The Dream Virgin

by Don Quine

  Beyond comics and a few low-priced related products, Elfri had no clue what Dream Zoo would wind up becoming. The Dreamland Express was inefficient and a diesel polluter. Maybe if it was solar powered like almost everything in Lake Meadows. Maybe if it had a serious facelift.

  Elfri put down her pen, set aside the Scheduled Agenda she’d sketched on and picked up the illustrated map of the Ventures Nest campus.

  The stroll started on the wooded trail that went from the amphitheater to a slight rise where a huge water fountain flowed into sculptured nooks and crannies that watered fish and flora. The fountain looked down on an immense campus with a large expanse of meadowland and a beautiful brook that wandered from the mountains, ran through the Nest, and eased out through the woods, down into the lake at the east end of Main Streat.

  Campus structures were tributes to revisionist architects; buildings were dedicated to Daniel Libeskind, Zaha Hadid, Frei Otto, and others that Elfri never heard of.

  While she and the other Nestlings talked about how amazing and unreal Josh Stuben’s buildings were, Didyano had to point out that there were three billion people on the planet who lived in buildings made of mud.

  Each of the food kiosks scattered around the campus offered menus with diverse dishes for the Associates and Interns who hung out at LinkAge, the campus quad.

  Elfri walked the campus with the other winners and staff, listened about how the place was a nudist camp back in the hippie days before Oliver turned it into Ventures Nest. After a while she used the rest room and then split from the group to look around on her own.

  Elfri loved the outdoor maze called Come In—Find Out. She watched older folks show little kids how to make their way through the educational labyrinth of whacky challenges with snack rewards and resting places; checked out the Garden of Earthly Delights; and spent time with kinkajous, servals, white deer, and wallabies at the animal playground that was fenced.

  Of all the wild buildings on the campus, the one Elfri related to the most was the three-story tree house where Nicole lived, next to the Nest administration offices

  After she got dialed into the lay of the campus, Elfri headed back to the transportation depot. All things considered, she was happy Rachael got her to enter the Mine the Mind contest.

  The depot was constructed of corrugated papercrete. Electrical symbols, vector-based pictograms of schematic diagrams were fabricated into large sculptures from liquid wood. The electrical symbol sculptures were then situated and secured to the sides of the depot used not only to store and maintain transportation, but it was where the research on solar power vehicles was conducted as well.

  Oliver gathered the Nestlings around an array of electric carts, stand-up scooters, and bikes; each identified by numbers and placed in spotless grouped parking spots.

  “Almost all of you will be staying here in the yurts we’ve put together for you. Shuttles go into town four times a day. If you want to ride a bike or scooter you need to see if one’s available by checking with Annie and her transportation staff.”

  Oliver waved to a friendly-faced young woman who nodded and continued working on a gearbox with two guys in greasy jumpsuits.

  “You said almost,” said Manny. “Who’s not staying here?”

  “Elfri.”

  The Nestlings all looked at her. “And why is that?” asked Didjano, giving Elfri a dirty look.

  Oliver said, “Because she came to the Nest with her grandfather and they’ll be staying in their bus at the S2S parking lot until we set up a spot for it off campus. The bus is part of her project as well as living quarters.”

  “What’s with these scooters?” asked Wayne, admiring the fleet. “How fast we talking here?” Moving the focus off Elfri. Annie moved away from the gearbox group and came over to Wayne and the other Nestlings.

  “Hi, I’m Annie Blye. Nice to meet you. Hope you enjoy your stay and your projects all find fruition.”

  She looked at Wayne.

  “EcoReco scooters can do up to 20 MPH, but law limits us to 15. They’re powered by a rechargeable lithium iron phosphate battery.”

  “Zero emissions,” said Amarosa.

  Annie nodded. “Zero.”

  Elfri watched Oliver move away from them a way to take a call. She thought the scooters would be a blast to ride and liked that Annie was straightforward.

