A Sampling of Short Stories
The Late Mr. Hargrove
Much to his surprise, when Gerald Hargrove awoke this morning, he discovered he was dead.
At first it felt as if a dark sad cloud had enveloped his body, but soon enough he realized what he felt most was relief. No more pain. No more side effects from medication. No more restricted diet. No more adult diapers. And no more straining to communicate to family and friends who visited him now because word was out he’d arrived at the end of the road.
It must have just happened. The dying. His body lay there, getting cold, his eyes closed. His lungs must not be functioning anymore, since he couldn’t feel himself breathing. It all made perfect sense. What didn’t fit was fact his brain seemed to be working. He still had thoughts and feelings. He still understood things. Okay, this was just weird.
Gerald had heard about those out-of-body experiences people had when they were in dangerous or frightening situations. He’d also heard ad nauseam about people who claimed to have “died” and flew up to the ceiling like some kind of angelic bat and hung there smugly watching the doctors’ desperate attempts to revive them.
This was nothing like that. He didn’t exactly know where he was now … well, he knew where his body was—lying right there, getting stiff in the hospital bed. He had a misty memory of a lot of recent activity going on around him: nurses removing IVs and disconnecting monitors as if they were closing up shop; a doctor checking for vital signs that weren’t there, before filling out the requisite paperwork. No one had seemed to be concerned or even in much of a hurry. Oh, he was dead all right.
So, then how did he explain the fact he didn’t feel dead? Maybe it was something like the “phantom limb” sensation, when an amputee claims to feel the leg that’s no longer there. Only this wasn’t just his leg, it was his … everything. Was he in some sort of purgatory? Hell, he wasn’t even Catholic. Could his strange state be some kind of staging area before he was assigned to … to whatever was next?
Gerald had overheard a nurse refer to this acute-care facility, as “God’s Waiting Room.” From his perspective, the expression didn’t merit the chuckles it had received, but he supposed it might be as good a description as any for the state he found himself in at the moment.
He’d never been a big fan of the whole heaven or hell thing. He just went along with his wife, Julie, as she embraced the hope of getting your rewards up yonder in the sweet by and by, etc. It was the kind of thing a guy had to do to keep his marriage comfortable, but he never believed any of that crap. Gerald always figured when you died, everything just stopped. You were through. Done. Kaput. Tossed onto some kind of cosmic compost heap.
Apparently, he’d figured wrong. So, now what? Was he supposed to do something or just hang out and wait for the Grim Reaper or whoever had been assigned to come get him? Or was this just some bonus time everybody got just before they disappeared in puff of smoke? Time for what? He couldn’t talk, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t do squat. Well, he could think, and he seemed to still feel emotion. Better than nothing, he supposed, but what good did it do him?
Maybe this was just a brief moment, after you passed on, when you were supposed to think about your life, feel happy or sad or remorseful … or a time to ask for forgiveness. Nah, to Gerald that whole deathbed conversion sham always seemed too damned convenient. What was the value in pretending to make amends long after it was too late, long after the damage was done?
Maybe he was supposed to hole-up here in some kind of suspended animation and force himself to lament the fact he could have done a lot of things better? As if that were necessary. He’d been lamenting his failings pretty much the whole time since the doctors told him the cancer had won and any hope was a waste of time. So, if that wasn’t it, why was he being forced to lurk in the shadows like The Ghost of Christmas Past?
Jesus, if he now faced some kind of last-ditch, sad attempt to try to make good all the things he’d failed at, then this amounted to no more than a sappy made-for-TV movie on the Hallmark channel. If that’s what this turned out to be, then there really was a hell.
Sure, there were things he was sorry about. Lots of them. He could have been a better husband, more understanding, more sympathetic. He was pretty sure Julie felt her own sense of relief now that God had finally let the air out of him. He was confident Julie would move on from his demise soon enough and get on with her life. Money wouldn’t be a problem; she had the insurance policy and the IRAs. Still an attractive woman, just fifty-eight, she wouldn’t have any trouble finding a replacement for him—some guy a whole lot better at showing his feelings. Julie would come out of this whole thing better off. It might take a little time for her to adjust, that’s all. He thought about all those times when … wait a minute. He could see her.
At first it felt as if a dark sad cloud had enveloped his body, but soon enough he realized what he felt most was relief. No more pain. No more side effects from medication. No more restricted diet. No more adult diapers. And no more straining to communicate to family and friends who visited him now because word was out he’d arrived at the end of the road.
It must have just happened. The dying. His body lay there, getting cold, his eyes closed. His lungs must not be functioning anymore, since he couldn’t feel himself breathing. It all made perfect sense. What didn’t fit was fact his brain seemed to be working. He still had thoughts and feelings. He still understood things. Okay, this was just weird.
Gerald had heard about those out-of-body experiences people had when they were in dangerous or frightening situations. He’d also heard ad nauseam about people who claimed to have “died” and flew up to the ceiling like some kind of angelic bat and hung there smugly watching the doctors’ desperate attempts to revive them.
This was nothing like that. He didn’t exactly know where he was now … well, he knew where his body was—lying right there, getting stiff in the hospital bed. He had a misty memory of a lot of recent activity going on around him: nurses removing IVs and disconnecting monitors as if they were closing up shop; a doctor checking for vital signs that weren’t there, before filling out the requisite paperwork. No one had seemed to be concerned or even in much of a hurry. Oh, he was dead all right.
So, then how did he explain the fact he didn’t feel dead? Maybe it was something like the “phantom limb” sensation, when an amputee claims to feel the leg that’s no longer there. Only this wasn’t just his leg, it was his … everything. Was he in some sort of purgatory? Hell, he wasn’t even Catholic. Could his strange state be some kind of staging area before he was assigned to … to whatever was next?
Gerald had overheard a nurse refer to this acute-care facility, as “God’s Waiting Room.” From his perspective, the expression didn’t merit the chuckles it had received, but he supposed it might be as good a description as any for the state he found himself in at the moment.
He’d never been a big fan of the whole heaven or hell thing. He just went along with his wife, Julie, as she embraced the hope of getting your rewards up yonder in the sweet by and by, etc. It was the kind of thing a guy had to do to keep his marriage comfortable, but he never believed any of that crap. Gerald always figured when you died, everything just stopped. You were through. Done. Kaput. Tossed onto some kind of cosmic compost heap.
Apparently, he’d figured wrong. So, now what? Was he supposed to do something or just hang out and wait for the Grim Reaper or whoever had been assigned to come get him? Or was this just some bonus time everybody got just before they disappeared in puff of smoke? Time for what? He couldn’t talk, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t do squat. Well, he could think, and he seemed to still feel emotion. Better than nothing, he supposed, but what good did it do him?
Maybe this was just a brief moment, after you passed on, when you were supposed to think about your life, feel happy or sad or remorseful … or a time to ask for forgiveness. Nah, to Gerald that whole deathbed conversion sham always seemed too damned convenient. What was the value in pretending to make amends long after it was too late, long after the damage was done?
Maybe he was supposed to hole-up here in some kind of suspended animation and force himself to lament the fact he could have done a lot of things better? As if that were necessary. He’d been lamenting his failings pretty much the whole time since the doctors told him the cancer had won and any hope was a waste of time. So, if that wasn’t it, why was he being forced to lurk in the shadows like The Ghost of Christmas Past?
Jesus, if he now faced some kind of last-ditch, sad attempt to try to make good all the things he’d failed at, then this amounted to no more than a sappy made-for-TV movie on the Hallmark channel. If that’s what this turned out to be, then there really was a hell.
Sure, there were things he was sorry about. Lots of them. He could have been a better husband, more understanding, more sympathetic. He was pretty sure Julie felt her own sense of relief now that God had finally let the air out of him. He was confident Julie would move on from his demise soon enough and get on with her life. Money wouldn’t be a problem; she had the insurance policy and the IRAs. Still an attractive woman, just fifty-eight, she wouldn’t have any trouble finding a replacement for him—some guy a whole lot better at showing his feelings. Julie would come out of this whole thing better off. It might take a little time for her to adjust, that’s all. He thought about all those times when … wait a minute. He could see her.
###
Julie is sitting on the living room couch; her face buried in her hands and sobbing so hard her whole body is shaking. Their grown son, Doug, has his arm around her, and his sister, Amy, gently strokes her mother’s arm. Their attempts to comfort her aren’t working. Tears are streaming down Julie’s cheeks. Once again, Julie’s ability to cry so easily catches Gerald off-guard. It’s awkward watching her like this, though. He wants to put his arm around Julie, to tell her everything will be all right. But he no longer has arms. There’s nothing physical about him at all. He’s no more than an invisible specter straight out of a dream, more likely a nightmare. He can’t touch her, but he knows even if he could, telling her everything is going to be okay won’t help much. For the first time, he realizes things aren’t going to be so easy for her without him. That surprises him.
###
He’d tried the comforting thing with Julie when they’d lost the baby in the final stages of her first pregnancy. She’d been devastated. Gerald had tried to be practical. He told her not to worry, it was all for the best. He’d pointed out the baby—they’d named him Simon, after Julie’s father—wouldn’t have been normal anyway and they’d have other children for sure. He’d counseled her to not make too much of this unfortunate accident. None of that helped. He learned too late what she needed from him was love and empathy—not practical advice. He suspected Julie never really got over that loss, even though Doug and Amy had grown up healthy and happy.
