Tuesday, January 31, 2023

Slackers go home

I dreamed I was at work again in that filthy, dirty shop. Yuba City Honda never changes in that regard. The floors were a dingy, oil tinged grey, sanitized by a layer of automotive grime. The lighting from the ancient fluorescent fixtures cast a sickening green pall, reminiscent of a monster movie viewed on old TV with a bad picture tube.

 As usual, I was failing to look busy, and I kept finding myself under the watchful eye of Reiner. I supposed that I should have been cleaning something, but the layers of scum on every surface seemed to indicate that this wasn't something that anyone there ever actually considered doing.

One might grab a mop or a broom upon seeing management, but that was as far as it went. As soon as they left, the mop went back in the bucket, into the silty soup of never changed, long neutralized floor cleaner, and the tiny piles of swept up debris slowly reintegrated themselves into the general population of floor garbage.

Some bigwigs were showing up for a party, and Reiner was making a final round out in the shop to clear out the deadwood, sending home employees who were just standing around.

"Do you mind clocking out, Drew?" he told me, more of a command than a question.

Not wanting to be sent home just yet, I made a faint attempt at picking up some garbage, a couple of bags of potato chips that had welded themselves to the bottom of a service cart. 

The abandoned snack bags had been there longer than some employees, through several managerial administrations, and the overprocessed contents, which had begun their life as a preservative and additive based product with minimal nutritive value, and which had a normal shelf life exceeding that of radioactive plutonium, were showing signs of decay. Some resistant form of super-mold had eroded the bag from the inside and was possibly threatening to take over the world one potato chip at a time.

"Wasn't that Silva's cart?" Reiner asked. "Might as well just leave 'em." Silva would have probably eaten them had he still been working there.

I went to the break room to get ready to leave. David Chanh was there, changing out of his uniform. He was always the first to leave after racking up his ten hours in half that time, thanks to the flat rate system. Efficiency was rewarded in this way: Working hard, you could finish jobs at a faster rate, clocking more hours than you were actually present. Being a family man, David was a "ten and out" kind of employee, meaning once he'd gotten his ten hours for the day, he was out the door.

"They sending you home, Spark?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said glumly. "Caught loafing again. Too much unapplied time."

I was just heading out the door when I saw my friend Steve Waugh crouching behind a trash can. This was quite a surprise, as I hadn't seen him since high school. I'd looked for him over the years on Facebook, but having an uncommonly common name, he had proven elusive, so I'd finally given up. 

"Surprise!" he said, popping up like a Jack-in-the-box.

Another surprise came as I glanced over to his left. It was Dennis McGuire. Dennis was another friend from the same era, and one whom I'd had very little hope of finding, outside of maybe an obituary. He was another one of my punk friends and had come from a long line of alcoholics with violent tendencies. His most likely trajectory after high school would have been a short career in the military, terminating in dishonorable discharge, followed by death from advanced liver disease. 

But here was Dennis, alive and well, a bit pale, and smaller than I remembered him, but smiling and greeting me with a hug and an Irish kiss on the cheek. Many of them, actually, with a lot of "I love yous" thrown in. He was nothing if not effusive in emotional loyalty. It had been decades, and yet here he was practically licking my face like a long lost puppy.

I told him that it was great to see him, but I had to leave, since I was being sent home for the day. I don't know if we were to catch up later or not, since the dream ended there. I suppose I spent more time trying to describe a bag of corroded potato chips than I did focusing on my friend's reunion, and that, I'm sure, says something about me as a person.


Saturday, January 28, 2023

Sharon's house swap surprise

 


Sharon paid me a visit last night. She was in rare form, walking again, and up to some new tricks. Boy, was she ever. I'm still trying to figure out how she did it, and what she did, exactly, but here's what I remember:

I came home from work, from outside, whatever I was doing, took off my muddy boots and was looking for a place to put them. This was my first clue that something was off. The house was all different. The tile floor had been replaced with carpet. I set the boots down in the kitchen, or what looked like it should be the kitchen, although it was devoid of appliances. Again, no tile floor, but a cheap linoleum replacement. 

I went into Sharon's room, and it dawned on me that this was also new. We never had separate rooms, and this was an addition, magically inserted between the kitchen and the guest bathroom, or where the guest bathroom used to be. Again, new carpet and no furniture--and no Sharon. 

This was starting to alarm me. I finally found her and noticed right away that she was up and walking around. As usual, this surprised me, and I would have been delighted, were it not for the questions I had about the house.

She was wearing an atrocious 70s pants suit with an oversize yellow and brown plaid motif and flared pants. It looked as if Dolly Parton had her clothes designed by the mom on the Brady Bunch. The fact that she was walking was the only thing kept my reaction to the outfit in check.

"Honey," I said. "You are walking. Would you care to explain that?"

"It's good that I'm walking, right?" she said.

"Yes, of course," I said. "But how? What happened? And what is going on with the house?"

"It's all tied together," she said. "Here, I have some things to show you."

My heart was aflutter with mixed emotions as we walked out of our house and boarded a small ancient RV, also of 70s vintage, long and narrow, with a streamlined fiberglass design that made it look like a hotdog. I made the sarcastic comment that if it were mine, I would paint the Weinershnitzel logo on the side. I was getting nervous, and I kept asking her what the plan was, but she remained tight lipped about it. 

Inside the motorhome was a crew of people from work: Sal, Jameson, Houa, Luis and David, to name a few. The were all geared up for some kind of work project. I asked a few of them if they knew where we were going, but no one was giving me any answers. I noticed that a lot of our household items, mainly furniture and Sharon's stuff, were packed inside of the RV with us, and this made me even more nervous.

The bus departed with Sharon at the wheel. She navigated this Hindenburg of a beast through some ridiculously small gates, between  buildings and fences, making improbably sharp turns, all the while managing not to scrape the sides or get us stuck.

We arrived at our destination, which at first glance appeared to be a ranchette. We were greeted by a lady who was tending to her animals, a menagerie of chickens, goats and pigs, with a Panda bear thrown in the mix for diversity. The bear growled and bared his teeth at me, and I recoiled a bit. Apparently, he wasn't the cuddly type.

"Oh, yes," the lady said. "There's a bear. He's a Panda, but he's still a bear, you know. People forget that." I assured her I wasn't about to forget.  

The lady seemed to be gathering her things as she talked with a real estate agent wearing the familiar Century 21 gold jacket. They were negotiating some kind of deal, while unbeknownst to me all of our possessions were being offloaded from the RV. Things were starting to firm up in my mind, but I was still confused. 

"Sharon, you must tell me. What have you done?" I begged her to come clean.

"We needed a change," she said. "I needed a change. It's doing me good, don't you see? I told you it's all connected."

"Yes," I said. There was no denying that. "But how could you do this without asking me?" I was really upset by this extreme unilateral move and the fact that I had no control over this important decision. We went inside the house, and I saw Hannelore and Bob in the kitchen.  

