lecture, an unseen protestor had managed to slip past security, stepping out from behind a column, and smacking ole Bill in the face with a cream pie. Someone had captured the entire event on video and posted it online, and according to Nick, it was the greatest piece of news footage ever recorded. Just recounting the look on Mr. Gates’ face, and his enraged rant as he walked inside, scraping pie filling from his glasses, sent Nick into gales of laughter. Then, in a grave voice, he’d confessed that the greatest drawback to the video was that it had forced him to install Microsoft Windows on his computer in order to play the clip back. Afterwards Jamie had turned to Gabe for explanation, and learned that Nick was an apostle of the church of Linux, a free operating system created in the 80’s by some computer student in Europe.
“Don’t even ask me how I learned the history of Linux.” Gabe muttered. “Nick despises Microsoft with a passion. If you want to get him started, ask him about either Microsoft Windows or Pepsi. He’ll be ranting for at least an hour. He loves Pepsi. He hates Windows.”
“What about Apple?” Jamie asked.
“He hates them, too,” Gabe replied. Then he shrugged his shoulders. “I dunno. Like I said, he’s a software engineer.”
Jamie nodded his head, he’d have to chew that one over. He glanced around the table and asked Gabe more questions about the group. Gabe and Will were both Juniors, as were Vicky and Nick. Arlin and Fritz were in their fourth years of five year programs. Jamie was one of the few freshmen on the floor. Apparently there had been another one, some strange kid at the end of the hall named Elliott, who used to walk around shirtless, inviting the girls into his room for a beer.
“He was creepy,” Gabe said. “Picture Elliot from E.T., take off the red sweatshirt, swap the Reeses Pieces for a pack of Milwaukee’s Best, and you have Elliott.”
Around Halloween it turned out Elliot’s seventeen year old girlfriend back home was pregnant, and he disappeared overnight. A week later some relatives
arrived, packed up his stuff, and left.
Gabe seemed to have the inside scoop on everyone. Probably best to avoid the guy’s questions, not reveal anything he didn’t want getting out.
Someone suggested getting a movie after dinner. Fritz, who remained under the weather from the night before, was recruited to drive to Blockbuster. When he got back from the store, Gabe and Will had lifted the lounge couches up on cinder blocks, and had hooked up an elaborate series of speakers. Apparently they’d done that a lot the previous year, but Will had been trying to hook up with a girl from his classes all fall, so the floor movie nights had been on hiatus.
“He’s been pretty moody lately,” Gabe said. “I think his plan went off track this weekend.”
Jamie had a feeling he knew who the girl was. He looked over at Will, who was working behind the TV, a humorless expression on his face. This could get messy.
Saturday night proved to be a good time. No one drank since they were out in the lounge. Gabe had picked up the original Star Wars trilogy, and between installments, they would run to The Corner Store in the tunnels to grab snacks and junk food. Return of the Jedi wrapped up by two in the morning, and the group disbanded.
Jamie went to sleep feeling apprehensive, but there were no more nightmares. The next morning he dragged himself to the gym, then spent the rest of the day working on a class assignment. By Sunday night, people were busy working in their rooms. Nick wandered the halls, Pepsi bottle in hand, talking to anyone who left their doors open. Fritz had a big report due for his main biotechnology class, but was procrastinating, playing battle games on the computer network with Chris at the end of the hall. Jamie went into his room, closed the door, and did his assignment for Media and the Mind. Namely, he lay on his back, with his feet propped up on the wall, and pondered his career goals. Despite the implant, it looked like he’d be sticking with photography for a while longer. He looked to the corner, where his sketchbook had landed after bouncing off the wall. Maybe he’d give it a try again, but it could wait for now. He was getting ideas for his Fine Art photography class, and thought he might do some shooting the next evening. Maybe Victor would be working at the cage and he could do his best to piss that guy off. He laughed to himself, then walked over to take his meds.
He was feeling good.
He hoped it would last.
CHAPTER THREE - THE MIND
The second class was always the most interesting. He got a kick out of the first meeting, but the second was when he got to see what these folks were made of, see how they thought. That was simple enough to interpret, he just took note of the students that bothered coming back.
Karl Ryan had been at this for twenty-two years, and past experience had taught him that an empty chair in the second session inevitably represented a transient student currently standing in the Registrar’s office, withdrawing from his Media and the Mind course. His assignment to get stoned and ponder the future was the first of many turning points. It tended to level out the audience intellectually; those unable to see past the “sticker price” of the class, usually students returning to college after a long break from academia, had greater difficulty swallowing the prospect of such a loosely structured, admittedly “out there” method of instruction, and were usually gone by the start of the second week. Others, who saw it as a simple gut class, requiring no work or commitment, usually sat in the front row for the second session, grinning like they’d just found a signed blank check, yet they too would inevitably fade away, the level of personal analysis and theory becoming too much for them as the quarter progressed.