Julie had been furious with him back then, because he hadn’t shed a tear over the loss of the baby. She’d called Gerald an “unfeeling bastard,” for which she’d apologized profusely afterwards. The truth was, he’d hurt inside plenty when Simon didn’t make it, but he just couldn’t bring himself to show it. Gerald realized now his failure to let her see his tears may have been because he’d taken to heart the lesson his father had pounded into him growing up: “Big boys don’t cry.” Maybe he’d held onto that lesson a little too tightly.
Even if he could do something right now, he’d probably screw it up. After all, doling out comfort or solace—or love—wasn’t a skill set he’d ever mastered. He also wasn’t any good at accepting the affection Julie had shown him. Whenever she said, “I love you,” Gerald always murmured, “Love you, too.” He thought that would be enough, but it occurred to him at the moment he should have said it first once in a while.
The one person he had been able to show sincere affection to was his grandson, Max, Doug’s four-year-old. It turned out to be so much more comfortable for Gerald to shower love on his grandchild than it had been with his own children. Gerald figured it wasn’t so unusual. His life wasn’t as hectic by the time a grandchild came along, so he had a little more stress-free time to spend with Max. Of course, it helped that he could always hand the boy back to his parents once the fun began to wear down. He was confident Doug and Amy would understand the phenomenon once they became grandparents.
Julie had been furious with him back then, because he hadn’t shed a tear over the loss of the baby. She’d called Gerald an “unfeeling bastard,” for which she’d apologized profusely afterwards. The truth was, he’d hurt inside plenty when Simon didn’t make it, but he just couldn’t bring himself to show it. Gerald realized now his failure to let her see his tears may have been because he’d taken to heart the lesson his father had pounded into him growing up: “Big boys don’t cry.” Maybe he’d held onto that lesson a little too tightly.
Even if he could do something right now, he’d probably screw it up. After all, doling out comfort or solace—or love—wasn’t a skill set he’d ever mastered. He also wasn’t any good at accepting the affection Julie had shown him. Whenever she said, “I love you,” Gerald always murmured, “Love you, too.” He thought that would be enough, but it occurred to him at the moment he should have said it first once in a while.
The one person he had been able to show sincere affection to was his grandson, Max, Doug’s four-year-old. It turned out to be so much more comfortable for Gerald to shower love on his grandchild than it had been with his own children. Gerald figured it wasn’t so unusual. His life wasn’t as hectic by the time a grandchild came along, so he had a little more stress-free time to spend with Max. Of course, it helped that he could always hand the boy back to his parents once the fun began to wear down. He was confident Doug and Amy would understand the phenomenon once they became grandparents.
###
Gerald notices Julie’s image has disappeared. Now he sees before him little Max sitting on his bed, the one with the cute little alphabet images all over the bedspread. The boy is softly crying, rhythmically pounding his tiny fist into the pocket of the baseball glove Gerald gave him on his last birthday. The glove is still much too big for Max, but he and his dad have been playing catch and Wiffle Ball in their back yard ever since the day he received it. Gerald feels good about that, but it’s also an uncomfortable reminder that he’d never made time to play catch with Doug when he was little.
“I’m really going to miss you, buddy,” Gerald says.
Max looks up. “I’m gonna miss you, too, grampa.”
What? Wait … Max can hear him?
“Are you gonna be died for always, grampa? Are you gonna miss all my t-ball games and everything?”
Damn, Gerald would give anything to be able to hug the boy one last time. No such luck. Doesn’t seem to be the way this whole dying thing works. He drifts closer to Max. “Don’t you worry, buddy. You won’t be able to see me, but I’ll be watching you … always.” It’s pure bullshit as far as Gerald knows, but it’s what Max needs to hear.
“Promise?” The boy looks up, his eyes huge with tears and hope.
“I promise,” Gerald says.
A smile begins to form on Max’s adorable little face. “Okay.”
Gerald returns his grandson’s smile even though he knows Max can’t see it. God, things are so much simpler when you’re four.
“I’m really going to miss you, buddy,” Gerald says.
Max looks up. “I’m gonna miss you, too, grampa.”
What? Wait … Max can hear him?
“Are you gonna be died for always, grampa? Are you gonna miss all my t-ball games and everything?”
Damn, Gerald would give anything to be able to hug the boy one last time. No such luck. Doesn’t seem to be the way this whole dying thing works. He drifts closer to Max. “Don’t you worry, buddy. You won’t be able to see me, but I’ll be watching you … always.” It’s pure bullshit as far as Gerald knows, but it’s what Max needs to hear.
“Promise?” The boy looks up, his eyes huge with tears and hope.
“I promise,” Gerald says.
A smile begins to form on Max’s adorable little face. “Okay.”
Gerald returns his grandson’s smile even though he knows Max can’t see it. God, things are so much simpler when you’re four.
###
Gerald always hoped his difficulty in accepting Julie’s gestures of love would leave her more to pile on the kids. And Julie had given Doug and Amy all the love and affection any child could hope for. She was an expert when it came time to “kiss it and make it better.” Gerald could never bring himself to do that. He’d never gotten any of that stuff when he was a kid. It always felt silly to him. Even though he never found enough ways to show his children how much he loved them, he’d always assumed Doug and Amy knew anyway. Kids can tell, right?
###
Gerald watches Doug and his wife, Stephanie, standing right there in front of him. Arguing. He can see his son’s face is flushed. Even as a kid, Doug would turn bright red whenever he was angry or embarrassed. Back then, Gerald used to find that an endearing trait. Maybe he should have let little Dougie know that.
“Damn it, Steph, you’re just like Mom. Stop making excuses for him. Admit it, he never gave a damn about me … about any of us.”
Gerald feels a sharp pain near where his heart used to be. “I’m so sorry, Doug. I always loved you and Amy with all my heart. It’s just that I was raised to keep my feelings to myself. I wanted you to know how I felt, honest, but I ….” Gerald stops. Neither Doug nor Stephanie reacts to his delinquent pleas and excuses. It’s obvious to Gerald they’re oblivious to his ghostly presence. Is Max the only one with whom he can still communicate?
“For Christ’s sake, Doug, he just passed away. Have a little respect. It’s bad to speak ill of the dead.” Stephanie glances around as if she’s afraid someone might overhear.
Can she somehow sense Gerald’s presence? More likely she’s just worried her son will catch them arguing. She should be worried. Gerald can see Max standing outside their bedroom door taking in every word.
“Sorry, but the only good thing I can come up with is … the way he treated us … made me determined to never be like that with my own kids. I’m a good parent, because he wasn’t.”
“Yes, you’re a good dad, Doug. But it couldn’t have been all bad with your father. At least he was a good husband,” Stephanie says.
“Yeah, except for the couple of times he cheated on her when he was away on ‘business.’” He makes quote marks in the air. “I overheard him on the phone making arrangements to hook up. Thank God, Mom never knew.”
Stephanie looks Doug in the eye. “Trust me, she knew. A wife always knows.”
Doug turns away. It’s a guilty gesture Gerald knows all too well.
“I don’t know how Mom put up with his crap all those years.”
“Maybe she knows something you don’t, Doug.” Stephanie settles her hand on his arm. “People show their feelings in different ways. I’ll bet your mom knew how much he loved her—even if you couldn’t see it.”
“Yeah, right.” Doug walks over to the window and looks out so Stephanie can’t see him crying. Gerald can.
He also notices the boy has sneaked into the room. “Why are you so mad at grampa? Is it because he’s died now?”
Both his parents rush to Max. His mother picks him up and holds him close. “Oh, sweetie, I know this is hard on you, too.”
Doug rubs the boy’s shoulder. “Kiddo, it’s not anything you need to worry about. It’s grownup stuff. We’ll all remember your grandpa in our own way, I guess. But memories are all we’ll have now.” He takes Max from his mother’s grasp and hugs him, their cheeks touching. “He’s … gone now, Maxie. And that means he won’t ever be with us anymore. You understand, right?”
“Yes, he will,” Max beams. “He told me.”
Doug squeezes his son tight. “Someday you’ll be big enough to understand these things, buddy. But the truth is, people who die go away forever.”
Only Gerald can see the knowing grin on his grandson’s face.
“Damn it, Steph, you’re just like Mom. Stop making excuses for him. Admit it, he never gave a damn about me … about any of us.”
Gerald feels a sharp pain near where his heart used to be. “I’m so sorry, Doug. I always loved you and Amy with all my heart. It’s just that I was raised to keep my feelings to myself. I wanted you to know how I felt, honest, but I ….” Gerald stops. Neither Doug nor Stephanie reacts to his delinquent pleas and excuses. It’s obvious to Gerald they’re oblivious to his ghostly presence. Is Max the only one with whom he can still communicate?
“For Christ’s sake, Doug, he just passed away. Have a little respect. It’s bad to speak ill of the dead.” Stephanie glances around as if she’s afraid someone might overhear.
Can she somehow sense Gerald’s presence? More likely she’s just worried her son will catch them arguing. She should be worried. Gerald can see Max standing outside their bedroom door taking in every word.
“Sorry, but the only good thing I can come up with is … the way he treated us … made me determined to never be like that with my own kids. I’m a good parent, because he wasn’t.”
“Yes, you’re a good dad, Doug. But it couldn’t have been all bad with your father. At least he was a good husband,” Stephanie says.
“Yeah, except for the couple of times he cheated on her when he was away on ‘business.’” He makes quote marks in the air. “I overheard him on the phone making arrangements to hook up. Thank God, Mom never knew.”
Stephanie looks Doug in the eye. “Trust me, she knew. A wife always knows.”
