The Dream Virgin

by Don Quine

  She pressed the W button located on the dash next to the E that Will rigged so when you pushed the W it played programmed music back in his space. By the time Hank Snow or Patsy Cline finished a tune, Will was usually awake and out of his flip-down bunk.

  The Express worked its way up the twisting canyon, which fell and rose, and the road tightened into a series of hairpins looking down on steep drops.

  Rounding a bend onto a short straightaway, another sign caught Elfri’s eye: Wonder Way Awaits You. It tied into the other eye-catching signs she passed on the canyon switchbacks promoting Lake Meadows, home of the Crazy Ideas Bash.

  Will sat down behind Elfri’s right shoulder, across the aisle in the navigator seat. Blinking away sleep, he looked out the passenger window onto a deep canyon.

  “Figure they’ll serve up a decent breakfast?”

  Elfri downshifted and eased the bus up the grade.

  “You’d think. Then again, bowling alleys aren’t known for their food.”

  Removing a sheet of directions tucked in the console that he’d built into the back of the guard wall facing the navigator seat, Will took a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket, slipped them on with a yawn and fingered the sheet.

  “Gotta hand it to them. Letting us know there’s no GPS in the canyon, giving us this neat map with the cool Ventures Nest logo, and hand-drawn layout of Lake Meadows with its shops.”

  “Read what it says about arrival procedure on the back,” Elfri said, slowing the bus to look at a tall totem pole on a cliffside turnoff that was marked Lookout Ridge.

  Set in stone with a bronze dedication plaque, below a white-winged raven and above a black raven, a tough Native American face with long jet-black hair and hawk eyes was carved into the pole giving it stature.

  “Impressive looking man,” Will said.

  Elfri drove past The Harry Riverbottom Memorial and a minute later made a face as the bus struggled up the canyon rise and the engine pinged.

  “Should of changed the ignition coils in Waco,” Will said before Elfri could, then ruffled the map and turned it over.

  “Says here when you finish the thirty-seven miles climb up Snake Canyon you’ll be at the top of Lake Meadows Road. Where it splits at the west end of the lake, you’ll see the Nature Lovers Retreat motel on your right, and the Strikes To Spare bowling alley on your left.

  Says to park vehicles in the adjoining parking lot and proceed into the building for registration, which begins at 9 a.m. Please be on time.”

  Elfri checked her watch, “No sweat.”

  The Express chugged and sputtered up the hill, Elfri going, “C’mon, you old bitch!” and “You can do it, girl!” until it reached the top of the rise and started downhill. Picking up speed, the bus rounded a bend.

  Then Elfri slammed on the brakes.

  The bus screeched, skidded, straightened, and stopped just short of rear-ending a white limo before Elfri tap-braked the bus back, slowing it down and away from the unexpected small caravan of vehicles poking along behind one another at comfortable distances, taking their easy lead from a black truck with a flashing red sign on its rear that read Dangerous Cargo.

  Wrestling the bus under control, Elfri strangled the steering wheel and screamed.

  Will said, “Damn fine driving, Elf. Damn fine job!”

  Elfri stopped the bus, got out of her seat.

  “Have a goddam wreck! Perfect way to start the fucking day!”

  She stomped to the rear of the bus.

  Will got in the driver’s seat, released the brake.

  It took a couple of minutes to catch up with the limo, a pickup that hauled a trailer, a van, a VW bus, and a bright pink convertible, all trailing the black truck on the long and winding road.

  CHAPTER 4

  Oliver tried to catch his breath, return to laughing.

  He knew the mask analyzer he had strapped over his face measured his pulmonary gas exchange and physiological responses to his Obstickle Challenge along with the sound of laughter he produced as he ran the course; measured in time and volume.

  He saw the big oak on the left waiting for him, geared up to control his gut reaction to the tree’s assault, but the adrenaline rushed past his control into his muscles as he heard the thick branch snap, watched it fall fast and land hard on the mucky path.

  Ka-WHUMPF!

  Oliver laughed loudly, shifted stride as a small glob from the splat grazed his shoulder, then he hurtled over the dead tree limb to a shaky landing, found his legs, and grabbed some breath. Wiped his mask, laughed some more, looking up ahead at Obstickle #12.