  “Some points of consideration,” Annie said. “Our scooter inventory is limited. If you’re interested in using them, you need to put your name on our reservation list. Bikes we have plenty of.”

  Wayne extended his hand to Annie.

  “I’m Wayne Wong, provider of enlightened vitality to little people. A comfort to be in your transportive hands.” Annie smiled and shook Wayne’s hand, which contained a packet of Mighty Tiny Vits.

  The stars were bright but muted by the sunroof grime from the long drive from Texas. They’d wash the bus first thing in the morning.

  Elfri put the Ventures Nest map in the pocket of her bunk where Will created a book cranny. She reached into a small pouch, took out a black velvet star about the size of a quarter; a Dream Star like they sold to kids at the libraries with the Dream Awake t-shirts, Dream Zoo diaries, and comic books.

  One side of the Dream Star had a gold star on it; the other side had a gold heart.

  Elfri kissed the heart and stuck it on her forehead. The Dream Star was facing the blurry ones up in the night sky as she closed her eyes for a nap and decided to stop beating herself up over a stressful start.

  Time for a new beginning. One that was more sociable, that had her sharing herself more with others.

  Except for certain things.

  Elfri would never tell anyone who lost the tampon.

  CHAPTER 11

  The full moon and landscaped lighting shined on the chick with the nose and nipple rings, butt begging for attention as she twerked and slurred, “Sock it to me baby, yeah, give it to me good, cuz I’m soooo bad . . .” She spun around, slipped, plopped on her ass near a steamy hot tub, naked except for a G-string featuring a fig leaf.

  Inside the hot tub, four other young naked women laughed and clinked their beer bottles until the two guys in the tub with them wearing mohawks, asked the girls for foot rubs.

  At a nearby outdoor poker table, another Native American, an African American, two skinheads and a Mexican played Texas Hold ’Em.

  In their 20s and 30s and ex-con cool, they tossed chips into the pot, vaped, listened to Tim McGraw and ignored the hot tub and the playful chicks wearing fig leaf thongs that frolicked in the pool with a rock waterfall several tiers below them.

  Jack Riverbottom sat in a white leather chair in an immense living room with a white leather sofa and grand piano. He liked hearing the happy sounds outside as he strummed his guitar, watching a muted Squidbillies episode on his wall TV.

  Half Cayuse, half Scot, cool-cut jet-black hair, bright green eyes ready to go, Jack’s naked body sported significant scars, tattoos, and a fashionable pair of men’s briefs that emphasized the crotch with the same fig leaf design as the thongs that the girls wore.

  From time to time Jack got up, stretched, and walked over to the outside terrace that looked down on the back area of his family’s ten-acre property. The front of Ravens Rest overlooked the lake and was the first estate built in Lake Meadows. Renowned for the two massive roof wings defining its dymaxion architecture, the landmark was as much art as ingenious engineering.

  Jack stood on the tiled patio, watched his band play cards and have fun with the urban traveler girls they had picked up in downtown Eugene with their worn down high heels and lousy luck. Jack was trying to work on a song lyric from a gothabilly glam band, The Barbarellatones.

  “ . . . Turning tricks in the bathroom at Hollywood High for lunch money or drugs or even pastrami on rye . . .”

  Then the cell phone on the coffee
table rang with a caller I.D. recording, Ed cawing, “It’s me!”

  Jack went back inside his house to answer Ed’s command about the same time a white raven dropped down from the living room’s marble bar, hopped on the coffee table and cawed back at the cell phone, “What’s up?”

  Oliver was sitting and strumming a guitar in the moonlight on the front porch of his small cabin in the woods, Ed at the top of his rocking chair, Lili at his feet.

  He was reviewing the day as he listened to Jack on the phone.

  How the shuttle problems made Oliver late for the Meet and Greet; how the contest winners couldn’t be more different; how the Dream Zoo girl seemed shy throughout breakfast, then freaked.

  Leon thought Elfri might be able to help Chip because she worked with kids and dreams. In Oliver’s mind, measuring the success rate of all previous attempts, it was not hopeful. He hoped he was wrong.