Doug turns away. It’s a guilty gesture Gerald knows all too well.
“I don’t know how Mom put up with his crap all those years.”
“Maybe she knows something you don’t, Doug.” Stephanie settles her hand on his arm. “People show their feelings in different ways. I’ll bet your mom knew how much he loved her—even if you couldn’t see it.”
“Yeah, right.” Doug walks over to the window and looks out so Stephanie can’t see him crying. Gerald can.
He also notices the boy has sneaked into the room. “Why are you so mad at grampa? Is it because he’s died now?”
Both his parents rush to Max. His mother picks him up and holds him close. “Oh, sweetie, I know this is hard on you, too.”
Doug rubs the boy’s shoulder. “Kiddo, it’s not anything you need to worry about. It’s grownup stuff. We’ll all remember your grandpa in our own way, I guess. But memories are all we’ll have now.” He takes Max from his mother’s grasp and hugs him, their cheeks touching. “He’s … gone now, Maxie. And that means he won’t ever be with us anymore. You understand, right?”
“Yes, he will,” Max beams. “He told me.”
Doug squeezes his son tight. “Someday you’ll be big enough to understand these things, buddy. But the truth is, people who die go away forever.”
Only Gerald can see the knowing grin on his grandson’s face.
###
Gerald sensed his good-bye tour of his family hadn’t ended. As if he hadn’t yet been forced to endure enough guilt and sadness. There would be one more stop. This whole thing was right out of Dickens. Whoever or whatever was making him watch these mournful family movies wasn’t through with him yet. Gerald did the spectral equivalent of closing his eyes tight and taking in a deep breath. Let’s get it over with.
###
He stares into the face of his daughter Amy. At first, her expression seems harsh, but soon enough he sees it reflects more exhaustion than anger. Maybe it’s the bags under her eyes or the frown etched on her face that makes her look so much older than twenty-eight. Why hadn’t he noticed that before?
Amy is making coffee in the cramped kitchen of her apartment. As she brings two steaming mugs to the table, Gerald remembers the intoxicating aroma of fresh brewed coffee, another pleasure he’ll miss. He also sees Amy isn’t alone. Her latest boyfriend … Carl? … no Curt … is sitting at the table. Amy plops down across from him.
“Are you okay, Babe?” Curt asks.
“I … I don’t know.” She shakes her head slowly. “I’m sure I should feel sadness, a sense of loss … something. But I don’t feel a thing.”
“Maybe it’s just the shock of losing your father.”
“See, that’s the thing. I miss him, and I’m not happy he’s gone, but why aren’t I able to feel real emotion?”
“You’re just keeping it inside.”
Gerald feels a spear piercing him right where his chest isn’t anymore.
Amy covers her face with her hands. “I’m afraid, Curt. I’m afraid I’m just like he was. He never showed us what he was feeling—if he ever felt anything. He must have loved us, but I have no evidence to prove it. He just ….” She looks at Curt through her splayed fingers. “I hope to God I haven’t turned out to be just like him. Maybe that’s why none of my relationships ever last.”
Curt hops up and slides around the table. He puts his arms around her and pulls her to him. She lets him hold her, her head resting on his chest, but she doesn’t return the hug.
She quivers against him. “Damnit, I should be sad. I really want to cry … but I can’t.”
“It’s going to be all right. I love you, Amy.”
She pulls back and looks at Curt with the saddest face Gerald has ever seen. “But what if I’m not capable of loving you back?”
Amy is making coffee in the cramped kitchen of her apartment. As she brings two steaming mugs to the table, Gerald remembers the intoxicating aroma of fresh brewed coffee, another pleasure he’ll miss. He also sees Amy isn’t alone. Her latest boyfriend … Carl? … no Curt … is sitting at the table. Amy plops down across from him.
“Are you okay, Babe?” Curt asks.
“I … I don’t know.” She shakes her head slowly. “I’m sure I should feel sadness, a sense of loss … something. But I don’t feel a thing.”
“Maybe it’s just the shock of losing your father.”
“See, that’s the thing. I miss him, and I’m not happy he’s gone, but why aren’t I able to feel real emotion?”
“You’re just keeping it inside.”
Gerald feels a spear piercing him right where his chest isn’t anymore.
Amy covers her face with her hands. “I’m afraid, Curt. I’m afraid I’m just like he was. He never showed us what he was feeling—if he ever felt anything. He must have loved us, but I have no evidence to prove it. He just ….” She looks at Curt through her splayed fingers. “I hope to God I haven’t turned out to be just like him. Maybe that’s why none of my relationships ever last.”
Curt hops up and slides around the table. He puts his arms around her and pulls her to him. She lets him hold her, her head resting on his chest, but she doesn’t return the hug.
She quivers against him. “Damnit, I should be sad. I really want to cry … but I can’t.”
“It’s going to be all right. I love you, Amy.”
She pulls back and looks at Curt with the saddest face Gerald has ever seen. “But what if I’m not capable of loving you back?”
###
Gerald felt shattered glass lodged in his throat. “Oh my God, no! Please, it can’t be true. This can’t be my legacy.” Gerald needed to tell her he loved her … that he was devastated he hadn’t shown her how much she meant to him. He needed to take her into his arms and show her how he felt right now, to tell her how important it was to just let her love out … that keeping it bottled up inside could be dangerous. He needed … he needed to not be dead.
If only he could make things right. If only he could at least finally let the tears flow. Jesus, maybe that’s what they should put on his tombstone. Keep it simple: If Only.
Then it came to him. He’d seen this movie before—and there was always a second chance. This had to be one of those well-documented situations where the deceased suddenly wakes up to the amazement of everyone. Then, like Scrooge, the no-longer-dead guy went around setting everything right. Trite for sure, but a miracle, nonetheless. Gerald felt like he was smiling, adrenaline building in his chest.
But he didn’t see any signs of a miracle resurrection.
Wait. What if this whole experience were nothing but an unpleasant, guilt-induced dream? Yeah, that was it. He’d wake up, still dying maybe, but with enough time left to make amends to all the people he loved. And hurt. Maybe that was just wishful thinking.He’d have to work fast; he had a lot of ground to make up. He’d devote every minute of whatever time he could eke out to showing his family how much he cared for each of them. All he had to do now was wake up. Gerald attempted to scream, to flail about. He tried every trick he knew to shake this nightmare. Nothing worked.
Time to face it. He wasn’t starring in some maudlin Dickensian tale after all. Another cliché bites the dust.
If this wasn’t a dream, did the lesson he was being force-fed mean he’d left behind broken people, simply because he’d kept his emotions in check? That he should have shown them how much he loved them, no matter how difficult or uncomfortable it made him? He didn’t need to be tossed into some fiery pit of hell to understand where he’d failed.
So, no second chance. People who hold their emotions in check were penalized in the end—when it was too late. He got it. But how was that fair? Yeah, well, life wasn’t fair. Not a new revelation. Apparently, death wasn’t fair either. Another lesson learned. But what was the point of teaching him these life-and-death exercises if he wasn’t going to be given a chance to act on what he’d been taught?
The words, “Better too late than never,” marched through his awareness like a scrolling words at the bottom of the screen during an ESPN broadcast. But that play on words wasn’t even true. It looked like the real message here was when you die, you have to live with your mistakes forever. If there was a “forever.”
Okay, he really was dead. So, wasn’t he was supposed to see some kind of divine light at the end of a long, dark tunnel? No tunnel, no light. That turned out to be a load of crap, too.
Gerald wanted to bash something, to scream out his anger, his frustration, his overwhelming sense of guilt. If he still had teeth, he’d have gritted them. He knew the tears he felt flowing down his cheeks weren’t real. But he couldn’t stop them.
He was spent. This too-late outpouring of emotion began to soften, and he became aware of something eerily like a gossamer blanket of frost enveloping him.
He sensed a touch on his ethereal shoulder, but he didn’t turn to see who or what it was. It was time to go … maybe somewhere … probably nowhere. It didn’t really matter.
If only he could make things right. If only he could at least finally let the tears flow. Jesus, maybe that’s what they should put on his tombstone. Keep it simple: If Only.
Then it came to him. He’d seen this movie before—and there was always a second chance. This had to be one of those well-documented situations where the deceased suddenly wakes up to the amazement of everyone. Then, like Scrooge, the no-longer-dead guy went around setting everything right. Trite for sure, but a miracle, nonetheless. Gerald felt like he was smiling, adrenaline building in his chest.
But he didn’t see any signs of a miracle resurrection.
Wait. What if this whole experience were nothing but an unpleasant, guilt-induced dream? Yeah, that was it. He’d wake up, still dying maybe, but with enough time left to make amends to all the people he loved. And hurt. Maybe that was just wishful thinking.He’d have to work fast; he had a lot of ground to make up. He’d devote every minute of whatever time he could eke out to showing his family how much he cared for each of them. All he had to do now was wake up. Gerald attempted to scream, to flail about. He tried every trick he knew to shake this nightmare. Nothing worked.
Time to face it. He wasn’t starring in some maudlin Dickensian tale after all. Another cliché bites the dust.
If this wasn’t a dream, did the lesson he was being force-fed mean he’d left behind broken people, simply because he’d kept his emotions in check? That he should have shown them how much he loved them, no matter how difficult or uncomfortable it made him? He didn’t need to be tossed into some fiery pit of hell to understand where he’d failed.