  The last and the toughest.

  The fact that the muck made barefoot running harder was a given. The trick was getting the traction between your feet, the muck, and the treadmill in a stable relationship so the course was intense without losing the fun factor.

  Weekend warriors could live with a flop once or twice a challenge, but three times in the muck was pushing it. Although it was tough to get angry when your laughter was a part of the competition; 25% of your total course score. You could have speed and agility, but if you didn’t laugh a lot while you were running the course, you lost points.

  “Awesome!” “Stellar!” “Epic!”

  The programmed voices yelled praise from trees with animated faces, followed immediately by a “Ready for combat!” alert barked from a mechanized Mud Troll perched on an overhang near the fast approaching Tickle Torture Tunnel, its mammoth mouth entrance waiting with frightful looking feathers.

  Some larger than others, all with Flickity-Licks at the ends of their plumes—moist spaghetti-thin tongues that shot rapidly in and out to enhance the tickling—the T-T-T was a laugh-attack monster.

  Oliver laughed, grabbed some grapplers from his game belt, but before he could slip on the gloves he slipped on a mossy log, and slid headfirst into a nearby beaver dam that caused an automated beaver to pop up and bare its huge uppers with a menacing hiss.

  “Warrior down, smile, don’t frown!” shouted the Troll.

  Oliver laughed at it.

  Then he shimmied out of the gunk, pulled away his mask, pleased as he watched the dam’s automatic repair system patch the damage he had caused. The big beaver gave a toothy hiss and slipped back into the dam.

  Oliver spit colorful guck, looked up and yelled, “What we’d get?”

  Overhead lab lights immediately revealed the research lab that serviced the ten-foot wide, fifty-foot long, dipping, curving, sloping, and revolving obstacle course.

  “Total score is 114, time is 14:11:67. Super run, Oliver,” said a female voice.

  Unlike the Obstickle course Trolls, the woman’s strong voice wasn’t programmed.

  Akizu Nilsson looked down from her programing control board, the range of data and visualization tools allowing her to measure performance of the Obstickle prototype. She watched a stocky guy appear below her in the studio wearing a soul patch and shorts, looking up at her.

  “What about his laughabilty?”

  “93, up from 87,” said Akizu.

  Marc Levin sloshed his way over to Oliver barefooted with a wet cloth and water bottle, said to Oliver, all gung-ho, “What are we here for Warrior?”

  They both leaped high, banged chests, yelled, “Obstickles!!” and let out gung-ho laughs.

  Oliver took the cloth from Marc, wiped muck off his face, chugged some water and pointed to the tunnel.

  “Spice up Triple-T’s welcome, give the entrance 40% more slather; increase the halitosis factor accordingly. Add six more blubber lips, and program the kiss component with the same parameters we used on the Mouth Off.”

  Marc looked up at Akizu.

  “And we need to thicken the goop on the Lickedy Split, it’ll slow down the ticklers, but it’ll splat better when they slide the shoot.”

 
The Euro-Asian project coordinator, early twenties, exotic face framed by a bob-cut, body nice and taut, took a long sip of something and spat it down on Marc who laughed and licked his lips.

  Flicking on a sound system, Akizu said in a mic, “Goop on the split. Tongue slather. Sounds like an oral sex ride, but you freaks can have anything your hearts desire. As long as we’re only a half-million over budget, another hundred grand’s no biggie.”

  “Right, Oliver?”

  Oliver stripped off his mucky shoes and shorts, moving bare ass toward a shower rigged under the program platform. He couldn’t hear Akizu.

  Which she knew.

  Grabbing her smart pad, Akizu hurried down the platform steps in time to catch Oliver slide into sweats, leaving just his torso for her to glom.

  Handing Marc her pad, Akizu moved behind Oliver and began massaging his shoulders, asking in Mandarin, “You need a rub, handsome? I make muscles happy.”

  Oliver moved out from under Akizu’s hands, took a hoodie off a hook by the shower and responded in Mandarin, “Put a lid on your libido and schedule a conference call with Shazamedia.”