"Hannelore!" I cried. "Finally, someone who can tell me what's going on."

"I don't know any more than you do," she told me, shaking her head. "I don't like it much, though. Look at this place." 

Bob agreed with her and said, "I've looked over the contract, and it looks pretty iron clad. I don't think you are going to be able to get out of it."

I figured I'd better look around at my new digs, and I did a quick walkthrough. It was definitely a fixer-upper. The walls were cheap wood paneling, probably faux walnut at one time, painted over with a glossy off-white/beige. The living room was long and narrow, in the style of an old single wide mobile home. At one end was an addition, another single wide unit, laid out perpendicular to the first, forming a T-shaped configuration.

"Wait a minute," I said abruptly. "Where's my music room?"

Sharon looked startled. "I didn't think of that," she admitted.

"You know what, never mind. I'll set up in the living room," I said feeling my own rebellious spirit start to take hold. "But wait--where's all my stuff?

Another oversight, I guess, as she had no answer for that either. I was going to have to go back and arrange for transport of all my music gear myself. 

I looked around at one of the rooms in the T-wing and decided that it might be suitable for my man cave, although I'd have to do a lot of rearranging and downsizing. The couch would have to go, but I didn't mind that so much, since it was the only thing I owned that was even uglier than this place.

And I didn't know where I was going to put the big screen TV on, since the main wall was taken up with ugly cabinetry, more painted over paneling with cheap latches and hinges, also hastily painted over. The floor was a strange bamboo cork type of material, kind of spongy and unfinished, with gaps between the unevenly spaced 12 inch tiles.

This interior was making me depressed, so I decided go outside and do a walkaround of the entire property starting with the exterior of the house: shabby, buckling siding with rot on the bottom, not even siding actually, but more of that goddamn painted paneling. It was looking more and more like Tijuana construction, not even standard mobile home quality. 

I pointed these things out to Sharon, who still seemed to think the house swap was worthwhile. She seemed a little concerned, however, when I showed her around the perimeter of the property. We were far too close to the neighbors, close to town, close to...a freeway? What the fuck had she been thinking?

"I was watching one of those TV ads," she admitted. "They didn't go into the details, but it looked pretty good in the commercial."

I was still reeling from the idea of her walking around, so I supposed that if this was the price, then this would have to be my new life. I was trying to reconcile this in my mind, thinking of how I could perhaps renegotiate her contract with the devil's real estate agent to get our house back, but instead, I woke up, thankful that I was at least still in my own home.



Friday, January 27, 2023

Nice horsie!

Sharon figured into this dream fragment somewhere, even if peripherally, as a voice telling me not to do dumb stuff around horses. In this dream, Matthew, a bay thoroughbred that she owned when we'd first met, had gotten loose, and I had to go fetch him from an excursion he'd taken roaming around in the city. 

Easy-peasy, I thought, just grab a lead rope and a halter and lead him back to the pasture, conveniently located across town. I managed to do just that, and when I got back to the pasture, I rewarded Matthew for his compliance by giving him a big flake of alfalfa. So far so good.

After laying the hay on the ground, however, I decided that it would be fun to watch him eat up close, so I sat down cross legged and put my face down in the feed with his. I could just hear Sharon's voice telling me what a stupid move I had made. 

He snorted and ran right over the top of me, not once, but twice. The first time he more or less leapt over me with only minimal contact, bolting to get out of there, but the second time was measured and deliberate. He stared me down from about a hundred feet away, scuffed his hooves a few times and charged right at me.

I was still seated, so I had no recourse but to duck down into a ball and try to make myself as small as possible. He ran straight at me at full speed, and I crouched in a fetal position cringing and bracing for impact. This was going to hurt, I just knew it. Instead, however, he managed to miss me with all four legs as he passed over me at a gallop. I must've made myself as thin as a blade of grass, because I could feel the wind from his legs on both sides of me as he passed.

Next, I was attempting to go fishing, and I couldn't seem to get to the spot I wanted. I borrowed the keys to my mom's car, an older Nissan Sentra, and laid them on the back of a loveseat which was auspiciously located near the lake. By near the lake, I mean partially submerged in the lake and in imminent danger of becoming an island. I started hearing the lecturing voice of someone in my head, reminding me not to leave things lying around, especially near the lake where they are liable to fall in.

I retrieved the keys from the back of the loveseat and proceeded to hopscotch from the shore to the loveseat, using a floating seat cushion for an intermediary step. It was important that I try not to get the furniture muddy, as I was somehow responsible for its being near the lake in the first place. More lecture material from the inner voice. I gathered up the seat cushion as well, trying to keep it from getting any more dirty while I pondered my next maneuver from the loveseat to the nearest piece of floating furniture.

I didn't figure out a further course of action, though, and I soon woke up. My tooth hurts, and I'm expecting a visit from Denise tomorrow, so naturally, I took 750 milligrams of dried psilocybin before I sat down to jot down this dream fragment. If that logic evades you, fine. I'm still questioning it a bit myself. We'll see if I make today a productive one, or whether it turns into a "nope" day, where I just drink my coffee, smoke weed and watch "Rhubarb," a movie about a cat that takes over the management of a losing baseball team and leads them into the world series.



Thursday, January 26, 2023

The mechanism

This isn't wisdom. Things that occur to you to write down when you're stoned seldom are. My typing, normally moderately aged turtle speed, has decreased to that of a geriatric, gastric impaired turtle. So I'm constipated as well as arthritic, that is, if turtles even get arthritis. I'm inclined to say yes, with all that crawling they do, flexing the same old turtle joints, year after year...anyway, I digress. A lot. So stop it, already, why dontcha?

Ok, but the tidbit of information that I wanted to pass along is this: I think I figured out the mechanism behind my chronic illnesses. All of them. Well, most all. Are you ready?  <drum roll....> It's MOLD!

Why do I get eye infections if I spend too much time on the downstairs couch? Or too much time in the house in general? Why would they be getting more and more frequent, along with skin rashes, along with GI trouble, along with night sweats? And why, when I spent more time outdoors, walking, biking, doing virtually anything, would I feel better, if only temporarily? Why is it bad in the summer or winter, but less so in the spring or fall? The last one is easy: indoor air quality. Spring and fall = open windows. Summer and winter, closed windows, no fresh air and ducted AC or localized space heaters making a nice breeding ground for hibernating spores. 

I found a giant source of black contagion on my bathroom window run channel and all around the sill. It was thick enough to scoop up sizeable wads in some toilet paper, requiring two or three wipes just to reach bottom. I did the best I could scrubbing down to the bare surface, but it was stained several layers in. I sprayed Lysol and then vinegar, leaving the last to air dry for a couple of hours. 

I got out a UV light and waved it around the walls and floor. Oh, my god. It looked like a crime scene no one had bothered to clean up. Every little fleck of biological material illuminated like the pinpoints of stars in the night sky, unfathomably numerous. Big ones, like galaxies, and tiny ones, spatter cast, making one wonder if there actually had been an "incident" on the premises. Or perhaps, nothing had ever been cleaned, EVER!