So, no second chance. People who hold their emotions in check were penalized in the end—when it was too late. He got it. But how was that fair? Yeah, well, life wasn’t fair. Not a new revelation. Apparently, death wasn’t fair either. Another lesson learned. But what was the point of teaching him these life-and-death exercises if he wasn’t going to be given a chance to act on what he’d been taught?
The words, “Better too late than never,” marched through his awareness like a scrolling words at the bottom of the screen during an ESPN broadcast. But that play on words wasn’t even true. It looked like the real message here was when you die, you have to live with your mistakes forever. If there was a “forever.”
Okay, he really was dead. So, wasn’t he was supposed to see some kind of divine light at the end of a long, dark tunnel? No tunnel, no light. That turned out to be a load of crap, too.
Gerald wanted to bash something, to scream out his anger, his frustration, his overwhelming sense of guilt. If he still had teeth, he’d have gritted them. He knew the tears he felt flowing down his cheeks weren’t real. But he couldn’t stop them.
He was spent. This too-late outpouring of emotion began to soften, and he became aware of something eerily like a gossamer blanket of frost enveloping him.
He sensed a touch on his ethereal shoulder, but he didn’t turn to see who or what it was. It was time to go … maybe somewhere … probably nowhere. It didn’t really matter.
Dream On
Note: This story was first published in Scrutiny: A Journal of Magical Realism, 10/01/2015
“And dream until your dreams come true”
-- Stephen Tyler
-- Stephen Tyler
Mitchell Horton jerked upright so fast he banged his head against the back of his chair. The cold sweat running down his back made him shiver as he stretched his neck to try to clear the kinks. The nightmares were back.
Tonight, once again, he never even made it to bed. Woke up face down in front of the computer. He’d been following his plan to keep himself awake by playing solitaire online until he became so completely exhausted he could go to bed and fall asleep instantly. At first, it helped him avoid the frightening dreams. Not anymore.
The nightmares started in October, almost three months to the day Corinne left him. Twelve years of marriage down the tube. The second failed marriage for both of them. It hurt more because, this time, Mitch wasn’t the one who wanted out. He’d really tried to make it work, but in the end, Corinne wanted something, or someone, else.
At forty-two, Mitch wasn’t a rookie at dealing with failed relationships. Even so, he pretty much fell apart after she told him she wanted out. It might have been different, if she hadn’t given him the news in a freakin’ text. At work. When he got home, Corinne and most of her stuff were gone, which effectively eliminated drawn-out, emotion-charged, break-up accusations and denials.
Well, not entirely. She revealed a whole steamer trunk full of reasons she left him in several painful phone conversations after she’d split. Twelve years together, and now she seemed to have discovered Mitch was a conceited, self-centered jerk, who always had to be right and considered himself better than everyone else … including her. He finally stopped calling her once he felt sufficiently battered and bruised by the litany of his own shortcomings. Since then he’d had regular discussions of his true feelings about love and life with his new best friend Johnny Walker, Gold.
The dreams … nightmares, didn’t usually have anything to do with Corinne. Not directly anyway. Mostly Mitch found himself in familiar, vaguely dangerous dreamscapes: the cold empty house he’d shared with her when they were first married; the park where he took the kids from his first marriage when they were toddlers; the halls of his old high school late at night; alone on a hiking trail deep in the woods. Sometimes the dream threat took the form of a weirdly shaped monster from a bad B-movie, sometimes from a recognizable beast like a cougar or a velociraptor, sometimes only from a vaguely sinister shadow. But one thing remained the same: whenever the menace confronted him, he felt debilitating fear. He tried—god knows he tried—but he simply couldn’t make himself move. That’s usually when he woke up covered in sweat and feeling like a complete loser—as a husband, or a father, or a friend, or even a passing stranger. Didn’t matter. Awake, he was nothing special; in his dreams, he was nothing but a pussy.
But there was more. Lately in nearly every dream, a shadowy figure appeared. Mitch never got a good look at him—he knew it was a man—but the apparition now emerged from the shadows a little more each time. Never close enough for Mitch to make out anything more than a tall, thin specter in a long dark cloak and a black wide-brimmed hat. To Mitch he looked like some kind of faceless evil Mennonite.
Time to do something about these constant nightmares. It even affected his performance at Sporting Chance, a local athletic equipment and apparel store in the mall, where Mitch served as an assistant manager. And it caused problems in his social life. Well, it would if he had much of a social life.
Tonight, once again, he never even made it to bed. Woke up face down in front of the computer. He’d been following his plan to keep himself awake by playing solitaire online until he became so completely exhausted he could go to bed and fall asleep instantly. At first, it helped him avoid the frightening dreams. Not anymore.
The nightmares started in October, almost three months to the day Corinne left him. Twelve years of marriage down the tube. The second failed marriage for both of them. It hurt more because, this time, Mitch wasn’t the one who wanted out. He’d really tried to make it work, but in the end, Corinne wanted something, or someone, else.
At forty-two, Mitch wasn’t a rookie at dealing with failed relationships. Even so, he pretty much fell apart after she told him she wanted out. It might have been different, if she hadn’t given him the news in a freakin’ text. At work. When he got home, Corinne and most of her stuff were gone, which effectively eliminated drawn-out, emotion-charged, break-up accusations and denials.
Well, not entirely. She revealed a whole steamer trunk full of reasons she left him in several painful phone conversations after she’d split. Twelve years together, and now she seemed to have discovered Mitch was a conceited, self-centered jerk, who always had to be right and considered himself better than everyone else … including her. He finally stopped calling her once he felt sufficiently battered and bruised by the litany of his own shortcomings. Since then he’d had regular discussions of his true feelings about love and life with his new best friend Johnny Walker, Gold.
The dreams … nightmares, didn’t usually have anything to do with Corinne. Not directly anyway. Mostly Mitch found himself in familiar, vaguely dangerous dreamscapes: the cold empty house he’d shared with her when they were first married; the park where he took the kids from his first marriage when they were toddlers; the halls of his old high school late at night; alone on a hiking trail deep in the woods. Sometimes the dream threat took the form of a weirdly shaped monster from a bad B-movie, sometimes from a recognizable beast like a cougar or a velociraptor, sometimes only from a vaguely sinister shadow. But one thing remained the same: whenever the menace confronted him, he felt debilitating fear. He tried—god knows he tried—but he simply couldn’t make himself move. That’s usually when he woke up covered in sweat and feeling like a complete loser—as a husband, or a father, or a friend, or even a passing stranger. Didn’t matter. Awake, he was nothing special; in his dreams, he was nothing but a pussy.
But there was more. Lately in nearly every dream, a shadowy figure appeared. Mitch never got a good look at him—he knew it was a man—but the apparition now emerged from the shadows a little more each time. Never close enough for Mitch to make out anything more than a tall, thin specter in a long dark cloak and a black wide-brimmed hat. To Mitch he looked like some kind of faceless evil Mennonite.
Time to do something about these constant nightmares. It even affected his performance at Sporting Chance, a local athletic equipment and apparel store in the mall, where Mitch served as an assistant manager. And it caused problems in his social life. Well, it would if he had much of a social life.
###
The waiting room of Melba Tewksbury, Dream Therapist, resembled that of the Marriage and Family Counselor Mitch and Corinne had visited several times as the disintegration of their marriage accelerated. Except the worn carpet and well-used chairs in this waiting room were a lot less pretentious, and the receptionist here was neither young nor bubbly. For Mitch, the place didn’t instill confidence, much less trust. But he’d contacted Dr. Tewksbury after checking out her website, and she’d seemed very personable on the phone. Worth a try.
She turned out to be an attractive middle-aged brunette, who would have come off a bit more motherly if she’d been more than a couple of years older than Mitch. Her Columbia Ph.D. in Psychology displayed on the wall behind her desk gave him a lot more assurance than the office décor.
She began with, “Dream Therapy, as it applies to the treatment of nightmares, can employ a wide range of techniques, sometimes in tandem, Mitchell. We’ll have to see which might be the best choice to address your particular issues.”
“Like what?”
“Well, hypnosis works well for some people. It’s often a good place to start. But there are things you can do yourself to limit or even eliminate nightmares, night terrors or other parasomnia disorders. You also might want to look into some of the devices available designed specifically to help you control your dreams.”
“Devices?” He imagined himself strapped to a table with a rats’ nest of wires and electrodes connected to his skull.
She smiled. “Don’t worry. Nothing intrusive. Maybe something as gentle as soothing sounds to help you fall asleep. Also there are a number of very mild electronic waves that could help you relax … some even may allow you to control the environment of your dreams.”
“Not my problem.” He winced. “I mean, if I want to relax enough to fall asleep, all I have to do is have a few drinks or smoke a joint. My trouble isn’t that I can’t fall asleep … it’s the nightmares I face almost every time I do.”
“Right.” She smiled. “Altering or eliminating your nightmares will be our focus. I just wanted you have some sense of the scope of Dream Therapy.”
“Okay, so what can we do to about my nightmares?”
“Well a good place to start might be to try hypnotherapy. Do you have any qualms about hypnosis?”
“I’m cool with it, as long as you don’t make me cluck like a chicken,” he offered a crooked smile.
“How do you feel about quacking like a duck?”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Just a little hypnotherapy joke. Relax, Mitchell, I’m not talking about a parlor trick. Hypnosis can be a path to the cause of a your anxieties and fears … both are key elements in nightmares. Once we’ve identified those elements, they should be much easier for you to cope with. And the result might well be no more nightmares.”
“I’m willing to try anything. Let’s do it.”
“All right. First of all we need you to completely relax. Lie back and close your eyes … let your whole body go limp. And remember, you are absolutely safe here.”