Then, there was the group of students that got it, the ones truly interested in considering their areas of study and analyzing what the purpose of their life’s work might be. Owing to the subject matter, and the temperament of the students who stayed, Ryan usually found himself with a lecture hall full of art students. This suited him just fine, as they invariably proved themselves the most interesting individuals on campus. Filmmakers, photographers, artists, and writers, these were his people.
“Looking a bit more spacious in here today,” he called out, as he marched into the classroom and tossed his books on the desk. There was a light wave of laughter. “The others must be out convincing their friends to sign up. Well, if they don’t show, we’ll chalk it up as their loss.”
Jamie was sitting in the back row again. He glanced around the room. The woman in the Winnie the Pooh jacket was gone, as were the people she’d been sitting with in the previous class. Will’s hot friend was back, but she’d switched seats, now sitting a couple rows in front of him. He arched his neck around for a better view. She still looked amazing. It was strange, her appeal was completely different from the women he was usually attracted to. Jenny, his high school girlfriend with the belatedly discovered penchant for bedding football all stars, had been a tall, rail-thin blond, with a classic WASP look - gorgeous by any stretch of the imagination, but, certainly not exotic. Even that girl Erica, who’d now lost all appeal, was basically normal looking – smooth skin, slightly frizzy hair, a general party-girl manner. But the girl two rows up, she had an altogether different thing going on. She was… scary. It wasn’t just the dark eye makeup, or the clothing, it was the whole package. She sat in an aggressive manner, legs tensed, elbows turned outward, as if ready to spring forward at a moment’s notice and rip off your head. Jamie never thought he’d feel this way, but he liked it. He watched her intently now as she listened to the lecture, chewing on the end of her pen absentmindedly. It was sexy; nothing wrong with a little oral fixation.
Professor Ryan walked up the row, moving his arm like an orchestra conductor as he spoke. “I trust you’ve all followed the first assignment closely, and I’m looking forward to discussing your conclusions with you today. From there, we’ll just see how things go.” He scanned the room, looking for the faces he had picked out during the previous session. He knew choosing favorites was officially a “no no,” but over the years, Ryan had found he could tell within the first few meetings which students would keep the discussions interesting. He noted the girl in the middle of the lecture hall. She’d been in the front row last time and he’d found his eyes wandering to the patch of skin between the bottom of her shirt and the top of her low-rise jeans. He turned to her, disappointed to see there was no skin on display today. He stopped at the end of her row and she looked up at him.
“Tell me Miss-”
“Petronio,” Kelli said.
“What is your major?”
“Film.”
“What area of film?”
“All of it.”
“All of it,” Professor Ryan paused. “Meaning?”
Kelli looked at him strangely.
“Is there a specific part of the process your prefer?”
“I don’t know. I like when it’s done?” she said.
“So, you don’t like the actual process, so much as the experience of watching the finished product.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Why?” Ryan asked loudly.
“I like to watch how the audience reacts. See if they understand what I was trying to say?”
“Which is?’
Kelli felt like she was giving stupid answers. Her face was feeling hot.
“Well… it varies, I guess. I just want to see if my original idea comes out in the film. If it’s a comedy I want people to laugh. If it’s non-fiction, I want to see if I gave them enough information to understand the topic.”
“So, in a lot of ways, you’re involved in several different forms of communication. Do you write?”
Kelli nodded.
“Direct?”
She nodded.
“Shoot and edit-”
She smiled. “Yes.”
“Wow,” Ryan turned to the audience. “take note of this young lady fellas.” He turned to Jamie suddenly. “And what do you do?”
Jamie coughed. “I’m a photo major.”
“Are you a photo major, or a p
hotographer?” Ryan asked.
That was a strange question. “I suppose I’m an…artist who’s working in photography.”
“Oooooooh, an artist. But again, not a photographer?”
Jamie hesitated. “I’m not entirely sure, actually.”
“Why not a painter or a sculptor like Michelangelo?” Ryan said with a distinct edge in his voice. “It sounds like that’s more the way you fancy yourself.”
“I had a slight change of plans.”
“Oh, I see.” Ryan said sharply. “Care to elaborate?”
“No...” Jamie said.
Ryan threw up his hands in a manner or dismissal. “Fair enough,” he said, as he walked down the aisle and sat atop the desk at the front of the room. “An artist has no need to explain.”
Kelli turned her head, catching a glimpse of Jamie out of the corner of her eye. He glanced up at her, and she held the gaze for a beat, before returning to the professor.
“As I said on Thursday, you are all working in some form of media. Which is to say, you are all learning how to use very powerful, very persuasive forms of communication. Look at the headlines in today’s newspaper. The president is caught with his pants around his ankles Monday, it’s in tomorrow’s headlines Tuesday, Wednesday’s headline is about the stock market crashing as a result.” There was a murmur through the room. “In the past, politics was a guy going from town to town, speaking from the back of a train. Today, it’s the guy who knows how to grab the headlines, and not for getting caught with his dick in his hand.” He paused for emphasis. “Hitler was a master of media,” he pointed to Kelli. “Do you know Leni Riefenstahl?”
On/Off - A Jekyll and Hyde Story Page 8