Voluntarily lying down and succumbing to a loss of waking consciousness has always unsettled me. Despite the inevitability of slumber, I often find myself lying in bed resisting it, kicking awake again and again as soon as I begin to drift off. To sleep, or more to the point, to dream, suspends the control of our ego and whisks whatever portion of us still loitering about to a realm without surety or stability, a realm of shameless fantasy and stupendous absurdity. Dreams may grant us tranquillity, or they may teach us terror. They ridicule the notion of cause and effect, and explore peculiar ramifications of preposterous events with a nonchalance appropriate to sipping weak tea. Indeed, nothing, no matter how devoid of reason, seems to surprise what remains of our faculties in this state. Nothing, that is, except the sudden realization that you are dreaming, the unwelcome intrusion of that conceited know-it-all, the ego. Whatever entity existed to experience the dream state is shoved back into more predictable circumstances, and oddly, we are grateful, relieved by the illusion of control.
For this reason (which is probably best understood as a prideful fear of death itself), I was the last to surrender to a siesta. I shilly-shallied on the cusp for quite some time, flirting with blurry moments of rushing weightlessness before jolting awake again and again. At last I lost all memory of wakefulness, or its significance thereof, and entered into a state of such vivid intensity that I remain as yet unconvinced of its unreality. Call me a heretic, but this could not have been a mere dream, in which recollections are as slippery and elusive as a wet watermelon seed. No, these images have stayed with me in all their visceral fury as if they happened only a moment ago. This dream was a vision of myself, rapturous and disturbing, an epiphany that demanded my heretofore slack attention. Thus, although I am not without hesitation to strip my subconscious naked, I must record what was both the most fantastic and terrifying dream I have ever had.
It is difficult to say where it began, since it just seemed to be what was already occurring. Hence, the best I can say is that I was already an eagle. Though I was soaring through the atmosphere hundreds of feet high, and perceiving the passing scenery in supernatural detail, it was not at all remarkable at the time. Ecstasy is recognized as such only in retrospect. As I said, it was what was occurring; it was a given. Myopia was utterly forgotten and replaced by a keenness of sight both fantastic and fierce. The outline of every leaf on each passing tree was blazingly apparent, as were the patterns of the veins on their richly textured surfaces. All was green, a verdant spectrum of untold hues—emerald, jade, holly, ivy, kelly, chartreuse, aquamarine, olive, and pea—every conceivable ratio of blue and yellow had been mixed and flecked across the landscape below. Splendid indeed, but this was much more than a celebration of chlorophyll. Shadows cast by the ceaselessly shifting leaves sent darker green channels racing and scattering through the treetops, whispering the wind’s intentions to me as I sailed along the air currents. I processed all of this information with less effort than traveling on a freeway, and despite our highways’ misdesignation, with considerably more freedom.
Eventually, I spied a narrow river below, meandering its way through the thick forest like a child scurrying through a crowd. I followed its course, studying the synchronous silver streaks dancing in the sparkling stream. They were fish, and if it had suited my fancy, I could have had my choice. But the sun was setting, and at my altitude I could sense the true nature of the movement in the turning of the Earth. Realizing this, I flew ever west toward the rapidly sinking sun, trying to stay in the light of day and out of the darkness of night. But the shadow behind me was encroaching much faster than I was flying, and soon I could feel the cold winds of darkness tugging at my tail feathers. Within seconds I was yanked from the sight of light and overwhelmed by the night. This aroused substantial panic in me, but before I lost complete control in the tempestuous wind, I arched my back hard and rocketed skyward, aiming to escape through the top of the planet’s penumbra. Shuddering, my hollow skeletal structure pulled taut against the buffeting walls of vicious gales. At the breaking point between my being and my environment, I burst at last into the swiftly moving sunset once again, my velocity nearly tripling as I rocketed exultantly into the gently drifting dance of the beatific atmosphere.
My elation, however, was short-lived. Once again, I was soon losing ground to the ever-approaching night. I strained my avian body to its limit, taking advantage of any breeze my feathers could catch. Then came salvation. An updraft swept through the trees along the river, and telltale shadows flowing through the leaf patterns told me where to expect it. I caught the gust, but before I could rejoice a brutal projectile from below tore me from the heavens. It maimed my right wing and I screamed in rage at the immensity of my vain efforts. Defeated and destroyed by a heartless beast that knew nothing of my struggle, I surrendered into the torrential winds of the night. I tumbled madly, yet I could distinguish every blackened blade of grass as the banks of the river spun toward me.
It was upon impact that I jerked awake. The night was replaced by the dimly lit interior of the limousine. General Kiljoy was leaning over me, jabbing me in the arm with his remote control. His face was contorted into a dutiful scowl, a grimace of curious disgust, as if he were poking a dead animal with the tip of his rifle.
THE BOOK O’ BILLETS-DOUX
Rosehips: What do you mean when you say, “until death becomes irrelevant”? Explain yourself. Do you really think death is irrelevant, or do you dismiss it as such because you fear it? I hope this is not the case. If you are afraid of dying, you are afraid of living. A life of fear is a living death, devoid of any lasting happiness. Truly now, are you afraid to be alive? Life is either lived or left behind, I should think.