She turned out to be an attractive middle-aged brunette, who would have come off a bit more motherly if she’d been more than a couple of years older than Mitch. Her Columbia Ph.D. in Psychology displayed on the wall behind her desk gave him a lot more assurance than the office décor.
She began with, “Dream Therapy, as it applies to the treatment of nightmares, can employ a wide range of techniques, sometimes in tandem, Mitchell. We’ll have to see which might be the best choice to address your particular issues.”
“Like what?”
“Well, hypnosis works well for some people. It’s often a good place to start. But there are things you can do yourself to limit or even eliminate nightmares, night terrors or other parasomnia disorders. You also might want to look into some of the devices available designed specifically to help you control your dreams.”
“Devices?” He imagined himself strapped to a table with a rats’ nest of wires and electrodes connected to his skull.
She smiled. “Don’t worry. Nothing intrusive. Maybe something as gentle as soothing sounds to help you fall asleep. Also there are a number of very mild electronic waves that could help you relax … some even may allow you to control the environment of your dreams.”
“Not my problem.” He winced. “I mean, if I want to relax enough to fall asleep, all I have to do is have a few drinks or smoke a joint. My trouble isn’t that I can’t fall asleep … it’s the nightmares I face almost every time I do.”
“Right.” She smiled. “Altering or eliminating your nightmares will be our focus. I just wanted you have some sense of the scope of Dream Therapy.”
“Okay, so what can we do to about my nightmares?”
“Well a good place to start might be to try hypnotherapy. Do you have any qualms about hypnosis?”
“I’m cool with it, as long as you don’t make me cluck like a chicken,” he offered a crooked smile.
“How do you feel about quacking like a duck?”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Just a little hypnotherapy joke. Relax, Mitchell, I’m not talking about a parlor trick. Hypnosis can be a path to the cause of a your anxieties and fears … both are key elements in nightmares. Once we’ve identified those elements, they should be much easier for you to cope with. And the result might well be no more nightmares.”
“I’m willing to try anything. Let’s do it.”
“All right. First of all we need you to completely relax. Lie back and close your eyes … let your whole body go limp. And remember, you are absolutely safe here.”
###
The warm sand between his toes felt soothing, as did the sun and the gentle sound of the waves easing onto the beach. He walked along the water’s edge, heading nowhere in particular. He didn’t know how long he’d been on this island paradise, but he knew how he felt. Alone. And lost.
Then up ahead he heard laughing, and he rushed toward the sound. As he rounded a bend, he spotted at least a dozen people frolicking around a huge barbeque pit dug into the sand. They were young—as young as he felt at the moment—beautiful, healthy people. No one overweight, not a single blemish, bruise or tattoo. One girl in particular caught his eye. She had long flowing golden hair, her perfect body revealed to all in the tiny string bikini. As he approached, they all stopped what they were doing. The blonde swung toward him, as did each of the revelers in quick succession. All their faces were blank. No eyes. No mouths. No expressions. No one moved as he hurried past the crowd, but he could feel them following him with their eyeless faces.
He didn’t look back, but he couldn’t shake the feeling they were still staring at him until he disappeared into the jungle abutting the sand, and he heard the beach party began again. Now with sunlight cut off by the thick foliage, he followed a path he sensed more than saw through damp, cold jungle. He didn’t know his destination, but he felt an urgent need to get there.
A chill raced through his body. When he glanced behind him, he saw the dark outline of a tall man in a dark cloak and a large-brimmed hat. He started to run, but the trail had turned to mud, and his feet were slowly sinking into the muck. He struggled, but he couldn’t move.
The footsteps behind him grew louder.
Then up ahead he heard laughing, and he rushed toward the sound. As he rounded a bend, he spotted at least a dozen people frolicking around a huge barbeque pit dug into the sand. They were young—as young as he felt at the moment—beautiful, healthy people. No one overweight, not a single blemish, bruise or tattoo. One girl in particular caught his eye. She had long flowing golden hair, her perfect body revealed to all in the tiny string bikini. As he approached, they all stopped what they were doing. The blonde swung toward him, as did each of the revelers in quick succession. All their faces were blank. No eyes. No mouths. No expressions. No one moved as he hurried past the crowd, but he could feel them following him with their eyeless faces.
He didn’t look back, but he couldn’t shake the feeling they were still staring at him until he disappeared into the jungle abutting the sand, and he heard the beach party began again. Now with sunlight cut off by the thick foliage, he followed a path he sensed more than saw through damp, cold jungle. He didn’t know his destination, but he felt an urgent need to get there.
A chill raced through his body. When he glanced behind him, he saw the dark outline of a tall man in a dark cloak and a large-brimmed hat. He started to run, but the trail had turned to mud, and his feet were slowly sinking into the muck. He struggled, but he couldn’t move.
The footsteps behind him grew louder.
###
When Dr. Tewksbury gently touched his arm and commanded him back awake, Mitch’s heart was still pounding. No cold sweats, but it took him almost five minutes to stop trembling. Even though her soothing, pleasantly modulated voice pulled him back to reality and safety, Mitch still couldn’t relax. But he was able to tell her a lot of the details of his hypnosis-induced dream.
“Interpreting dreams is a very subjective process, Mitchell. All I can offer you at this point is some typical meanings for your dream elements. These may not be words to live by—unless these images show up regularly in your dreams … your nightmares.”
“I understand,” he assured her. “Tell me anyway.”
She steepled her fingers in front of her mouth. “Well, overall, much of what you’ve described may indicate you’re at a transition point in your life, but as yet you haven’t been able to make any change. Perhaps you don’t yet know what change you are willing to commit to.”
“Sure as hell sounds like me.” He shrugged. “But how’d you get that out of my dream?”
“Well, mostly it’s the symbols. The beach, for instance, can represent the rational—the sand—and the emotional—the water. That could imply you’ve arrived at a turning point in your life. The faceless people may mean you’re still searching for your identity.”
Mitch shook his head. “Jesus, you’d think I’d have it down by my age.”
She offered him an understanding smile. “Age actually has little to do with it. Anyway, walking into the jungle might well indicate you feel you’re facing an unpredictable future … and the fact you seemed to be lost in the jungle is a signal you may be hounded by negative feelings … self-doubt.”
“But I wasn’t really lost, I mean what about the path.”
“A path could signify a clear direction, peace of mind even. Your path, however, turned to mud and you got stuck … which means the path could symbolize a lack of self-confidence.”
“Really?” Well, that showed how wrong Corinne was about him.
“And the fact you were so terrified by this unidentifiable cloaked figure might well reflect feelings of incompetence, lack of control in your life. It all fits with the rest of it. But anger often masquerades as fear in dreams. And the more anger you hold inside … the more frightening your nightmares could become.”
“So what am I supposed to make of all this?”
“Whatever you choose to make of it. We’re working with a very small sample size here, Mitchell.” She grinned. “We’d need to analyze several more dreams to see which elements are the most telling … which things you might want to work on in your waking life. And it’s also possible hypnotherapy may not be the best option for you.”
He agreed to another appointment in a week to discuss and experiment with other methods and devices that might prove valuable. Dr. Tewksbury gave him a list of links to websites offering alternative dream therapy programs and electronic gadgets. Mitch took the list, but it didn’t mean he’d be keeping the appointment.
On the drive home his mind buzzed with doubt. This all sounded way too much as if the good doctor were trying to convince him to commit to never-ending series of sessions with her. It felt a little too much like a scam. After all, she’d given him a pretty generic interpretation of his dream. Concern about having to face changes in life at his age would be an issue for any guy—and a little scary. By forty-two, though, he’d expected to have figured out all that shit. And he’d thought he had. Until Corinne made sure he’d have to start all over again.
Still, he just couldn’t shake the feeling danger lurked all around him. His eyes darted from one potential hazard to another. On the sidewalk. In the car next to him. In the car behind him. In his backseat. He didn’t relax fully until he got back home, and Johnny Walker talked him down.
“Interpreting dreams is a very subjective process, Mitchell. All I can offer you at this point is some typical meanings for your dream elements. These may not be words to live by—unless these images show up regularly in your dreams … your nightmares.”
“I understand,” he assured her. “Tell me anyway.”
She steepled her fingers in front of her mouth. “Well, overall, much of what you’ve described may indicate you’re at a transition point in your life, but as yet you haven’t been able to make any change. Perhaps you don’t yet know what change you are willing to commit to.”
“Sure as hell sounds like me.” He shrugged. “But how’d you get that out of my dream?”
“Well, mostly it’s the symbols. The beach, for instance, can represent the rational—the sand—and the emotional—the water. That could imply you’ve arrived at a turning point in your life. The faceless people may mean you’re still searching for your identity.”
Mitch shook his head. “Jesus, you’d think I’d have it down by my age.”
She offered him an understanding smile. “Age actually has little to do with it. Anyway, walking into the jungle might well indicate you feel you’re facing an unpredictable future … and the fact you seemed to be lost in the jungle is a signal you may be hounded by negative feelings … self-doubt.”
“But I wasn’t really lost, I mean what about the path.”
“A path could signify a clear direction, peace of mind even. Your path, however, turned to mud and you got stuck … which means the path could symbolize a lack of self-confidence.”
“Really?” Well, that showed how wrong Corinne was about him.
“And the fact you were so terrified by this unidentifiable cloaked figure might well reflect feelings of incompetence, lack of control in your life. It all fits with the rest of it. But anger often masquerades as fear in dreams. And the more anger you hold inside … the more frightening your nightmares could become.”
