Dream Riders

by Taylor Kole

  Kendra wedged herself between the couple and laid a three-quarter inch thick folder before each of them. Their title pages read:

  BUSINESS PLAN

  for

  DREAMRIDERS INC.

  Marci splayed open the packet. Corey simply watched Walt revel in his idea. On the surface, proliferation sounded brilliant. Unfortunately, deceit was the foundation for every premise and scrap of information Walt used in its compilation. They couldn’t train anyone to do this.

  “If Dreamriders requires an infusion of capital, it will pour in,” Walt said. “We will train our army in secret, and then shock the world.” He paced closer to the window, and while stretching his arms toward the city, added, “This will dwarf my father’s accomplishments. Constantine Zimbardo will go down in history as the man who sired me. Nothing more.”

  “It’s an astounding plan,” Marci said as she turned another page. “It’s foolproof.”

  Corey almost choked. Had she forgotten how the rides work?

  A beat later, Walt leaned down, peered into Corey’s face, and then moved to within inches.

  Beyond following the man’s movements with his eyes, Corey remained in stasis.

  Walt volleyed his attention from Corey to his unopened business plan. Walt’s look of confusion creased further with each return inspection until he scowled.

  “Is there something I’m missing here?” Walt said as he stood. “Is this not a perfect plan?”

  “If our lawyer agrees, it could be perfect,” Marci said as she stared at a series of colorful pie-charts.

  Ignoring her, Corey tried to think of a way they could decline without explaining why or explain why without sounding like lunatics. Remembering Kendra’s warning about Walt being a powerful man, Corey needed to deliver their refusal tenderly.

  “You haven’t glanced at the proposal,” Walt noted with annoyance. “I offer to make you millions tonight and you sit there cowed, as if I just exposed myself.”

  Marci closed her business plan and peered at Corey. Her starry-eyed perplexity added to the pressure in his chest.

  Spinning to the far edge of his seat to provide more distance from both Walt and Marci, Corey said, “I’m just not sure we can do what you’re asking.”

  Walt slapped the table hard enough to jolt Corey and blast alarm into Marci’s features. “Are you deranged? Do you like being buried in debt, sharing a car and a cell-phone, relying on your wife to support you?”

  Anger simmered in Corey, but so did shame. He hated those things above all others.

  One of the wall panels on the opposite side of the table swung open, pouring light into the room. The red-haired bodyguard, Cooper, exited with his hand on the pistol holstered under his shoulder.

  Noticing no immediate threat, Cooper relaxed, and took sentry behind the lawyer.

  “Don’t be a damned excuse maker, Corey.” Walt threw his arms over his head, held them there for many seconds. “We can make this happen. All you have to do is avoid doomsday thinking.”

  “We want to try and make it work,” Marci said. With a glance between Corey and Walt. “We’re not saying we can’t,” she mumbled.

  “And I’m not making excuses,” Corey said. To Marci, he added, “What about all the dangers we will face?”

  Marci only stared.

  “X-files?” Corey said. “Janey being locked in a dayroom.”

  “Dangers?” Walt scanned the room. “What is going on in that head of yours?” To Marci he asked, “Do you have any idea what he’s talking about? I’m trying to welcome your family into a life beyond your wildest imagination and he’s hesitant.” Another beat, “Corey, my man, there is no danger if you do this deal with me. I can promise you that.”

  Walt’s outburst brought Corey back to his freshman year in college where he had been assigned a volatile roommate. Corey had sensed an unease in the young man within their first week, and after a professor’s scathing review of an essay he worked one night on, the kid went ballistic. He barged in on Corey studying; yelled curses, flailed his arms, stomped his feet. He ended the tirade by whipping an ashtray through his own aquarium. Corey excused himself as the water flooded out. He returned early in the morning to find dead fish all over the floor. He quietly collected his belongings, and spent the next month on the floor of a room six doors down. Besides some passing remarks, distancing himself from that instability had been an excellent decision.