  Marc scowled, “Hey! I didn’t bring my chopsticks, dudes!”

  Not missing a beat, Oliver switched back to English and walked over to a workbench.

  “We need to discuss CGI and some different visual effects for—”

  “—the Splish-Splash. Obstickle number three. Octopus arms need more suctionability,” Marc said, and made a sucking sound directed at Akizu.

  On the workbench was an eye-catching model of the Obstickle with all its challenges. Next to it was another workbench with a large model of an oval lake that sported water rides and amusements. Drawings surrounded the lake model and detailed its many attractions.

  Akizu snatched her pad back from Marc and after a few seconds of finger tapping, told Oliver, “After Project Orientation you have a 30-minute break before the Wonder Way meeting. I’ll set up a 2:30 Tango.”

  Oliver folded his hands by his heart and said, to his associates, “Luvya,” which was repeated by Marc and Akizu, and punctuated by a dog barking, followed by a demanding caw that sounded like “Yum-yum!”

  Oliver turned to Akizu and Marc and said, “Strikes at 8:30; wear your VN shirts and act presentable.”

  He took off to the opposite side of the studio lab, grabbed a bamboo unicycle that was leaning on a bamboo pole, hopped on it and rode it through a door marked Inside Out that automatically slid open for his exit.

  Ed squatted on Lili who was standing outside next to the lab door, bird and dog waiting for Oliver, his black raven wings flexing, her grey Standard Poodle tail wagging in the dawn.

  Reaching into his hoodie, Oliver pulled out a couple of treats, gave one to Lili who wolfed it, the other one was snatched by Ed.

  Oliver watched the raven fly over the solar-paneled roof of the lab, up above the long expanse of the meadowland campus, and then swoop down into a gap between a nearby stand of birch.

  Oliver hopped on his unicycle and said to the Poodle, “Petit dejeuner, Lili?”

  Lili responded with a bark and took off on the hard-packed trail in the direction the raven went.

  Oliver followed backwards on his bike doing some kind of arm exercises, then spun around just before he entered the break in the forest.

  CHAPTER 5

  When Elfri walked into Strikes to Spare with the S2S bowling pin handle on the front door entrance, what struck her as strange was there was only two bowling lanes in the entire place, located at the far right, with manual pinsetters and visible ball returns.

  The rest of the bowling alley was recently renovated, some of the original decor was from the mid-1950s, including a mosaic ceiling of carved stone representing the Garden of Eden with Adam and Eve in fig leafs.

  It blended with the redo that had an Easy Does It bar near the front, a large performance stage in the rear, and an eatery called Molly’s Cafe on the far left featuring Home Made Ice Cream.

  A raised platform in the near-front center housed a projection booth. Here and there were Ping-Pong, shuffleboard, and pool tables, dartboards, pinball and arcade machines, a bingo device with a flashboard, and a big neon jukebox.

  All in all, it had an old modern look and Elfri thought it was a pretty inviting place to hang out if you were into bowling alleys.

  Nearer to Molly’s Cafe, some older people occupied cushioned benches at several picnic tables. They sipped coffee and occasionally nodded or laughed at a man wearing a Hawaiian shirt, a hipster-type dude with shades and cool suspenders that weren’t needed to hold up his cargo shorts.

  Not far away two Indians shot 9-ball. One was a large Native American woman, the other a smaller man from South Asia.

  A rangy boy with fire-red hair played a video game close by, eyes on and off the game with cautious glances.

  A bunch of the padded folding chairs stacked neatly along the left wall were being used in the center of the alley around a long cedar table where the Ventures Nest welcome breakfast was being held.

  The eggs and bacon and pancakes looked and smelled tasty, but the fact that there were six other Ventures Nest contest winners was unexpected and off-putting for Elfri and left her without an appetite. Not only did she not know any of these people, she had no idea that there were these other contests and winners or what they were even about.

  Elfri sipped coffee, listened, and tried not to look as clueless as she felt.

  “I’m sure you all have lots of questions and I hope we can address them in the time we have.”