“So what am I supposed to make of all this?”
“Whatever you choose to make of it. We’re working with a very small sample size here, Mitchell.” She grinned. “We’d need to analyze several more dreams to see which elements are the most telling … which things you might want to work on in your waking life. And it’s also possible hypnotherapy may not be the best option for you.”
He agreed to another appointment in a week to discuss and experiment with other methods and devices that might prove valuable. Dr. Tewksbury gave him a list of links to websites offering alternative dream therapy programs and electronic gadgets. Mitch took the list, but it didn’t mean he’d be keeping the appointment.
On the drive home his mind buzzed with doubt. This all sounded way too much as if the good doctor were trying to convince him to commit to never-ending series of sessions with her. It felt a little too much like a scam. After all, she’d given him a pretty generic interpretation of his dream. Concern about having to face changes in life at his age would be an issue for any guy—and a little scary. By forty-two, though, he’d expected to have figured out all that shit. And he’d thought he had. Until Corinne made sure he’d have to start all over again.
Still, he just couldn’t shake the feeling danger lurked all around him. His eyes darted from one potential hazard to another. On the sidewalk. In the car next to him. In the car behind him. In his backseat. He didn’t relax fully until he got back home, and Johnny Walker talked him down.
###
The first link on Dr. Tewksbury’s list led to the website of a company called Suite Dreams. Pun aside, it reminded him of the old Eurythmics song. Well, most of all it reminded him of Annie Lennox. What a voice.
As it turned out, Suite Dreams was a free cell phone app that allowed a person a whole “suite” of elements designed to help you “guide your dreams.” Things like: Fifty different sounds to aid you in setting the stage for your dream; methods to allow you to have lucid dreams; a sleep monitor, which constantly measured your sleep activity; and an alarm clock that alerted you thirty minutes before you started dreaming, based on the biorhythm data gathered at night. Mitch figured pleasing sounds playing in his ear while he slept couldn’t hurt, but it was the lucid dreaming part that caught his attention. If he could become conscious of being in a dream, he might be able to avoid the worst parts—he envisioned a running back cutting through a defensive secondary. That could mean no more nightmares. Unless Suite Dreams turned out to be a load of bullshit.
Mitch learned online the two most popular lucid dreams were flying and sex. Mitch had experienced a few dreams in both categories, but he’d never been able to control the situation. Anyway, the Suite Dreams app cost nothing, so the price was right. So what if all the data gathered about your sleep experiences was sucked into the Suite Dreams research database, where it would be used for some vague, even suspicious purpose.
On the other hand, once you mastered the basics of lucid dreaming and were ready to enhance your dream experience, Suite Dreams offered a whole library of software and exotic devices for sale. Or as Mitch interpreted it: once you’re hooked, we’ll soak you for a whole other “suite” of stuff you’ll think you need to make this lucid dreaming hogwash actually work.
He skimmed the online testimonials, all generic changed-my-life, best-thing-since-sliced-bread statements. No surprise there. What the hell, it didn’t cost him anything to see what this lucid dreaming thing was all about. He downloaded the app to his phone. You know, just to make sure it really was a scam.
As it turned out, Suite Dreams was a free cell phone app that allowed a person a whole “suite” of elements designed to help you “guide your dreams.” Things like: Fifty different sounds to aid you in setting the stage for your dream; methods to allow you to have lucid dreams; a sleep monitor, which constantly measured your sleep activity; and an alarm clock that alerted you thirty minutes before you started dreaming, based on the biorhythm data gathered at night. Mitch figured pleasing sounds playing in his ear while he slept couldn’t hurt, but it was the lucid dreaming part that caught his attention. If he could become conscious of being in a dream, he might be able to avoid the worst parts—he envisioned a running back cutting through a defensive secondary. That could mean no more nightmares. Unless Suite Dreams turned out to be a load of bullshit.
Mitch learned online the two most popular lucid dreams were flying and sex. Mitch had experienced a few dreams in both categories, but he’d never been able to control the situation. Anyway, the Suite Dreams app cost nothing, so the price was right. So what if all the data gathered about your sleep experiences was sucked into the Suite Dreams research database, where it would be used for some vague, even suspicious purpose.
On the other hand, once you mastered the basics of lucid dreaming and were ready to enhance your dream experience, Suite Dreams offered a whole library of software and exotic devices for sale. Or as Mitch interpreted it: once you’re hooked, we’ll soak you for a whole other “suite” of stuff you’ll think you need to make this lucid dreaming hogwash actually work.
He skimmed the online testimonials, all generic changed-my-life, best-thing-since-sliced-bread statements. No surprise there. What the hell, it didn’t cost him anything to see what this lucid dreaming thing was all about. He downloaded the app to his phone. You know, just to make sure it really was a scam.
###
The first couple of nights not much happened, except falling asleep to the “peaceful valley” sounds proved to be pleasant enough. He’d placed the phone face down on the bed near him as instructed, left a pad of blank sheets—for writing down dream details or sketching key dream elements to help him remember those details when he woke. But as far as he could tell, he didn’t dream at all the first time. The next night, though, Mitch managed to create an image of a beautiful vista, which he viewed from the edge of a canyon, overwhelmed by the beauty of the mountains and forest nearby. Everything breathtaking, peaceful and lovely—until the dark specter in the wide-brimmed hat strode toward him. Mitch jumped back in fear, causing him to lose his footing and plummet over the edge. He awoke just before he hit the bottom of a black abyss. Jesus, this goddamn dream demon had just tried to kill him. He had no idea why, but he did know one thing. He’d had enough. Time to fight back.
After visiting a number of online lucid dreaming forums, Mitch discovered he needed a lot more preparation if he expected to be able to manipulate his dream experiences. He also learned whatever control he wielded wouldn’t be absolute. Dream characters wouldn’t always bend to his will. For instance, forum participants universally advised him to skip foreplay whenever he conjured up a desirable partner, but they warned him he might not be able to convince her to have sex with him by snapping his fingers. Most people in the forums agreed t the characters appearing in your dreams were manifestations of your own psyche, and, as such, are sometimes in conflict. Better to go with the flow and enjoy the dream ride.
Anyway, Mitch’s primary focus was to rid himself of the frightening specter haunting him. That was the control he sought, no matter what else he might be able to accomplish through lucid dreaming. If he ever mastered it.
He knew he’d have to play this game seriously if he hoped to rid himself of the nightmares, going slow at first and building up his ability to influence what happened a little at a time. Baby steps.
After a week of trying, he managed to create dream environments with ease by imagining the details of a scene and going over it again and again as he fell asleep. He started with scenarios he hoped would be safe from his nocturnal nemesis. The pool party dreamscape worked pretty well for him, since he’d been to a few in real life, the physical details and the sounds were familiar to him, as were the stereotypes with which he populated the party. Very much like a scene from a movie without a plot. Mitch chose not to participate in the dream, playing the role of observer, like an artist who stands back and enjoys his creation from afar. He knew there had to be more to lucid dreaming than that.
Once, when Mitch recreated his childhood bedroom as a dreamscape, he showed up as the main character, albeit a twelve-year-old. He checked the smallest details and discovered everything to be exactly the way it had been thirty years ago. The door to his room opened and there stood his mother—not the gray-haired, old woman in the last stages of a losing battle with Parkinson’s Disease—but the vibrant, beautiful creature she’d been back then. Mitch smiled up at her, tears of joy and love welling up in his eyes. She rolled her eyes and nodded toward the socks and underwear on the floor where he’d tossed them when he changed into his pajamas. He walked over and picked them up, ready to place them in the clothes hamper just as he’d been told to do many times. He swung back, holding out the offending garments like a proud third grader with a good report card. But she was gone.
He tried creating romantic scenarios with mixed results. Sometimes the woman he created—the process felt a lot like Photoshopping his dream girl—showed no interest in him. Sometimes she did seem to want him, but other factors got in the way—a phone rang, an ex-boyfriend showed up at the door, once even a three-car collision on the street outside the bedroom window—and the opportunity for intimacy lost.
The last time he tried it, he managed to get himself into bed with his dream creation, only to have Corinne show up, sitting on the edge of the bed, criticizing his every awkward attempt at making love: “Women hate that”; “Slow down”; “Jesus, stop grunting”; “Do something, anything to help compensate for your pathetically inadequate equipment.” He did his best to make his ex-wife disappear. It was his lucid dream, damn it. But he lost his dream lover instead, and he ran naked out of the room, the sound of Corinne’s grating laughter pounding in his head.
He found himself alone then in a peaceful meadow. A wonderful relief for sure—until he saw a tall dark figure leaning against a tree at the edge of a forest. The apparition wore the familiar long dark cloak and the wide-brimmed black hat. The figure was hazy, but Mitch sensed the evil grin.
Enough was enough. Time to suck it up and visit Dr. Tewksbury again. Mitch needed someone to help him interpret what the hell was going on here. He was frightened. Lucid dreaming could be fun sometimes, but he knew he hadn’t yet mastered the control he needed to exert over those dreams. He just couldn’t shake his constant, sometimes debilitating fear. And he had the feeling he’d better find a way to gain control, before it was too late. The thing was, Mitch wasn’t at all sure what it might mean.