  The hopeful gaze in Marci’s eyes and the eighty-five hundred dollar paycheck if they completed the Ride kept Corey seated.

  Nevertheless, the brief snapshot of rage informed Corey of a serious malfunction in Walt. Cruelty, nor aggression, had a place in his world. Still wanting to display empathy and compassion, he tried to look at the situation from Walt’s point of view.

  He had been expecting a simple deal, and here Corey sat being obstinate for no discernible reason. With sympathy intact, he heaved a deep breath, and asked, “What exactly would you need from us?”

  Walt’s eyes widened. He blinked in succession, “Beyond a little gratitude?” He then pushed his sleeves up his forearms. After a moment of breathing through his nose, he said, “We—since we’ll be fifty-fifty partners—will need you and Marci to teach the Dream Riding techniques to trusted team leaders. Once we have people capable of training others, you can assume whatever role your heart’s desire. I’ll scale this thing in a wave, and by doing so, guarantee us a dominant market share. Not that we won’t be fighting to shore up a process patent. We will, but with my vision, we’re safe either way.”

  Fixing Marci with an intense look, Corey asked, “What do you think, honey, can we accommodate that specific request?”

  Switching the two-million dollar check from one hand to the other, Marci studied Corey’s face, and finally said, “I mean, maybe, right?”

  “Maybe?” Walt collapsed into his seat and leaned an arm on the table, staring at the couple. “What am I missing here? Do you believe you can grow this company the way I’m outlining without me?”

  “We’ve never discussed Dream Riding’s full potential,” Corey said.

  “Then what? You seem like highly-intelligent, grounded people; do you think no one else can learn what you’ve learned?”

  “That’s part of it,” Corey said with a glance to Marci, who added:

  “It took us years to master.”

  “And we have no records of our trials and errors,” Corey said. “The process grew organically.”

  “Using some gadgets?” Walt said. “Whispering in people’s ears, c’mon. I understand nothing that simple could produce the realistic, lasting environments of your service, but you have to know we can replicate it, as partners.”

  “We sometimes think our specialized fields played a part,” Marci said as she wedged the check between the first few pages of her business plan. “Years and years of obsessive study.”

  “Okay.” Walt said. He then filled his lungs with a breath and slowly exhaled. “This is what we need: dialog. You list your problems and concerns, and we figure the solutions one by one.”

  “We want to do this. We are honored by your offer,” Marci looked to Corey, who shrugged, and nodded. “Maybe we could go into business where you locate high-end clients and we act as the only Riders, for now?”

  Walt’s shoulders sagged. “I’m not interested in managing an act. We need to franchise, and dominate the world.”

  “There’s other concerns,” Corey muttered. Steeling himself, he found Walt’s eyes and said, “We caused a man’s death.”

  “A man’s death?” Walt leaned back, glanced at his attorney, and back to the couple. “One of the Dream Rides killed someone?”

  “No,” Marci said. “No. That’s absurd. Our third client committed suicide days after his ride. He asked for a particular dream. We delivered, and it presented possibilities that were too much for him. But his death wasn’t from anything we did. I disagree with Corey. We played no part in his death.”

  Corey ope
ned his mouth in shock.

  Mr. Lattimore activated his tablet and plucked away.

  When Marci found Corey’s look of bewilderment, she hardened her features. “The man suffered from clinical depression.”

  “Well,” Walt said. “This is not how I saw this evening progressing, but we have moved forward. We’ve each heard some things we need to consider.

  Marci rested her palm on the business plan. “We could still be partners. You can plug us in with wealthy clients, charge five-figures a Ride. We can be your artists.”

  Walt nodded, his eyes distant. “That is a possibility, but right now I’m only interested in scaling this. We need a hundred teams like you, a thousand, then we become teddy bears for the rich, tucking them in each and every night.”

  “I still think we can do that, the way you want,” Marci said, drawing everyone’s attention. “We only need some time to figure out how to train others.”