When I was laying around waiting to die, and not even bothering to make a nice comfortable domicile in which to do so, the mold decided to get busy and start in on me before my actual demise. Kind of like an appetizer. I'm such a good host that I obliged. 

But fuck it, little fuckers, I've had enough. I'm gonna get you and your little spores, too! I'm gonna be the the spray bottle gunslinger, the terrorist with an extermination agenda. Kill--or be killed, slowly, miserably with unnecessary illness. I mean, some of this is inevitable, but I'm not going down this way. Not yet. I'm not going to be a fungus casserole. 

This is my declaration of war. You molds obviously couldn't abide by the treaty "Live and let live," so it's going to be live and let die. One of us has got to go, and it had better be the wallpaper.

Tuesday, January 24, 2023

The Nevada City High School Reunion Mushroom Karma Trip


I was in an all-star reunion dream with a This Was Your Life cast of characters from my high school punk days. But first things first. Prior to that meetup, I went to attend a movie, where I was to meet with Martin Leon, and old friend from my cult days. 

I arrived at the movie theater late, however, and I only caught a brief glimpse of my friend dashing into one of the theaters in the large complex. By the time I managed to get there, the movies had all started and the doors were locked. The theater man, a Monopoly man looking fellow with a banker's air, sporting a monocle and pocket watch, admonished me for being late and told me I'd have to wait for the next showing.

While I was contemplating whether or not I wanted to comply, I met Cherie Holt in the hallway. She'd been similarly locked out. Cherie was a girl I dated briefly in high school. A tattooed, leather jacketed, fishnet wearing firey redhead, Cherie was the quintessential punk, goth before goth was a thing. We decided to abandon the theater and take a walk around the town. 

It was raining out, and I just happened to have a full wetsuit with me. I joked that I was going to put it on, but decided against it when I caught the look on Cherie's face. It told me without words that that would just not be cool. Instead, I wrapped it around my shoulders, as a preppie might sport a sweater, tying the arms in the front and letting the rest of it dangle like a cape down my back. As I walked, this proved to be decidedly less cool, as the legs of the wetsuit kept tripping me up, and I had to hike them up and try to tuck them into my pockets or down the back of my pants.

We went into a few stores, where I got some odd looks for my attire, and at some point, a switch was made: Cherie became Hope DeLeon. Hope was another of my punk rock girlfriends, my first actually, and by first, I mean in the way that counted. She was the first girl with whom I'd gone "all the way." It hadn't been the romantic relationship experience one might've hoped for, but it was exciting, rebellious and real. We met at a gig, and she came back with me to my friend Robbie Mitchell's basement where we did the deed on a couch, while Robbie and Matt Brown were passed out drunk on the bachelor pad's queen sized bed. 

Hope and I walked around in my dream, and as the rain began to clear up, I found that we were in Nevada City. I noticed some familiar looking mushrooms growing in planter beds alongside flowers, next to doorsteps, in the little dirt areas where trees were planted in cutout squares of sidewalk, everywhere, it seemed. Hope picked one that was growing up from a crack in the sidewalk. I contemplated picking one myself, but I was afraid of the looks that I might get from the residents who seemed to be eyeing me with suspicion. 

The trail of mushrooms led to a parking lot where a rather large hippie deadhead type guy had a popup business selling various household items in a yard sale fashion. I picked up some aluminum foil and a couple of jars of ketchup, but my eye was caught by the mother of all mushroom planters on a table near the end of the parking lot, where Giant Hippie hovered lovingly over his proprietary fungi. 

"Are these the kind of mushrooms I think they are?" I asked him dumbly. Of course they were, I thought, anyone could see that. They were already staining blue around the stem where someone had pinched them to test.

He didn't answer, so I asked him vaguely about prices. I didn't want to say the wrong thing and get myself kicked out, as used to happen in the 90s when one would use the word "bong" in a head shop. "Say 'water pipe' next time," they would inform you as they showed you to the door. There would literally be a sign on the back of the door on the way out saying, "Use of the word bong will result in your being ejected from the premises." 

He didn't answer my question about prices directly, but neither did he boot me from the parking lot. Instead he made a cryptic statement about Karma, and how everything depended on whether my intentions were pure. I assumed that this was why my friend Hope had gotten away with a plucking her solitary mushroom with impunity. She'd done it innocently enough and wasn't greedy.

Instead of trying my luck with the mushrooms, I decided to leave, taking the aluminum foil and ketchup with me without paying. This would later come back to haunt me, but for the moment, I felt as if I'd gotten away with something.

Next, I was in a food court, and I went inside a confectionery shop. I was browsing the merchandise, when I saw Heather Moran. Heather was one of the cool kids in my high school, a couple of years my senior, a punk chick whom I did not date, but someone who everyone looked up to as an alumni and pioneer of the early punk movement in conservative Orange County. She'd already cut the grooves that the rest of us settled into later. 

"Hey, Heather," I greeted her awkwardly. I wanted to give her a hug, but I didn't feel we were on those terms. 

She greeted me cordially but only with faint recognition, since we really hadn't been that close. I looked around the shop and saw various other characters from that era in my life. Kim Spencer was there, and I had a brief conversation with her. She pointed to her sister Karen, who waved at us. I'd unsuccessfully attempted to date both of them in high school (not at the same time, of course).

Outside, in the food court, I saw Mark Rebmann. He was another punk character with whom I'd attended Loara High School in Anaheim. We'd played in a band together, and he went on to become an accomplished guitarist, gigging around the scene during the years when I'd taken my hiatus into the cult. 

"Hey, Spider Munkey!" I called to him, using his least favorite nickname.

He came over and we embraced. By the way he lingered and swayed, I could tell he was flat-out drunk. He stared at my face and looked like he wanted to kiss me. I pulled back a little bit, but he was so inebriated that he fell forward, and we both wound up on the ground in a tangle. I got to my feet and then helped him up, and he stood there a bit unsteadily, gazing at me with a look of astonishment. 

"It's good to see you, Andy," he said breathless from the booze. "I can't...believe...how long it's been."

I promised to catch up with him later, but I had to go. The items I'd stolen from the hippie mushroom seller were making me feel a bit anxious. I needed to return them before some kind of karmic retribution befell me. I bid Mark farewell and walked down a narrow walkway toward the other side of town.

On one side of the walkway were apartment houses, built right up to the sidewalk, and on the other side was a flume, running between the sidewalk and the street. It was about four feet wide and didn't appear to be very deep. If one was so inclined, I suppose one could have jumped over it easily enough.

The sidewalk was wet, and it kept narrowing, to the point where I eventually wound up slipping and tumbling right into the cold water of the flume. It was deceptively deep and colder than I'd imagined. I wished I had put on the wetsuit earlier, alas, it was still wrapped uselessly around my neck.