  Nicole Winslow had the same pleasant voice as when she had made the winning call, but she looked younger than Elfri had imagined her to be in her summer skirt and sleeveless blouse. Mid-40s maybe, she was easy spoken and had self-assurance.

  With Nicole were Ventures Nest Associates who wore white polo shirts with an embroidered logo of the planet Earth resting in a nest that was shaped like a V.

  Mostly in their twenties, their VN shirts displayed unity; outside of that, each associate expressed her or his unreserved individuality.

  Elfri guessed she was the youngest of the contest winners, the black girl with the attitude maybe the oldest. Except for Elfri, the other winners were into checking tweets and snapchats. Nicole asked them to hold off using their digital devices during the meeting.

  Elfri had taken note that they all had the latest and greatest digital devices she’d ever seen. Made her want to keep her flip phone hidden in her back pocket. Lose it forever.

  The dishes were getting cleared and Elfri was just starting to accept that there were other winners. She was getting dialed in on who they were when Sky walked up to the breakfast table.

  To keep from freaking out, Elfri looked away and centered her attention on her coffee cup. Told herself to keep it together!

  “But before the Q&As, I’d like to introduce some outstanding Associates of our Ventures Nest community.”

  Nicole nodded to the guy to her left with a pompous bow tie and Chihuahua. “Hunter?”

  “Greetings, Nestlings. Hunter Friedman—The Third. I oversee Nest ventures and pay attention to details.”

  Hunter’s teacup Poodle in its pet sling yapped.

  “This is Tinker. Starved for attention, like most prima donnas.”

  The Afro-American girl said, “Canines can be trained to detect epileptic seizures.”

  “Well, thanks for the factoid . . .” Hunter paused, glanced down at a sheet, “. . . Didjano Jones from Boston, Mass.”

  Didjano nodded and dunked a donut. Others at the table were intrigued by her interjection.

  “That’s quite a handle—Didjano,” Hunter continued, “and though I’m not feeling a seizure coming on at the moment, that doggie data is something I’m sure all spastics will appreciate.”

  Hunter turned to his left.

 
“Miss Nilsson?”

  Akizu tickled Tinker’s chin, flashed the newcomers an ILY.

  “Hey. Akizu Nilsson. I budget and coordinate project prototypes. Also compete in marathons and go bananas for Emojis.”

  Akizu held up a wrist full of Kandis with hundreds of little plastic faces, hand gestures, and nature symbols.

  Elfri tried to pay attention to the intros, but the late-arriving lookalike who walked in and sat down next to Nicole, freaked Elfri out. This guy, who looked like Sky’s identical twin, made Elfri want to get up, go outside, get inside the Express, open her storage drawer, and take a long look at the comic books that she’d been drawing for the last three years.

  The comics with Slumber and Sky that she kept secret, that had sex and romance and danger and violence in her adult series, Dream Lovers.

  Elfri could look through the comics, study Sky, how she drew him to look like he did, and tell herself she was projecting. She’d remind herself it was a long drive from Texas, that the Oregon mountain air was thin, and she wasn’t seeing or thinking very clearly. Tell herself that this lookalike guy across the table from her looked nothing like her Sky from Dream Lovers.

  But Elfri stayed seated because she knew what she was trying to tell herself was bullshit. Lucidity didn’t lie. She could see perfectly and seeing the guy next to Nicole was seeing Sky on earth.

  Except he was someone else.

  He was a few years older and his hair wasn’t as blond as Sky’s, and he wore work pants and boots, not rainbow wristbands and pale-blue satin PJs like Sky did when they sailed around in the Dreamboat. But other than that, this guy and Sky could be twins.

  Actually it was Slumber who sailed with Sky, but since Slumber was Elfri in dream drag, it was the same thing anyway. Except whenever this Sky lookalike looked her way she couldn’t fly off into a cosmic encounter like Slumber could.

  Elfri was stuck in a bowling alley.

  So it wasn’t the same.

  All she could do in this insane situation was try not to sweat, try not to look at the guy and lose it. Elfri focused on Akizu who nudged Marc who wore a high-tech work vest over his shirt and said, “Welcome, Nestlings. Marc Levin’s the name; I construct unique amusements to tickle your fancy.”