  Walt rubbed a hand across his clean-shaven face. “That seems reasonable. My offer stands. The day we have proof of concept, you’re millionaires, and that’ll be just the beginning.”

  “We’ll need the check returned before you leave,” Mr. Lattimore said.

  Marci looked at it wedged in her pages, but didn’t move.

  Remembering the night’s final intention, Walt’s Dream Ride, Corey said, “Are we still on for tonight’s Ride?”

  Walt worked his jaw to the side, “I kind of expected it to be a celebratory Ride, filmed and studied, used to teach others.”

  Unconsciously, Corey’s head shook. He’d never teach this to another person.

  “It still can be a fun night for you,” Marci said. “Dream about any place you want, experience anything, in privacy.”

  Corey knew she feared leaving the term unfulfilled, not getting paid, and losing a strong argument to quit her job.

  As if sensing their concern, Walt sighed and said, “How about half the payment today, and the other half next Saturday. I’ll come to you with an awesome Dream experience in mind.” He smiled, “Maybe you’ll have the training issues resolved by then.”

  “We can definitely pencil in the appointment,” Marci said. “And we’re going to spend every spare minute trying to work out how it all works, how we can train others. At worst, we’ll have a more informed discussion. Won’t we, hon?”

  Licking his lips, looking from his wife to their host, Corey mustered the courage to nod.

  TWELVE

  “Okay, let’s look at each thing that could have contributed to our Dream Riding ability,” Corey said. “Then we can list which ones we think can be replicated or taught to others.”

  Marci sat on the carpet of their living room with her legs tucked under her, her arms on the coffee table, a pen poised in her right hand. Her eyes scanned a page of exquisite penmanship—her summarized bullet points. Finally, she fixed Corey with a look of such defeat, his heart cracked. “There’s nothing. We can’t teach people Dream Riding.”

  Her devastation softened Corey’s relief at the declaration. He didn’t want to Dream Ride. He didn’t want to teach people to Dream Ride, but he also didn’t want to crush Marci’s hopes.

  The thought of Dream Riding becoming a common recreation kept him up at night, woke him from sleep, and turned his stomach during the day. Using a consoling tone, he said, “Tell me what you have so far, that you think we can use.”

  “That we’ve both been fascinated by dreams our entire lives; that we both have multiple dreams every night.”

  True, Corey thought. Also highly unlikely to have relevance. As far as being fascinated with dreams, Corey was more of a late-bloomer.

  Life curiosities led him to philosophy. Four or five years into his decision to make knowledge a lifelong pursuit, he detected a connectivity between dream influence and great minds, starting with Rene Descartes. The notable philosopher famous for the phrase, ‘I think, therefore I am.’ Rene believed self-awareness cut a trail that proved the existence of God. He also believed dreams could be used as a conduit to higher intellect. He would prime himself before sleep and experience powerful insights. Upon waking, he would form ethical constructs and questions that sparked century-long debates.

  Tapping further down the page, Marci brought him back to the moment. “We had Janey, which I’m assuming is a non-issue as far as developing our skills. Then came the period we pretty much know changed us… our experimental phase.”

  “Our illicit drug phase.”

  “No.” She thumped the end of her pen against paper. “We never broke the law, Corey. That’s important. We experimented with completely legal substances.”

  Corey considered that a moot technicality, but said, “When we purchased them, they had names like: synthetic LSD, legal ecstasy, and K2, billed as marijuana.” He watched Marci cringe at the memory. Embarrassed, his body temperature soared in concert. He placed his hand across both his eyes in shame. They had taken serious risks. Looking back, he understood those risks helped solidify their marriage, but those had been poor decisions.

  “Not our finest moment,” Marci said. “But it’s apparent some mixture of those chemicals, along with our interest in dreams, led to our talent.”

  “Yes, but we took those substances six or eight times. We have no idea what the ingredients were, or if consumption order played a role, or how to recreate dosage.”