Someone fished me out of the flume and set me back on my path toward the mushroom vendor. I soon woke up, never having returned the stolen items. Try as I might, I couldn't get back into the dream. The doors were locked, and the show was over.


Sunday, January 22, 2023

Jacking for Trump

I don't remember much of this dream, thank god. The little that I do remember is bad enough. It was another dystopian future present dream, this time featuring President for Life, Donald Trump. I tell ya, life couldn't be any more fucked if, after the rest its indignities, one has to go to sleep and dream of that guy.

None of us were living in our own homes, since the wrecked economy had forced the entire population of the middle and lower classes into homeless Dickensian poverty. The neighborhoods had been snatched up by a robber baron class of elite cronies, and the president had turned all private dwellings into "boarding houses," which seemed to function more like mini internment camps. We lived 12 to a house, and every available space was used for habitation, including bathrooms and broom closets. 

We didn't have jobs to go to, so most of our time was spent collecting semen for the president's breeding program. Males were expected to produce prodigious amounts of the stuff, which would be gathered in cups, then buckets, and finally barrels, then brought to the president's dwelling, a mansion on a hill. I don't know what females were expected to do, since I didn't see a single one of them in this non co-ed living arrangement.

"Hurry up, number four!" a voice shouted into the communal bathroom. It was a long, narrow room, lined with rows of doorless stalls. The floor was glazed with a fetid patina of urine and shed body hair. I wondered how any of us were expected to get this sort of business done in these squalid conditions. 

"You're late," the voice continued. "It's almost time for second collection, and you're not even done with the first batch."

I finished under duress and used a disposable wooden ice cream spoon to scrape out my cup into the bucket. Once a bucket was full, the next bloke would take a paint stirring stick and do the same thing, emptying his bucket into a larger one, and so on, until there was enough to transfer into a 55 gallon drum. These were toted up the hill dutifully at the end of the day. 

Apparently, I'd missed collection time by minutes, so I had to go around looking for the barrel guy, who was nowhere to be found. This was not good. I would have to schlep my tiny sample up the hill and appeal to the president directly to have it accepted as a late arrival. He hated late arrivals, and I was sure to be reprimanded.

"Not just disappointed, number four," I could already hear the president whining. "This is...just disgraceful. No excuse for this kind of thing. None."

There weren't any punishments for late arrivals, other than having to endure the incredibly irritating tone of the president's voice during the long lectures on personal productivity. I woke up rather than have to listen any longer. 

Wednesday, January 18, 2023

DTPS, the wine glass mask and an endless hall of doors

I am not sure about the sequence of events, but it made sense -- kind of -- in the way that quantum physics makes sense to someone, somewhere, somehow.

In one section of the dream, perhaps the beginning, I was at home in a luxury high-rise. I was entertaining a group of friends, mostly ex-coworkers from the dealership. Although my accommodations were fancy, I was still my usual cheap-ass self. I drove the same 2007 Honda Fit, and I was very conscious about spending money on goods or services. 

For example, one of my guests was an up and coming PACT* student from the Honda training program. He was telling me about his excitement at doing his very first valve adjustment in his new job at YC Honda. I gave him a thumbs up and then pulled him aside and whispered in his ear:

"Say, sonny. I was once in your position, you know. And, well, as a privileged employee, you have certain access to things that would very helpful to certain persons--namely, me." 

"What are you getting at, sir?" he addressed me formally, but with suspicion.

"I'm getting at your DPTS** number," I spoke the words bluntly. "The access code to the library of technical information on the Honda website. See, sometimes people, ex-employees like myself, we find ourselves in need of a refresher in the proper repair procedures provided in the proprietary online database."

"Not for profit," I assured him. "Nothing like that. It's just so we can work on our own cars. I don't remember everything about an engine, see, and I would be extremely grateful if you could see your way to giving me the access code, so that I could just go in and check, to make sure I am doing things right. Those aftermarket repair manuals suck. Chilton's, Haynes--garbage. Just trash." 

He balked. "But that kind of thing is frowned upon. Dishonest. I could get in trouble."

I continued with my "poor me" routine, and it seemed to be working. A couple of my friends also chimed in, assuring him that I was a harmless old man, just looking for access to information to help me with needed repairs. He mumbled something ambiguous, and I glanced at him, then turned away, pretending not to hear at all.

"That's a fine show of gratitude," he said to my turned back. "I said, 'yes.' Yes, I will help you."

I whirled around and gave him a giant hug. "Thank you," I cried. "You won't regret it."

With that I scurried out the door and fairly ran to the dealership. I guess I was in search of a part or something needed for a repair. Instead of arriving at the dealership, though, I found myself in the apartment of a some young people. It was a minuscule, one room affair with appliances lining the walls and a bed in the middle, an arrangement that made sense when you considered the size of the apartment.

I was sitting on the bed and talking to a pretty redheaded girl in her 20s. She reminded me of the actress Molly C. Quinn. She had a lively, animated personality and a miniature poodle with a similarly outgoing temperament. She handed me an oddly shaped wine glass, while the dog licked my face excitedly.

I took a few sips of the wine and set the glass on my lap. Suddenly, I became aware of a strange sensation. The wine glass had affixed itself to my penis. I don't recall how this happened exactly, but it was like one of those Chinese finger traps. The more I tried to extricate it, the harder it became to remove, no pun intended.

Eventually, I employed some kind of mental technique and extricated my swollen appendage from the glass. It was then that I got a good look at this device. 

On the sipping end, it appeared to be a normal wine glass, only made of red colored glass. The other end, the stem, was a hollow tube, tapered to the exact fit of human genitalia. It also had a companion piece, a theater mask also made of red glass, which mated precisely with the wine glass exactly where the mouth would be. It was quite the clever piece of sexually gratuitous glassware. Fun at parties, I imagined.

I placed the wine glass penis trap into its face mask receptacle, thanked the girl for a lovely time and bolted out the door. I still had business to attend to at the dealership.

I made it to the dealership in time for lunch, and since no one was available to help me with the parts, I decided to go out with some of the other employees for a bite to eat. Somewhere between the dealership and the diner, I got separated from the group and became hopelessly lost. 

As night began to fall, I found myself walking through a series of progressively worse neighborhoods. I walked faster and faster, through alleys, between houses, trying to get back to a familiar area. I had the vague notion that I was being pursued, but no one was actually behind me. It was just a feeling of some nameless terror to be avoided.

At this point, I got stuck in an endless turnstile of doors that would open and close in rapid succession. As soon as I was through one, a new one would present itself. Open, enter, new door, repeat. I woke up soon thereafter, exhausted, as usual.

 ----

*PACT -- Professional Automotive Career Training, a partnership between American Honda and affiliated community and technical colleges.

**DTPS -- Dealership Personal Training System, Honda's online training system for automotive technicians, parts and service personnel.

Monday, January 16, 2023

A trip to the doctor's office, drug deals and drones

I dreamed I had to make a doctor's appointment, but I was having difficulty with the details. I was also just a little apprehensive, so I enlisted the help of my friend Emery to hold my hand through the process. 