  At the right time, if it worked out, Oliver would have a conversation with Elfri about lucid dreaming. He knew they’d have a lot to discuss.

  Oliver and Jack spoke awhile, went over the tunes for the S2S gig, Jack said how one of the road chicks fell and busted his 12/6-string Gibson. Oliver told Jack no worries, he’d bring his double-neck.

  Then Jack got to talking about Lake Meadows politics, the upcoming casino proposal, and Oliver said it was a long day, yawned, said, “Luvya bro,” and hung up.

  The guitar strumming Oliver did after he spoke with Jack eased into a song. Except through songs that he kept to himself and Charley, one of his guardian music teachers, Oliver gave up trying to shed light on who he was and why he was orphaned at the age of two.

  He remembered when he was five and Charley sang him a song called “Child of Mine,” how it made him feel sad and lonely and Oliver asked Charley to just sing happy songs.

  Charley explained how it was important to let music bring out what was in you, sadness or hurt or whatever other feelings besides happiness. Those feeling were who you were and if you wanted to be true to yourself you had to let music move you and accept its truth. Oliver listened to Charley and grew to accept his abandonment; but every once in a while he couldn’t help but wonder who his parents were, why they had left him.

  Rising from the wooden porch, Oliver walked out into the moonlit clearing. Ed flew off the rocking chair onto the top of the neck of Oliver’s guitar and watched and listened to Oliver sing, “Sometimes I wonder when I die . . . if I don’t come back as a fish or a tie . . . will there be a headstone in heaven or forgotten star . . . to shine some love light on who you are . . . ?”

  The raven waited a few strums then made his way down the neck of the guitar, touched his beak to Oliver’s nose.

  “Luvya,” Ed said, and flew off to the other side of the forest, following the flight path of the small airplane landing strip that ran to the end of the clearing where a familiar Douglas fir stood majestically next to a small helicopter.

  CHAPTER 12

  Reimer got his twenty-ninth travel pass from the Oregon State Prison mental health wing to go to The Church of Blessed Redemption on a Sunday morning in early June.

  No longer sporting his ponytail beard, Reimer was clean-shaven, and his pockmarked face was submissive when a little old lady in a proper dress and lace gloves met him outside the yard. The woman’s name was Dorothy Stilton and she blessed Reimer and the two other prisoners who stepped into the prison van with their bibles. A thin man and a fat one, both short.

  George sat in the gray Nissan and waited until the van was well on its way before he lowered the binoculars and started the car.

  One of those balding, plain-faced guys, George looked like just about anybody, which suited his line of work.

  The prison guard drove the van with caution and George shadowed it, stayed way back like he knew how to do.

  It took around fifteen minutes to drive from the penitentiary down State Street, south east on 13th Avenue, a left on Hoyt, and then down a block to the corner of Fairview where Blessed Redemption was.

  There were lots of worshippers, so George drove by slowly while he watched the prison van drop Reimer and the other two off and follow the little old lady through the stained-glass entryway.

  The guard parked the prison van in a special spot in the church parking lot. He was suppose to go inside the church and keep an eye on the prisoners, but after the first dozen or so Sunday morning trips, the guard preferred to stay in the van and read magazines while the cons got religion.

  Almost a block away, George found a place to park the Nissan, and then walked back to the church.

  Robert Bickford and James Riverbottom were best friends and incorporated Lake Meadows in 1956 when you could buy a new Cadillac Eldorado for seven thousand dollars, and a gallon of gas cost a quarter.

  Nature Lovers Motel was built a few years after the Retreat using the same dome-inspired design. The motel accommodated James and Robert’s affluent nature-loving friends who drove up from Portland and Seattle on the weekends to enjoy the bohemian lifestyle.

  The motel had a sign outside: No Vacancies.

  Since the day Robert Bickford was murdered on a beach in Hawaii almost ten years ago, the sign never changed. The crime was never solved.