After visiting a number of online lucid dreaming forums, Mitch discovered he needed a lot more preparation if he expected to be able to manipulate his dream experiences. He also learned whatever control he wielded wouldn’t be absolute. Dream characters wouldn’t always bend to his will. For instance, forum participants universally advised him to skip foreplay whenever he conjured up a desirable partner, but they warned him he might not be able to convince her to have sex with him by snapping his fingers. Most people in the forums agreed t the characters appearing in your dreams were manifestations of your own psyche, and, as such, are sometimes in conflict. Better to go with the flow and enjoy the dream ride.
Anyway, Mitch’s primary focus was to rid himself of the frightening specter haunting him. That was the control he sought, no matter what else he might be able to accomplish through lucid dreaming. If he ever mastered it.
He knew he’d have to play this game seriously if he hoped to rid himself of the nightmares, going slow at first and building up his ability to influence what happened a little at a time. Baby steps.
After a week of trying, he managed to create dream environments with ease by imagining the details of a scene and going over it again and again as he fell asleep. He started with scenarios he hoped would be safe from his nocturnal nemesis. The pool party dreamscape worked pretty well for him, since he’d been to a few in real life, the physical details and the sounds were familiar to him, as were the stereotypes with which he populated the party. Very much like a scene from a movie without a plot. Mitch chose not to participate in the dream, playing the role of observer, like an artist who stands back and enjoys his creation from afar. He knew there had to be more to lucid dreaming than that.
Once, when Mitch recreated his childhood bedroom as a dreamscape, he showed up as the main character, albeit a twelve-year-old. He checked the smallest details and discovered everything to be exactly the way it had been thirty years ago. The door to his room opened and there stood his mother—not the gray-haired, old woman in the last stages of a losing battle with Parkinson’s Disease—but the vibrant, beautiful creature she’d been back then. Mitch smiled up at her, tears of joy and love welling up in his eyes. She rolled her eyes and nodded toward the socks and underwear on the floor where he’d tossed them when he changed into his pajamas. He walked over and picked them up, ready to place them in the clothes hamper just as he’d been told to do many times. He swung back, holding out the offending garments like a proud third grader with a good report card. But she was gone.
He tried creating romantic scenarios with mixed results. Sometimes the woman he created—the process felt a lot like Photoshopping his dream girl—showed no interest in him. Sometimes she did seem to want him, but other factors got in the way—a phone rang, an ex-boyfriend showed up at the door, once even a three-car collision on the street outside the bedroom window—and the opportunity for intimacy lost.
The last time he tried it, he managed to get himself into bed with his dream creation, only to have Corinne show up, sitting on the edge of the bed, criticizing his every awkward attempt at making love: “Women hate that”; “Slow down”; “Jesus, stop grunting”; “Do something, anything to help compensate for your pathetically inadequate equipment.” He did his best to make his ex-wife disappear. It was his lucid dream, damn it. But he lost his dream lover instead, and he ran naked out of the room, the sound of Corinne’s grating laughter pounding in his head.
He found himself alone then in a peaceful meadow. A wonderful relief for sure—until he saw a tall dark figure leaning against a tree at the edge of a forest. The apparition wore the familiar long dark cloak and the wide-brimmed black hat. The figure was hazy, but Mitch sensed the evil grin.
Enough was enough. Time to suck it up and visit Dr. Tewksbury again. Mitch needed someone to help him interpret what the hell was going on here. He was frightened. Lucid dreaming could be fun sometimes, but he knew he hadn’t yet mastered the control he needed to exert over those dreams. He just couldn’t shake his constant, sometimes debilitating fear. And he had the feeling he’d better find a way to gain control, before it was too late. The thing was, Mitch wasn’t at all sure what it might mean.
###
As usual, Dr. Tewksbury sat off to the side of the leather therapy couch out of his sight as he lay on it. She said nothing until Mitch finished his recounting of what he could recall of his dream experiences in the last several days.
“So, what do you think this mysterious, dark figure stands for, Mitchell?” she asked. “Could it be a kind of manifestation of your fear?”
“Maybe, he scares the hell out of me whenever he shows up.”
“How’s your health, Mitchell?”
“What? Oh you mean am I afraid of catching some kind of disease … afraid of dying?”
“That’s a possibility, given your description of the figure. He seems to be characterized by black clothing, for example. Symbols of death in dreams can take on many different forms. It doesn’t have to be a hooded skeleton carrying a huge scythe.”
“Jesus, does that means I may be close to dying … do I have incurable cancer or am I about to be run over by a bus?”
She laughed. “Of course not. If it means anything, it’s merely that you may be going through a period where you have an inordinate fear of dying.”
“How do I get rid of it?”
“Well, for one thing, it sometimes helps to write a description or do a sketch of the dream figure who is frightening you so much … immediately after you awake from the nightmare. Before you’re fully conscious. It’ll give you a way to save the details before they fade away. It might help to be able to look it over later, when you’re awake.”
“What good will that do?”
“It can be a way for you to ‘see’ the figure in the light of day. Generally people discover the thing that’s so frightening to them isn’t very threatening at all when they look at it outside the dream state.”
“That’s it?”
“Of course not. Other effective methods might help you deal with your issue. For example, since you’re experimenting with lucid dreaming, try creating heroic qualities for yourself … even super powers if you like … and then confront this dark figure head-on. There’s a good chance it’s all it will take to expunge him from your dreams.”
“I guess I could try it.” He scrunched up his face. “But what if things don’t go as planned? One of the things I’ve learned so far is characters in a lucid dream don’t always do what I want them to.”
“If things go awry, all you have to do is wake yourself. There are several possible ways to arouse yourself from a nightmare.” She walked past him to her computer. “I’ll print out a list of fifteen methods that have proven effective for others. If one doesn’t work for you, there are plenty of alternatives to use whenever you face a dream crisis.”
When she handed him the list, Mitch glanced at it. Talk about a wide range of tricks. Everything from blinking several times, trying to scream or pinching yourself, to more desperate measures like flying away, running straight into a wall, or if all else fails, killing yourself in the dream. He smirked. Some of these seemed way over the top. But when he remembered how those nightmares scared the shit out of him, his smug smile faded.
“So, what do you think this mysterious, dark figure stands for, Mitchell?” she asked. “Could it be a kind of manifestation of your fear?”
“Maybe, he scares the hell out of me whenever he shows up.”
“How’s your health, Mitchell?”
“What? Oh you mean am I afraid of catching some kind of disease … afraid of dying?”
“That’s a possibility, given your description of the figure. He seems to be characterized by black clothing, for example. Symbols of death in dreams can take on many different forms. It doesn’t have to be a hooded skeleton carrying a huge scythe.”
“Jesus, does that means I may be close to dying … do I have incurable cancer or am I about to be run over by a bus?”
She laughed. “Of course not. If it means anything, it’s merely that you may be going through a period where you have an inordinate fear of dying.”
“How do I get rid of it?”
“Well, for one thing, it sometimes helps to write a description or do a sketch of the dream figure who is frightening you so much … immediately after you awake from the nightmare. Before you’re fully conscious. It’ll give you a way to save the details before they fade away. It might help to be able to look it over later, when you’re awake.”
“What good will that do?”
“It can be a way for you to ‘see’ the figure in the light of day. Generally people discover the thing that’s so frightening to them isn’t very threatening at all when they look at it outside the dream state.”
“That’s it?”
“Of course not. Other effective methods might help you deal with your issue. For example, since you’re experimenting with lucid dreaming, try creating heroic qualities for yourself … even super powers if you like … and then confront this dark figure head-on. There’s a good chance it’s all it will take to expunge him from your dreams.”
“I guess I could try it.” He scrunched up his face. “But what if things don’t go as planned? One of the things I’ve learned so far is characters in a lucid dream don’t always do what I want them to.”
“If things go awry, all you have to do is wake yourself. There are several possible ways to arouse yourself from a nightmare.” She walked past him to her computer. “I’ll print out a list of fifteen methods that have proven effective for others. If one doesn’t work for you, there are plenty of alternatives to use whenever you face a dream crisis.”
When she handed him the list, Mitch glanced at it. Talk about a wide range of tricks. Everything from blinking several times, trying to scream or pinching yourself, to more desperate measures like flying away, running straight into a wall, or if all else fails, killing yourself in the dream. He smirked. Some of these seemed way over the top. But when he remembered how those nightmares scared the shit out of him, his smug smile faded.
###
That night Mitch dreamt himself into an exotic resort, but soon became lost in a long hallway in the hotel. The doors were all closed, and he couldn’t figure out which one would allow him an escape route … and which ones might be hiding some ominous fate. When his shadowy nemesis started toward him from the other end of the hall, Mitch could make out the wide-brimmed hat and the long dark cloak, but he still couldn’t see a face. Panicked, he tried each door, every one of them locked. Just as he sensed “Death” closing in on him, he blinked several times in rapid succession. It worked. He bolted upright in bed, then fell back into a deep non-lucid sleep.
When the alarm went off in the morning, Mitch stumbled out of bed and into the shower. He’d just finished dressing when he noticed the sketchpad by the bed had something on it. He picked it up and stared at a crude drawing featuring an angular face, long straggly hair, a large, sharp nose, heavy black brows, small beady eyes, and the hint of a smirk at the corner of its maw. How the hell did he know those details when he couldn’t even see them in his dreams?
When the alarm went off in the morning, Mitch stumbled out of bed and into the shower. He’d just finished dressing when he noticed the sketchpad by the bed had something on it. He picked it up and stared at a crude drawing featuring an angular face, long straggly hair, a large, sharp nose, heavy black brows, small beady eyes, and the hint of a smirk at the corner of its maw. How the hell did he know those details when he couldn’t even see them in his dreams?