"I'll be OK if I can just remember the name of my doctor," I told her as we waited in the lobby of a quaint little walk-in clinic. "It starts with a...um. A letter." 

"If that's all you can come up with, we're going to be here a while," she said, making herself comfortable on a futon. 

A solitary lamp in a squarish  lampshade illuminated the tastefully cozy waiting room, creating an atmosphere reminiscent of a 70s psychiatrist's office. The futon was a light wood oil shade of peanut butter teak, with thin black leather cushions and just a hint of Japanese in the smoothly efficient future/retro styling. 

I sat down next to her, and she curled up by my side, resting her head against my shoulder. She yawned and pulled a blanket up to her chin, settling in like a cat on a rainy day.

"Nieswonger...Nietzche...no, that's not it," I continued through the alphabet becoming a little concerned that I may not ever recollect the name of the doctor who I was supposed to be seeing. "Oppenheimer, Paradisio, Persimmons...." I soon gave up and resigned myself to not knowing.

The door opened, and a tallish man with dark hair and a pointy nose stepped through and called my name. He looked like Bob Saget. Yeah, I never would have guessed that one. 

He proceeded to go over my chart with me, recounting my history all the way back to my days in Paradise when I'd first been diagnosed with Type II diabetes. 

"And you're here today, why?" he asked, looking up from his clipboard.

I didn't know the answer to that question, and soon the scene changed. End of segment. 

----

Next, I was in a parking lot in a not too distant future version of our dystopian present. Things were basically the same, but there were a lot more drones flying around, spying and prying into everything you did. There were also a lot more people openly carrying guns and shooting down these flying mechanical nuisances, in order to carry out their drug deals in some illusion of relative privacy. 

I was facilitating one such transaction with Carnitas, my old YC Honda co-worker, hoping to make my cut of the profits. $600 for a pound of low grade Mexican grass, out of which I would take $100 for making the connection. 

"Here ya go, Sparky," Carnitas said, cheerfully handing me a wadded up C-note.

"Mind the RFID tags," I warned him. There were electronic trackers in everything. "They don't have much range, but still, it's best to pull them out before you leave the parking lot."

I was admiring the fresh wood paneling on his El Camino. It was even sharper than the original design. Carnitas always did have a talent for restoring classic cars. 

"What else ya gonna do?" he grinned. "I love these old beauties."

Saturday, January 14, 2023

"Knock knock"


"Who's there?"

Rapidly approaching machine gun fire was the reply. 

I was in my own backyard, but somehow my backyard had been transformed into a war scene in Vietnam. I was pretty far behind enemy lines, waiting for reinforcements, but the likelihood of their arrival was waning. Our side was retreating, and the remnant of my small unit was facing the grim reality that the only troops we were likely to encounter would be the Viet Cong.

"Shhh!" I placed my finger to my lips, silently gesturing to the couple of men left in my squad as they rounded the corner of a wooden fence. We had become separated, and I had to make sure they didn't fire on me out of surprise.

"It looks like this is about it for us," one of them said dejectedly. "I don't see any way out of this."

He was right. The enemy had us surrounded, and there was no way out. Even to retreat, we would have to charge our way through lines of advancing troops. 

I could see the black uniforms, little pinspecks at first, now turning into a life-sized army before my eyes. They were spread out in a loosely staggered formation, a deadly, efficient search party, roaming through the woods, their silent approach broken only by the occasional machine gun round when they would come across one our soldiers crouched behind a rock or tree trying to evade capture. 

TOK--TOK TOK. One by one, we were being executed. 

They were closer now. I could see their faces and hear their taunts as they tried to draw out what was left of my unit from their desperate hiding places. 

I decided to make a run for it. I made a break for my neighbor's property to the east, hoping to put some distance between me and my pursuers. I ran toward the fence in a blind panic.

"Son quiox blan!" they cried, meaning something to the effect of "don't let that one get away!"

I made a flying leap at the fence, but I got hung up on at the top of it. It didn't matter. On the other side of the fence there were more of them waiting with guns aimed at me. I awaited the inevitable.

Of course, it never came. 

I wondered if this was what death was like, always looming, but at the moment of arrival--nothing. I woke up to the sound of a woodpecker pecking away at the moulding on the side of my house. 

TOK--TOK TOK.

Friday, January 13, 2023

The Emissary

Once, while at a party, I felt myself the unspoken target of a hate vibe. It was an all ages affair, with children and adults milling about in a casual milieu of chips, champagne and birthday cake. The topics of conversation were mostly banal and gossipy, a buffet of who said what about whom type of fare. Many sideways glances were being cast in my direction, although I didn't perceive it right away. That is, until the group conspired as one to send an emissary to deliver the message to me directly.

"You're a stinking, filthy piece of shit!" 

The words came from the unlikely lips of a toddler, a button-eyed Shirley Temple doll of a girl who seemed barely of speaking age. The vitriol issuing forth from this vision of cuteness was incongruous with the look of innocence on her face. She seemed genuinely proud to have spoken all those words at once, gazing up at me expectantly, as if I were about to reward her with a cookie for her accomplishment.

Instead, I chided her gently, saying something the effect that people shouldn't ought to be using infants to do their dirty work, and I set off to find the people responsible for this atrocious act. Her parents weren't far away, and I quickly walked over to inform them about their daughter's words to me.

"I think you should know what kinds of things your child is saying," I said and relayed the message to the poker faced couple. "Obviously," I concluded, "someone has put her up this as a gag. She is too young to even understand the meaning of her words." 

They gathered up the little girl and reprimanded her harshly, eliciting tears from the unwitting child. I now wished I hadn't mentioned it, as the collateral damage far exceeded that of the original insult. Snickers and tisks were the prevailing review from the peanut gallery, and it became apparent that the entire party was in on the joke. 

I don't recall an ending, only that I was glad that there was one.



Thursday, January 12, 2023

Mom and the family: tears, sweat and wirenuts

I have to make use of the one sunny day in a week of storms, so I will be brief. 

I dreamed I was staying with my mom, Greg and the grandkids in a small apartment somewhere in a nondescript suburb in Southern California. It had notes of Norwalk, West Covina or Mar Vista, but it could have been anywhere, really. The place was so small that I had taken my bed and dragged it outside into a grassy area in the center of the apartment complex, but I would go inside to eat, or sit at the table and cry in my cornflakes.

"Stop your sobbing," my mother said, her voice uncharacteristically harsh. 

"I...can't...help it," I cried, each breath between words a painful gulp of tears and breakfast cereal.

"Well, if that's truly how you feel--here," and she handed me a folded up slip of paper.

I unfolded it and read the note, which consisted solely of a  handwritten address. I recognized the 55113 zip code, and I knew that this was intended to call me out on the fact that I had not visited them in Minnesota for nearly 20 years. I felt the usual resistance mixing with my guilt and grief. 

"That's the address of the gas station with the lowest prices in our neighborhood," she said, clearing up any doubt as to her intent.