  Leon owned the motel, kept six rooms for special guests and took twelve of the original eighteen one-bedroom suites and converted them to offices leased to local businesses like Lake Meadows Plumbing & Electric, J. G. Forsyth, Esq. Legal Services, and the New Chinese Laundry.

  Leon kept a comfortable office space for himself with two adjoining bedrooms at the rear of the motel that had three reserved parking spaces.

  The office door was marked L. B. Investments, By Appointment Only.

  Inside the office were chairs, desks, and high-tech communications equipment. A wall of screens showed TV shows and shots of the outside perimeter of the motel.

  Leon was seated in a hammock talking on a speakerphone.

  The large Native American woman and the smaller East Indian man seen with Leon in the bowling alley were seated nearby, listening. The woman was Tallula Smith. Rahim Jones was the man’s name. They were middle-aged and had considerable experience with criminals.

  “Run it by us again, George,” Leon said.

  They listened to George say he went into the Salem church, no more than two to three minutes after Reimer did, looked around and couldn’t see him or the little old lady, Dorothy Stilton.

  Not that big of a church, but it was packed and it took a minute for George to eyeball each row of the parish, check the restrooms and see that Reimer wasn’t there. The other two cons, Elton Feinstein and Ralph Crabbe, they were still there, heads bowed in prayer.

  “I hurried outside, the prison van was still parked in the private spot; guard saw nothing, head up his ass. Had to tell him to put down Guns and Ammo and call it in.”

  George told Leon that it looked like Reimer flew the coop.

  “My bad, guys.”

  Leon told George to stay on it.

  Leon did not tell George losing Reimer was a serious fuck up because Leon knew George knew that well enough already.

  It was now evident that the anger management and 12-step programs that Reimer took during his six years in the Pen, scratching his fingernails on the concrete floor of his cell while begging for the Virgin Mary’s mercy; the unbalanced acts of redemption that got him transferred to the ding wing; then the Bible Studies; and then eventually, monitored visits to the church in Salem.

  All that was an act.

  Leon hadn’t thought Reimer capable of coming up with a long-term escape plan, let alone executing it. Leon had thought Reimer was a dumb drug addict with some loose screws.

  Looked like Reimer wasn’t as dumb as Leon had thought.

  But one thing was sure. He didn’t escape on his own.

  On the outskirts of Salem, in a Carl�
�s Jr. parking lot, Reimer and Dorothy Stilton got out of the old used car she had waiting at the rear of the church and walked over to a white Ford van she had parked across the street in the lot of a liquor store. The signs on sides of the van said WALLOWA COUNTY SECURITY—First In Safety.

  The first thing Dorothy did after she handed Reimer the van keys with a Security shirt and hat for him to put on was to carefully peel off her old lady face mask. Then Dorothy took off the grey wig, pulled a canister from under the passenger seat and poured cocaine on the palm of her hand.

  “Nosy up to some Bolivian, Reim?”

  Dorothy looked younger than her thirty-four years and sweeter than she really was. After Reimer snorted and waited for the coke to expose a nasty grin, bad gums, and dentures, he scratched his head and said, “Fuck, yes!” A prison tattoo embellished his old skull scar, had a virgin staked out on the upside-down cross with thorns, blood dripping from the virgin’s head and groin. Fred touched the virgin.

  “Bitchin’,” she told Reimer.

  Reimer squeezed his nose and said, “Fred, I’d kill a can full of faggots for a plate of chili fries!”

  Reimer called Fred Dorothy, but she wasn’t really Dorothy or Zoe or Kristina or any of the other alias she used when she was scouting for recruits, Fred was really Fredericka, Reimer’s younger sister by three years.

  If you had the bad fortune to take a good look into Fred’s eyes, you’d see she shared Reimer’s legacy of evil. But unlike her brother’s hard-to-hide malice, Fred’s eyes were capable of showing fun and friendliness, her serial-killer stare tucked way, way back; saved for special occasions.

  Fred gave her brother a kiss on his skull; assured him his requests would soon be granted and reminded him to drive safely.