  “That’s what’s making me sick,” Marci said while staring at her notes. “Every pouch of that garbage is different.” Marci dropped her pen. “Here’s what I have for duplicating this process. We spend a few months—years—developing a passion and knowledge for the impact and importance of dreams into a class of students. Our students then enter a phase of ingesting highly toxic cocktails of random poisons and what… play in a sprinkler with their young daughter on a hot day, grow tired and fall asleep with her in the center of them and hope they feel the pull, and enter her dream?”

  Corey remembered that day. They’d been “clean” for a few weeks, but on that day, standing in the hot sun, residual toxins seemed to evacuate his pores. Marci had stayed up late the night before, woke early and seemed tired all afternoon. Still, they set up the sprinkler and had a good time. Janey’s naptime presented the family an opportunity to rest as one.

  All three lay in their bed, on their backs, Janey in the middle, Corey shirtless, Marci in a two-piece bikini. At the time, Corey simply believed he’d grown suddenly tired, and then had the most realistic dream of his life.

  Waking an hour before their daughter, they both believed they had experienced independent, textured, and distinct dreams. Until they discussed the subject. A week later, they tried to duplicate the Ride. Once they each grabbed a sleeping Janey’s wrist and ankle, Dream Riding began.

  Simply to allay the outlandish events that brought them here, Corey laughed. “Maybe it’s not supposed to be duplicated? Maybe it’s for us.”

  “Like it’s our fate? Our specific destiny?” Marci grabbed her second wine spritzer of the night, drank, and shook her head.

  “Would that be harder to believe than the truth?”

  “Yes it would. One option has a logical trail of causes and effects. The other is a fantasy, cooked up for dipshits.”

  It was one thing for Marci to disagree with but why did she have to call them dipshits? “Maybe it’s not fantasy,” he said. “Maybe it’s a perennial intuition. Maybe they’re not dipshits, maybe they’re people brave enough to listen to the truth that beats in all our hearts. That we are more than animals.”

  Marci examined her spritzer, but he knew his words resonated. No matter what you believed, the start of existence—big bang or divine—transcended human comprehension, which placed every scenario on an equal likelihood.

  Corey wanted to embrace the faith budding in him. He wanted Marci to feel the same degree of hope. To avoid placing her on the defensive, he let it drop, for now. “I think it’s clear, however it happened, this is ours alone.”

  Marci studied him for a
moment and said, “Does this make you happy?”

  “About what?”

  “That we can’t teach this to others.”

  “I’m not happy.” He raised his hands, then let them drop. “I mean... am I convinced Dream Riding should blanket the world?” A shrug. “No.”

  “I want to hear you say you’d like us to have two million dollars.”

  Corey laughed naturally. “I would very much like us to have two million dollars.”

  “Then we have to teach this to someone.”

  “Show me how and I’ll consider it.”

  “I spent all night and most of my time at work today searching homes in the million-dollar range. Um, they’re really nice, Corey. We buy one for cash and use the other half to hire Janey the best tutor and keep Lisa around for an additional role model. While Walt builds the company, we yacht in the Bahamas, having thousands of perfect days. Janey receives an elite education without negative peer pressure or abuse in school, gets tons of affection, and goes on to improve the world. The end.”

  Corey understood the opportunity. He had his own wealth fantasies. Mainly, Marci smiling as she checked their account balance; them helping Janey move into her ivy-league dorm; and recently, tithing. Ten percent of two million could gift a lot of underprivileged kids with fun experiences.

  In the spirit of being supportive, he asked, “What if we simply come clean and tell him everything?”

  Marci sipped from her wine. “I guess the worst outcome is he believes us.”

  “And turns us over to the government?”

  “Maybe. Regardless, our lives would be in his hands from that day on. Maybe he’d let us try our teach-and-drug concept, growing angrier as time passed. Best case, he accepts we can’t pass it along and he bills us to high-end clients, pays us a million a year, and makes a few himself as our manager.”