I distracted myself with a dangling phone wire hanging from the ceiling that had been capped off with a wire nut. I unscrewed the nut, placing it on the table, and my nephew Ben chided me without rancor.

"You have to keep the ends covered. That's what the caps are for," he instructed with an air of worldly knowledge.

I did as he said and replaced the plastic electrical connector on the dangling wire. Ben seemed pleased, and he dragged me by the pant leg over into the living room, where I was similarly latched onto by the twins. Shackled with three squirming puppy dog like barnacles attached to my leg, I slogged across the carpet with a zombie like gait. 

"It's good to see you making contact with the kids," Greg beamed.

"To be accurate, they are making contact with me," I corrected him, enjoying the attention despite myself. "I suppose I should bring my bed in from outside. It's kind of cold out there at night."

I managed to untether myself and went outside to fetch my weathered mattress. The lawn was littered with red Solo cups and Dorito bags, the remnants of a late night teenage party. Some local kids were still making use of my mattress, so I ran them off and clumsily began toting it back toward the apartment. 

The way back into the apartment was somehow not apparent to me, and I found myself having to climb through some unfinished construction on the side of the building in order to gain entrance. This wasn't exactly the easiest thing to do with a twin mattress in tow, so I enlisted the help of Rob Peavey, one of my highschool friends.

"Hurry up," Rob said as he scaled the side of the partially framed structure. Bits of crumbling drywall  were falling into my eyes and mouth, making the climb more difficult. 

"I'm...I...can't..." I gasped, as I suddenly found that I was completely unable to pull myself up any further. I was close to the second story, but the final two feet seemed impossibly difficult.

"Yes, you can, dammit!" Rob bellowed like a drill instructor, willing me to make the final effort. 

I suppose this is where I woke up, drenched in sweat, my eyes crusted over with evaporated tears.


Wednesday, January 11, 2023

Sex with a talking baby

 

There's no way that I come out of this looking good. None. Sex with children is taboo, but with an infant, still in a swaddling cloth? Good God, man!

In my defense, this was a very cunning, manipulative baby, a very persuasive little Stewie Griffin-like imp, somehow possessing the feminine wiles (and certain anatomical features) of a full sized Mata Hari or Cleopatra. There was no denying this--thing--its desire. I'm still not coming out of this looking like anything less than a very sick, pedophile pervert for dreaming of such things, or even daring to admit to having such a dream.

But for anyone sick enough to have read past the title, go ahead and satisfy your circus freak voyeuristic fetishes, and hear the rest of it. You've already tainted yourself by getting this far in. That's what SHE said (and I'm not even kidding) or words to that effect. 

In this dream, I somehow found myself in possession of a talking baby. I don't know if that's even the right way to describe it. I should say that I was "in the possession of" a talking baby, meaning that the marionette strings were hooked up the other way around. This thing had control of me. I say "thing" because, although it had a personality and a gender, it was still at that amorphous age where one calls it an "it," the unnamed infant stage.

I was walking down the road with this infant in my arms, and it just kind of suggested to me that wouldn't I like to have sex with it. Just like that, in words audible only to me, but non-hallucinatory, just quiet, like it was trying to get away with telling me a secret in public.

I was shocked and disgusted at the idea, and I tried to ignore and deny that such a thing was happening. Being propositioned by a talking baby? In broad daylight on a suburban street? Preposterous! 

It was insistent, though, and it kept on with the suggestive talk, appealing to some dark place of desire inside of me. I was in a bind, since I couldn't very well abandon this infant in my arms. This tiny, dependent life form held me captive as surely as I was holding it to my bosom. 

Somehow, as we were walking, me pushing a very rickety baby carriage made of wire coat hangers and rags, clutching this infant to my chest, she managed to initiate the act. She slid down to my pelvic area and I could feel the moist, if somewhat prickly sensation of <cringe> insertion. 

It was brief, and I resisted at first. I had to resist, for the sake of all that is good and decent and right. I could not--would not--with a baby. But I felt the magnetic pull of the specific gravity of those anatomical regions, and some kind of primitive lust overrode my good sense--and I was in. 

"Might as well keep going," it thought/spoke the words directly to my brain. "Your in it this far. And doesn't it FEEL good?" I couldn't deny that it kind of did. 

In, and then back out, intermittently, as walking and maintaining control of a baby carriage while having sex with a ten pound lump of sentient flesh is difficult under any circumstances, but especially when trying to conceal the act with nothing but a tiny blanket. 

But we were in public, with passersby milling about, saying "how do you do" and wanting to comment on the cute little infant who was being held in a curiously lower than normal position by me. Did I need help? Was the baby too heavy for me? 

I tried to appear nonchalant, and I hurried past them, past some tall buildings, and all the while the baby carriage kept veering off the sidewalk and getting hung up on sprinklers and stuck in the grooves of the freshly edged lawn.

My pants unzipped, this thing straddling me as I waddled away shamefully, the act continued until we somehow managed to get out of public view. At that point, I regained some measure of control, and my pertinent body part refused to cooperate any further.

"You're no fun!" the rascally runt said, and with that, I was free from its grasp. I put it in the stroller, where it was apparently going to wait until someone else came along.

I'm not sure exactly how things ended, but I wish they would have ended sooner, like maybe before I ever got into such a completely disgraceful situation. I guess this is the hazard I signed up for when I decided that I was going to be a dream journalist. I have to report the facts, no matter what. <Augh>

Tuesday, January 10, 2023

A $50,000 guitar cable



I don't remember a lot of details, so this will just be a very basic, unembellished account. I was dreaming that I visited a guitar store, conveniently located in someone's garage/basement/warehouse. I was there for a some kind of band tryout or jam session, not to purchase anything. It was a pretty dimly lit, unorganized place, and there didn't seem to be much in the way of amplification. I'd brought my own guitar and cables, but I expected to plug into the house system, so I left my amp at home.

There weren't any amps in evidence, though, so most of the guys were playing sans amp, which really just sounds like a bunch of clicking with zero resonance or musicality. As an event, it pretty much sucked. I played a few indistinguishable licks and started rolling up my cables to leave. 

"Hey, where's my 25 footer?" I protested, noticing that my longest cable had somehow vanished.

No one would cop to anything, and I grew frustrated. My cord had certainly been lifted, so I began doing a lengthy search of the entire premises. The only things remotely similar were a couple of brand new 50 foot cords behind the counter. I picked one up to examine it, thinking it might have to do if push came to shove.

"Don't touch those!" the proprietor fairly screamed. "You've got $50,000 worth of guitar cord in your hands."

Completely dismayed and taken aback by the absurdity of the price, and still miffed over my own missing cord, I nonetheless dropped the cable, muttering to myself about thieves and robbers. A mullet headed fellow jam session participant tried to console me.

"This happens, man. I'm sorry, but you just have to roll with it, dude," he said, leaning in as if to give me a hug.