Sweetlick: Life, live it or leave it? Your words are certainly true, though irrelevant as well. But irrelevance is not insignificance, and the irrelevant is certainly nothing to be afraid of. Irrelevance is a panacea for predictability, but I drift considerably askew. What I meant to say is that a fear of death is irrelevant, and, as you have pointed out, contradictory to the moment-to-moment experience of life. It is only a convenience of language that makes the words living and dying sound like opposites.
Rosehips: A convenience or a corruption? Any soul who pauses to think for five minutes should realize that life depends upon itself for sustenance. Death is a necessary stage in the spiral of evolution. I shudder to think that humans might never evolve further than this.
Sweetlick: I agree. We’re not really disagreeing here, my maenadic wonderwhipsy. Life is short in the long run, but we humans, for better or for worse, are rather absentminded when it comes to our mortality.
Rosehips: Perhaps this is that which afflicts our civilization so horribly. What injustice, avarice, laziness, or bad mood is conceivable if death is kept in mind? We haven’t been paying attention to our expiration dates for centuries, and the land of milk and honey has gone sour.
Sweetlick: A tragic statement, though beautifully put. But I have to add, death must not only be kept in mind, but laughed at as well. Why represent death with the grim reaper and wring our hands over the inevitable? Why not the glad reaper? Joie de mourir! Death is a hop, skip, and a jump away from birth, and the whole sh’bang is a happy hootenanny. When I die, scatter my ashes upon the ground and dance them into the Earth. Shed only tears of joy, oh lipsa-la-doodle-do-wee-bang-bang, for I love life, and I suppose that is why I must die someday.
54 “Wake up!” General Kiljoy ordered me. He pointed the remote control at the glossy opaque window to my immediate left and it hushed open, unleashing the light and noise of the street to overwhelm my stupefied senses. My pupils shrieked, blinded and disoriented, as if I had just stepped out of a matinee on a sunny day. The others were so far away that their respective feature presentations went on uninterrupted. As my eyes adjusted, I could see that we were in the business district across from Tynee University, stopped in the morning traffic jam along the bustling street.
A panhandler stood on the ed
ge of the sidewalk, rhyming to passersby. He wore a dirty white T-shirt too small for him, and his belly peered unabashedly out the bottom. The words help is on the way had been silk-screened onto the shirt, and they stretched across his chest like some exaggerated sale extravaganza! pitch. Despite his appearance, his rhythmic and confident delivery drew smiles and coins from the students and professionals passing by.
My friends, my friends, it might sound strange,
But can you spare just a little change?
It’s just a drop,
But it helps a hell of a lot,
And help is on the way, my friends.
Help is on the way.
A penny’ll help out,
A nickel or a dime,
But if you give me a buck,
It just might change my luck!
’Cause help is on the way, my friends.
Help is on the way
Now if you give me a dime,
Why that’d be just fine,
But if you give me a dollar,
That’d really make me holler!
Help is on the way, my friends.
Help is on the way.
The limo glided forward a few feet as the traffic crept along, and the panhandler, having noticed me observing him, followed us along the sidewalk, never pausing in his delivery.
I don’t wanna rob you,
And I sure don’t wanna steal,
But I’m not a monk,
And I might get drunk,
’Cause help is on the way, my friends.
Help is on the way.
I live on the street,
And I might get beat,
But have no fear,
’Cause tonight we’re drinkin beer!
And help is on the way, my friends.
Help is on the way.
God loves us all,
The big and the small,
So please don’t you doubt it,
Make no mistake about it,
That help is on the way, my friends.
My friends, help is definitely on the way.
55 General Kiljoy closed the window before I could find some change, sealing us once more in silence. “Hey Fountain.” He poked me again with his remote control. Leering deviously, he pointed at Miss Mary, Tynee, and the dogs, all of whom were still sleeping at the far side of the limo. “Wanna have some laughs?”
“Excuse me?” I asked, looking across the cabin. Tynee had rolled onto his side, and was somehow lying atop both of his arms, drooling. Miss Mary’s skirt was hiked up such that I could see the tops of her knee-highs, and she was snoring like a didgeridoo. As for Meeko and Ratdog, they were at last free to sleep together, side by side in tranquil repose.
“Here.” General Kiljoy handed me the remote control. “Press the big red button.”
“Why?”
“Just press it.”
“What does it do?”
“Come on.” He leaned forward, his eyes evil and excited. “I dare you.”
“But what does it do?” I demanded.
He sighed impatiently. “This transport is equipped to carry dogs trained to kill at the sound of an ultrasonic whistle. Pressing that button causes the speakers to blare that whistle at top volume. We wouldn’t hear a thing, but the attack dogs would be out the door and lunging for throats before I could take my finger off the button.” He pointed at Meeko and Ratdog. “Those dogs there ain’t killers, but it’ll sure make ’em jump and howl, probably right onto Tynee or Miss Mary’s laps if we’re lucky.” He smiled at his image, then added, “I’ve set it so the doors won’t open.”