###
Mitch’s attempts to create a heroic alter-ego resulted a few laughable failures; a superhero who kept tripping over his enormous cape; a giant so muscle-bound he couldn’t tie his own shoes; and an avenger who could fly, but suffered from vertigo every time he did. Eventually, Mitch managed to dream himself into a viable larger-than-life hero, a hybrid of Hercules and James Bond. Made him smile. His freakin’ big-nosed nemesis was in big trouble now.
In this dream Mitch actively sought out the death figure or whatever the hell he turned out to be. He searched the countryside, visited a few small nations, even travelled back in time. No luck. He needed to focus this dream on his goal. No doubt about it, if he hoped to accomplish his mission, he could no longer avoid dark, creepy places.
He strode boldly out of a small ancient village, and, there he saw the perfect setting right in front of him. The sun had gone down, and the dark, dank forest seemed impenetrable. Confident, he marched into the blackness, taking advantage of a couple of high-tech, Bond-like devices that allowed him to have night vision and avoid unseen pitfalls. Surrounded by darkness in the midst of a huge strand of black leafless trees, he immediately sensed he wasn’t alone.
At the sound of a branch breaking behind him, Super Mitch spun around to face whoever or whatever it was. He saw no one.
“Show yourself, you coward,” he yelled. “Time to meet your maker.”
Slowly a nearby shadow transformed itself into the tall figure in a wide-brimmed black hat and dark cloak. Mitch stared into his nemesis’s beady black eyes. “Death” refused to back down. The furrowed brow and sinister smile were unmistakable. Mitch raised a huge broadsword—he had no idea where it came from—ready to strike. “Death” didn’t move, instead he grinned as if he, not Mitch, controlled this dream. Mitch wanted to wipe the smirk off the bastard’s face … then he got a better idea. He swung the sword with all his might, severing the ugly head with a single swipe of the razor-sharp blade. The form disintegrated in front of him, and as it did, sunlight broke through the now lush leafy trees, and the sounds of nature could once again be heard. Mitch hoisted the flat of the sword onto his shoulder and strode out into the bright sunlight, victorious. And fearless.
For several nights after his smiting of “Death,” Mitch was a man on a mission to rid his dream world of evil. He even went back to his old middle school and delivered a severe beating to a group of bullies harassing a kid whose only offense was being smaller than they were. Those days were etched in Mitch’s brain. Now he could check it off his dream bucket list. Always heroic and loved by all, he now had to become selective, since every beautiful damsel he met swooned over him. He always tried to be kind, but he simply didn’t have time for them all.
In this dream Mitch actively sought out the death figure or whatever the hell he turned out to be. He searched the countryside, visited a few small nations, even travelled back in time. No luck. He needed to focus this dream on his goal. No doubt about it, if he hoped to accomplish his mission, he could no longer avoid dark, creepy places.
He strode boldly out of a small ancient village, and, there he saw the perfect setting right in front of him. The sun had gone down, and the dark, dank forest seemed impenetrable. Confident, he marched into the blackness, taking advantage of a couple of high-tech, Bond-like devices that allowed him to have night vision and avoid unseen pitfalls. Surrounded by darkness in the midst of a huge strand of black leafless trees, he immediately sensed he wasn’t alone.
At the sound of a branch breaking behind him, Super Mitch spun around to face whoever or whatever it was. He saw no one.
“Show yourself, you coward,” he yelled. “Time to meet your maker.”
Slowly a nearby shadow transformed itself into the tall figure in a wide-brimmed black hat and dark cloak. Mitch stared into his nemesis’s beady black eyes. “Death” refused to back down. The furrowed brow and sinister smile were unmistakable. Mitch raised a huge broadsword—he had no idea where it came from—ready to strike. “Death” didn’t move, instead he grinned as if he, not Mitch, controlled this dream. Mitch wanted to wipe the smirk off the bastard’s face … then he got a better idea. He swung the sword with all his might, severing the ugly head with a single swipe of the razor-sharp blade. The form disintegrated in front of him, and as it did, sunlight broke through the now lush leafy trees, and the sounds of nature could once again be heard. Mitch hoisted the flat of the sword onto his shoulder and strode out into the bright sunlight, victorious. And fearless.
For several nights after his smiting of “Death,” Mitch was a man on a mission to rid his dream world of evil. He even went back to his old middle school and delivered a severe beating to a group of bullies harassing a kid whose only offense was being smaller than they were. Those days were etched in Mitch’s brain. Now he could check it off his dream bucket list. Always heroic and loved by all, he now had to become selective, since every beautiful damsel he met swooned over him. He always tried to be kind, but he simply didn’t have time for them all.
###
After thwarting his dream nemesis, everything changed for Mitch. Even when he wasn’t dreaming, he felt heroic to the core. Awake he became much more gregarious and confident, building a reputation for wit and suavity with everyone he met through work or at the local bars he often frequented in the evenings. These days, Corinne was the furthest thing from his mind. He’d found more pleasant female companionship—women who weren’t so ready to criticize everything he did … women who liked him for who he now was … flaws and all. The future never looked brighter.
For a few months now, he’d been spending wonderful, passionate evenings with his semi-steady girlfriend, Amanda Durant. Yes, those Durants. Her father, one of the richest, most powerful men in the U.S., liked Mitch. In fact, the old man had hinted at a high-level executive position available to Mitch any time he wanted it.
As had become his habit, Mitch left Amanda’s bed around midnight. He didn’t like having to deal with any woman, not even Amanda, in the mornings. Besides, trying to create lucid dreams was just too awkward with someone lying right there next to him.
He’d parked about a block away from Amanda’s penthouse apartment, not wanting to compromise her reputation with the neighbors. He considered it the gentlemanly thing to do. If it hadn’t been so late at night, he’d be whistling “Sweet Dreams Are Made of This”—an earworm he couldn’t escape these days—as he strolled along the sidewalk in this upscale neighborhood. Life had never been better for Mitch Horton.
As he approached his car at the curb, a tall figure stepped out from behind a van and stood in the middle of the sidewalk, as if he meant to block the way. The police presence in an upscale neighborhood like this was such that Mitch was confident the guy wasn’t a mugger, and he didn’t think much of it until recognized the wide-brimmed black hat and the long dark cloak. Mitch stopped in his tracks. What the hell was going on? He had to be dreaming.
Time to end this thing before it developed into a full-fledged nightmare. He blinked several times in rapid succession. The guy didn’t move. Mitch pinched himself, voiced aloud, “Wake up,” then again, louder. Nothing changed. He tried running away, but he was frozen to the spot. The figure flowed toward him until Mitch could make out the beady eyes staring directly at him, the furrowed brow, the long pointed nose … and the sinister smile.
Mitch tried to wake himself up by screaming as loud as he could, “I killed you, you son of a bitch, you’re not real!” But the ominous specter continued to close the gap between them. Desperate, Mitch tried the one ploy from Dr. Tewksbury’s list of surefire ways to escape from a nightmare he’d never needed to use. Until now. At the sound of a car racing down the street toward him, he glanced up. Looked like teens on a joy ride.
Mitch scowled at the dark monster, who was close enough to reach out and grab him by the neck. At the last second Mitch ducked away from the bony fingers of his attacker and leapt into the street into the path of the speeding vehicle … just before everything went black.
For a few months now, he’d been spending wonderful, passionate evenings with his semi-steady girlfriend, Amanda Durant. Yes, those Durants. Her father, one of the richest, most powerful men in the U.S., liked Mitch. In fact, the old man had hinted at a high-level executive position available to Mitch any time he wanted it.
As had become his habit, Mitch left Amanda’s bed around midnight. He didn’t like having to deal with any woman, not even Amanda, in the mornings. Besides, trying to create lucid dreams was just too awkward with someone lying right there next to him.
He’d parked about a block away from Amanda’s penthouse apartment, not wanting to compromise her reputation with the neighbors. He considered it the gentlemanly thing to do. If it hadn’t been so late at night, he’d be whistling “Sweet Dreams Are Made of This”—an earworm he couldn’t escape these days—as he strolled along the sidewalk in this upscale neighborhood. Life had never been better for Mitch Horton.
As he approached his car at the curb, a tall figure stepped out from behind a van and stood in the middle of the sidewalk, as if he meant to block the way. The police presence in an upscale neighborhood like this was such that Mitch was confident the guy wasn’t a mugger, and he didn’t think much of it until recognized the wide-brimmed black hat and the long dark cloak. Mitch stopped in his tracks. What the hell was going on? He had to be dreaming.
Time to end this thing before it developed into a full-fledged nightmare. He blinked several times in rapid succession. The guy didn’t move. Mitch pinched himself, voiced aloud, “Wake up,” then again, louder. Nothing changed. He tried running away, but he was frozen to the spot. The figure flowed toward him until Mitch could make out the beady eyes staring directly at him, the furrowed brow, the long pointed nose … and the sinister smile.
Mitch tried to wake himself up by screaming as loud as he could, “I killed you, you son of a bitch, you’re not real!” But the ominous specter continued to close the gap between them. Desperate, Mitch tried the one ploy from Dr. Tewksbury’s list of surefire ways to escape from a nightmare he’d never needed to use. Until now. At the sound of a car racing down the street toward him, he glanced up. Looked like teens on a joy ride.
Mitch scowled at the dark monster, who was close enough to reach out and grab him by the neck. At the last second Mitch ducked away from the bony fingers of his attacker and leapt into the street into the path of the speeding vehicle … just before everything went black.