"The hell," I said, spurning his sympathies. I was in no mood for platitudes, sincere or otherwise.

I went on searching in vain for my missing guitar cord for quite some time, finally waking myself up out of desperation. It was pretty tame as far as nightmares go, but I was glad to have hit the eject button. I have enough frustrating nonsense to deal with in real life.

Saturday, January 7, 2023

And once again...

I dreamed that I was summoned back to Yuba City Honda. I got a phone call from Reiner asking me to come down because "We like having you around." This should have clued me in that I was dreaming, his being so uncharacteristically nice, but I showed up nonetheless.

I was wearing shorts and a hoodie rather than my work uniform when Reiner met me in the service drive.

"Looking good, Drew," he said, as I bounded past him with a spring in my step.

I went out to the shop and found that the layout had changed. There were a lot more couches than one would expect, and my toolbox was already set up for me with an I pad and a barstool. They must have remembered how much I use to like to sit and surf the internet during the many slow times. 

I opened one of the drawers of the toolbox, and it was filled with an inventory of new parts, the kind typically left over from warranty repairs, where extra parts were handed out like candy. Gaskets, headlamp bulbs, clips and connectors, anything that could prove useful to a future repair, we would squirrel away, trading them like currency with other mechanics who might find themselves in a pickle.

"I remember they used to do random searches," I said to the other employee on duty with me. "If they found a stash such as this, it would be repoed on the spot, and we'd be reprimanded for stealing."

But I was talking to no one, as the other employee had wandered off. Come to think of it, this whole shop was empty, and there didn't seem to be a lot of work to be done. There were no cars, and the service bays and lifts were suspiciously missing. 

I found a red envelope addressed to me on the break room table. It was from my dad. I opened it and found that it contained a check for $300. That was odd, I thought, as in real life, he had just sent me one for $250. Perhaps he was trying to incrementally divest himself of these funds as a premature inheritance. 

Along with the envelope was a small package, also from Dad, so I opened it eagerly. It was a bar of soap. I instinctively put it to my nose and inhaled the minty pine scented bath product. It had a "dad" smell. This gift was intended to make me to think of him when doing something so basic as "washing up for dinner," something I never quite understood the need for when he used to insist that I do so as a child. No matter, it smelled nice, and I could forgive the late life pedantry.

Still wondering about the lack of work, and feeling a little guilty for having zero responsibilities, I wandered back toward the service office. Certainly, they were expecting something out of me, and figured I'd better find out what it was before I was canned. It was nighttime, so perhaps I was on  janitorial duty, with the occasional smog inspection for people who might find it easier to come in after hours. This would explain the shortage of other staff.

As I made my way through the plushly decorated shop space, it occurred to me that this would be an excellent place to hold band practice. I made a mental note to inquire of Reiner about possibly starting a speed metal band, and setting up our equipment in the shop. 

I opened the door to the service department and was greeted by the rest of the missing staff. It seemed that everyone I knew was there, all of them lounging on couches or chatting in small groups. I asked what the occasion was.

"It's Jimmy's retirement party," Reiner said, pointing to an older member of the sales staff.

Suddenly, it all made sense. I wasn't being summoned back to work. This was a belated sendoff. Although the party wasn't for me, since the policy had been adopted after I'd already departed, they had decided to invite me so that I could gain closure from the event as well. I gave up the idea of the speed metal band and joined in round of "for he's a jolly good fellow" for Jimmy.


Friday, January 6, 2023

Need to disable auto defrag

I know I dreamed. I know who was in it. There were even a couple of elements that I retained. It's just that my damned brain does this auto defrag program before I wake up, and all the conscious memories are tucked back into their little storage areas in zip files, and I don't seem to possess the key.

I was in a room in a well lit room in a house or apartment somewhere. There were a couple of twin beds in the room, and my mom and Greg were present. My mom was lying on one of the twin beds, and I wanted to lie down, but there wasn't enough room. I glanced over at the other bed, and Greg was lounging comfortably on it. 

He looked to be about 35, the age I remember him any time I think about him. I usually picture my mom at age 28, which seems ridiculously young now that I'm 57. I have a picture of her on her 28th birthday, smiling after blowing out the candles on her birthday cake, that I've kept in a tiny frame since I was a child.

Nothing else occurred in this dream that can remember. 

In a separate, less eventful dream with even less detail, Paul from group, a silent, solitary man of 70, was making beer at home. He was using the bottle fermentation method, where you put all the ingredients directly in the bottle in carefully measured amounts, hoping they don't overpressurize and explode. A lady was coaching him as he placed adhesive labels on the products before shelving them for the required amount of time.

"Now, Paul," she said, "this is going to be a test for you. No drinking this stuff until the date you've written down, or you know what will happen."

"I know," he said.

I don't know what would have happened, other than it would likely have been a very yeasty and unsatisfying experience, with beer issuing forth like a fire hose upon opening the bottle. 

That had been my experience at least, when I employed a similar home brewing technique in my garage in Paradise. Cases of the stuff had to be thrown out with the precision delicacy of a bomb squad handling nitroglycerin explosives wired with a mercury tilt switch. We became aware of this danger one warm day in April, when the contents of one of the cases became so volatile that bottles began spontaneously erupting, shattering the glass in with a loud boom that could be heard from inside the house. 

Dummy perched atop a case of Krakatoa Ale



Wednesday, January 4, 2023

Storm Journal Day 1

 6:00 PM Hour 1. Before the rains even began, I got my first indication that this was serious. A severe wind gust upended my garden shed, ripping it from its rotten foundation in a single swipe. Anxiety set in soon afterward, as the main thrust of the storm has yet to arrive. Quite a strong opening, sir. Well played. I am back on my heels now, playing defense. I should have made more preparations, but really there is nothing to do but wait for the inevitable power outage and endure the solitude of isolation from my electronically connected friends. It is going to be a long week.

7:00 Hour 2. I found another water spot on the floor in the kitchen. I can't seem to trace the origin of these damned incursions. I was going to blame it on the cat, since she's been known to empty her stomach, whether it has anything in it or not. But these are just water puddles in the middle of nowhere, and nothing on the ceiling indicates any leak from above. Besides, the rain hadn't yet started. 

It's 7:30 now, and that has all changed. Rain and wind from the south are now beginning the process by which many trees will lose their footing, a one-two punch. I'm still enjoying power, and I am eating possibly my last hot meal for the foreseeable future. I'd better get to it. After that, perhaps I'll be granted the privilege of a final shower as well. If not, I had one earlier in the day, and I will be good until the night sweats start up again at approximately 3AM.

Cough it up!

"Be careful who you let into your house," my wife told me in a dream several years ago. I think she was referring to my friend Cory Allred, who was about to be released from prison after a 14 year stint for holding his parents captive at gunpoint while high on meth. It was good advice then, and I have kept it in mind over the years, although not in my dream last night, apparently.