“I’d really rather not.” I handed the remote control back to him.
“Chicken?” he said, and I almost expected him to start clucking. “I can tell you’re no soldier. You’ve got cotton puffs for balls.” Reminded thus, I suppose, he leaned back and reached into his pocket to adjust himself. “Do you dare me to do it? Because I’ll do it.”
I looked at this obnoxious lump of military madness sitting across from me. His face shared the menacing scowl of every playground and barroom bully that constantly dares others to look at him wrong, and I decided to play along. After all, what did I care? He would shut up, the dogs would get over it, and it would be a sight to see. I might even get some laughs.
“I dare you,” I said. General Kiljoy was caught off guard, his eyes going briefly agog with astonishment before they narrowed, and he leaned forward, licked his lips, and pressed the big red button.
56 It was just as General Kiljoy had envisioned it. Meeko and Ratdog yelped awake and, after wrestling over each other for a moment, began racing around frantically, barking savagely at the walls, and leaping on and off Miss Mary and Tynee as if their laps were trampolines. Both of them screamed, General Kiljoy roared with laughter, and I couldn’t resist a snicker myself. After he had control of himself, General Kiljoy pressed the button again. The dogs, their tongues foaming with frothy excitement, instantly ceased their rabid behavior and began whining, whimpering, and deliriously licking Miss Mary and Tynee.
“Get the . . .” Tynee threw Ratdog off him and cringed as Miss Mary screamed again. “What the hell’s going on!” he bellowed, starting to get up but abruptly pausing to inspect his left arm, which was dangling lifelessly by his side, still asleep. Miss Mary screamed again as Ratdog joined Meeko on her lap. “Goddamnit!” Tynee yelled, shaking his inanimate arm with his working hand. “What’s happened?!”
General Kiljoy stooped across the cabin to assist them. “Take it easy.” He moved the dogs off Miss Mary’s lap. “Something must have spooked the dogs is all. Nothing to get all worked up about.” Miss Mary burst into tears at the suggestion, and Tynee did his best to comfort her with his right hand while gesticulating madly with his left arm, still trying to shake some circulation back into it.
“Don’t just sit there,” Tynee hollered over to me, where I was, as charged, just sitting there, stunned and rather elated by the sequence of events I had set into motion. “Get control of your goddamn mutt!”
“Crash!” I commanded, and Meeko obediently trotted across the cabin to me. He sat by my side panting and wagging his tail, apparently having thoroughly enjoyed the experience.
“You might apologize for your dog’s behavior, Fountain,” General Kiljoy reprimanded me with a sadistic wink.
“What?” I asked, flustered, and Miss Mary wailed louder still. I was, however, spared from the dilemma by Volt the Chauffeur’s pleasantly Sicilian voice over the intercom, sounding oblivious to all the fuss and fur behind him. He informed us that we would be arriving shortly.
This news seemed to cheer everyone, and an air of anticipation settled over us, as if we were on our way to an amusement park. Even Miss Mary regained her sniffy composure within a few minutes. Not having had a cigarette for an hour or so, she was visibly irritated at General Kiljoy idly tossing his remote control back and forth in his hands. She asked him if she could see it.
“Sure,” he extended it toward her. “But whatever you do, don’t touch that big red button.”
“Why?” she inquired, examining it. “My remote control doesn’t have this button. What does it do?”
“That’s classified, Miss Mary,” he said, glancing my way in simpering villainy. “Just pretend that you’re Eve and the big red button is a big red apple on the Tree of Knowledge. Don’t touch.”
Miss Mary smiled at the image, and General Kiljoy did, too. He had good reason, for if Miss Mary was Eve, then the one giving her such instructions was God.
57 The limousine at last came to a nearly imperceptible stop, and a knock sounded on the side door nearest me. General Kiljoy told Miss Mary what button to press, which she did, and the door next to me swung open. Instead of sunlight pouring in, as one might reasonably expect, a buzzing flood of shadowless fluorescent light greeted me like some sallow, jaundiced host poking me in the eyes and insisting I partake of a headache.
Outside my door, Agent Orange stood at attention. General K
iljoy joined me after instructing Miss Mary how to open the door closest to her, where Volt the Chauffeur waited. We were in an expansive garage with only one other car, a modest sedan of some sort. There were no windows, and the extreme silence, combined with a peculiar heaviness in the atmosphere, led me to surmise that we were considerably underground. Meeko and Ratdog, finding nothing interesting to smell, trotted gloomily about, tails as still as tombstones.
After retrieving the remote from Miss Mary, General Kiljoy barked some incomprehensible orders into it and led us toward what looked like a bank vault door built into the wall of the garage. He pressed a series of buttons on the remote’s keypad, causing the door to give an unsettling clank as it began to open. Like some gigantic bottle of beer being cracked open, a gust of air burst from the chamber beyond. This, however, was nasty beer, and some joker had shaken it. Moreover, a drunken genie resided therein, and it was belching a cacophonous chorus of sounds best left unheard. Both dogs began to snarl, and I felt an impulse to join them as the hair on the back of my neck stood at combative attention.
Just a Couple of Days Page 12