Brian Murry came knocking, and on the strength of our friendship during my 20s, I let him and his rowdy crew of two in. I knew it was a mistake when the wisecracking, weed-scented duo made a beeline down the hallway, slamming the door to the master bedroom behind them. I ran down the hallway after them and felt the weight of two human bodies pressed up against the door as I tried to open it.

"Hey!" I yelled, "Just what in the hell do you think you're doing in there?" as I forced the door open a crack, placing my foot in the opening to gain leverage.

Soon I had the door open, and I saw one them, a rather guilty looking scruff, shiftily glancing around, trying to avoid my scrutiny. He looked like a cat with feathers sticking out of his mouth attempting to appear nonchalant. I was onto him.

"Cough it up!" I said sternly. "Whatever it is you've stolen, give it back. NOW!"

Taken aback by the suddenness of my accusation and unable to make a proper defense, since he did, in fact, have something in his mouth, he placed his hand over his mouth and silently produced some gold rings and assorted jewelry which he and his partner had just procured from my wife's jewelry box.

"Now hand them over," I continued, somewhat gratified at my own acumen. I could just smell a thief. Not even five minutes in the house, and straight for the jewelry box. So predictable.

He handed them to me just as Brian, lumbering down the hall, arrived to find his friends getting the third degree.

"What have you two jokers done now?" he asked the two sullen toughs.

"They were trying to make off with these," I said, holding out a handful of moist jewelry as I described the oral smuggling operation that I'd uncovered.

"That's too bad," he said. "That means that you guys are going to miss out on this." And with that, he produced a joint, freshly rolled and still slightly damp with saliva from his infamous Bongo Lips which had earned him a lifelong nickname. 

He lit it and passed it to me, insisting that I take a drag of his special blend, if only for the punitive value of watching his two friends squirm with envy.

I wasn't exactly thrilled with the idea, thinking this "special blend" might be code for some chemical additive that he'd laced it with. Even if it was just straight cannabis, it was likely some potent hybrid strain that was sure to send me straight into psychosis. Nonetheless, I didn't want to leave him hanging, so I took a very small, well measured puff.

I immediately felt the effects, and my mood softened a bit. I was no longer mad at the simple-minded thugs who had just tried to rob me. They were, after all, just human. Human like we all are, maybe slightly less evolved, but having the same basic drives. I actually felt kind of bad for their punishment of exclusion, seeing how envious they were, their greedy eyes watching every flick of ash, every glowing ember as I took a second, longer toke.

Nonetheless, a deal was a deal. I passed the joint back to Bongo, and that's where the dream ended.

Tuesday, January 3, 2023

Hotel Phantasm


 

I dreamed I was in a luxury high rise, a guest of some friends. Javier, from the Remnant Church was one of them, although I didn't see him right away. I was busy trying to secure my room in the retro space age tower, and I was having a bit of a time of it. I'd ducked out of my room for a quick shower in the communal bathroom facilities for that floor, and when I got out, my clothes had disappeared from the wooden bench where I'd left them. 

This high end hotel had walls of the smoothest polished wood, and the doors were practically invisible, only hinted at by the occasional seam in the perfect finish. I had no idea how to even open a door, should I actually find one. So, I was locked out of my room, which was somewhere down this long hallway of imperceptibly subtle doors, none of which had any numbers, and of course--I was naked.

Using a damp washcloth as a loincloth, I went around banging on the walls, hoping to find someone who could rectify the situation of my missing clothing and direct me to my room. It's hard to make indignant demands when clothed in such a manner, so after one failed attempt, where I both amused and shocked the couple whose door I knocked upon, I gave up trying to enlist any help and went about trying to find my room on my own.

Banging on the walls proved fruitful enough, as the walls would automatically slide apart allowing access to the individual rooms. I eventually found my room in this manner, although, unfortunately, it was already occupied. I chased out the occupant, who seemed genuinely convinced that it was his room, but was startled enough to be confronted by an angry savage dressed in such skimpy bathroom attire that he simply fled from my tirade with no questions.

The room was spare, and if there were any amenities such as a bed or perhaps a dresser with my clothes in it, they were concealed behind the smooth finished wooden walls in the same manner as the door had been. Banging on the walls produced no results, however, and I soon found myself back in the hallway, looking for way out of this inhospitable place.

Down the hall, I saw the man who I had just evicted entering an elevator, and I ran to try to catch it before the doors slid shut. No luck. The doors closed just as I got there, and I got one final glimpse of the terrified man just before the walls closed up, leaving no trace of man or elevator. Just then, the walls in front of me parted, and another elevator appeared, adjacent to to the one that had just departed. Great, I thought, I'm finally going to get out of here.

I got inside, and the doors closed behind me. It was then that I knew something was terribly wrong. As soon as the doors closed, I was in pitch blackness. I felt around on the wall for the standard buttons, but they felt dead under my fingers. I could, however, feel a faint sensation of movement, although I couldn't tell if I was going up or down. 

"God fucking dammit!" I screamed, frustrated more than scared, but only by a slight margin.

As the blackness and the ambiguous sensation of movement continued, I felt around on the panel for the emergency alarm switch. I could somehow visualize a small silver switch with writing on it that said "Emergency use only." This seemed like emergency enough, so I pulled it, and instantly the doors opened. It looked as if I was back on my original floor, although there were no identifying markers, so it was impossible to be sure. 

It was at this point that I encountered Javier from Bible Study. He was also trapped in this luxury high rise labyrinth. He was similarly frustrated and alternately cursing and banging walls, as I had done. He had with him a small pouch with some drug paraphernalia in it: a syringe, a lighter and a spoon. 

In anger, he threw the kit toward the ceiling, and it landed in a small space between the wall and the ceiling, a dead space which did nothing but collect dust and similar refuse of this kind, thrown up there by other trapped souls over the years.

As soon as he tossed his rig, he regretted it, and he tried in vain to scramble up the smooth surface of the wooden walls to retrieve it. Somehow, I perceived that abandoning this attachment was the key to his way out of this place, but it was the one thing that he was unable to do. He gnashed his teeth and continued struggling, and I left him there to pursue my own exit strategy.

Down the hallway, I saw a faint glimmer, which I at first took to be the reflection from someone's glasses, coming toward me from a distance. As it got closer, I realized that it was not another human that was approaching, but a tennis ball sized chrome sphere, gliding along at eye level. It was, in fact, the ball from Phantasm, complete with barbed prongs and a retractable drill, designed for the purpose of latching onto--and pumping out the contents of-- a human skull.

I quickly ducked down, and it whizzed by me. I knew I had but a few seconds before it would sense me and reverse course. I ran down the seemingly endless hallway, looking for a corner around which I might duck temporarily to postpone my fate, even if only for a few seconds. I didn't look back for fear of seeing this thing which was surely bearing down on my by now. 

Just a few feet ahead of me was a corner with a stairwell. It was behind a set of double doors, conventional doors with panes of wire meshed security glass, and I knew that if I could get behind them, I would be safe. I never reached the doors, though, and I woke up and state of panic, sweating profusely.