The rain was coming down even harder as I made a mad dash back to my black sedan. A bit soaked, I sat in the car for a few moments wiping off my rain-spotted glasses with a handkerchief. I said that I felt a slight case of paranoia coming on, and what follows proves it. While sitting there with my glasses off, I thought I saw something move in the rearview mirror. My visual vulnerability, combined with the claustrophobic sensation of being in a car with rain-blinded windows, together added up to a momentary but very definite panic on my part. I quickly put on my glasses and found there was no one—and no thing—whatever in the back seat. But the point is that I was forced to physically verify this fact in order to relieve my spasm of anxiety. You succeeded, my love, in getting me to experience a moment of self-terror. And in that moment I, too, became an accomplice in the mystical conspiracy of a treacherous universe. Brava!
You have indeed succeeded—assuming my inferences stand solid—in swaying me on a string you hold between your delicate fingers. Having confessed this much, I can now get to the real focus and “motivating factor” of my appeal to you. This has far less to do with A. Locher than it does with us, dearest. Please try to be sympathetic and, above all, patient.
I have not been well lately, and you know the reason why. This business with Miss Locher, far from bringing us to a more intimate understanding of each other, has only made the situation worse. Horrible nightmares now plague me on a nightly basis. Me, of all people! And they are directly due to the well-intentioned (I think) influence of you and Miss L. Let me describe one of these nightmares for you, and thereby describe them all. This will be the last dream story, I promise.
In the dream I am in my bedroom, sitting upon my unmade bed and wearing my pajamas (Oh, will you never see them?).
The room is partially illuminated by beams from a streetlight shining through the window. And it also seems to me that a galaxy of constellations, though not witnessed firsthand, are contributing their light to the scene, a vaporous glowing which unnaturally blanches the entire upstairs of the house. I have to use the bathroom and walk sleepily out to the hallway…where I get the shock of my life.
In the whitened hallway—I cannot say brightened, because it is almost as if a fluorescent powder coats everything—there are things that look like people dressed as dolls, or else dolls made up to look like people. I remember being confused about which it was. And they are lying up and down the floor, at the top of the stairway, and even upon the stairs themselves as they disappear into the darker regions below. When I emerge from the bedroom, I see their eyes shining in the white darkness, and their heads are turned in all directions. Paralyzed—yes!—with terror, I merely return a fixed gaze, wondering if my eyes are shining the same as theirs. Then one of the doll people, slouching against the wall on my left, turns its head haltingly upon a stiff little neck and looks straight at me. Worse, it talks. And its voice is a horrible parody of human speech. Even more horrible are its words when it says: “Become as we are, sweetie. Die into us.” Suddenly I begin to feel very weak, as if my life were being drained out of me. Summoning all my willpower, I manage to rush back to my bed, which ends the dream.
After I awake, screaming, my heart pounds like a mad prisoner inside me and doesn’t let up until morning. This is very disturbing, for there’s truth in those studies relating nightmares to cardiac arrest. For some poor souls, that imaginary incubus squatting upon their sleeping forms can do real medical harm. And I do not want to become one of these cases.
You can help me, my precious. I know you didn’t intend things to turn out this way, but that bit of intrigue you perpetrated with the help of Miss Locher has really gotten to me. Consciously, of course, I still uphold the criticism I’ve already expressed about the basic absurdity of your work. Unconsciously, however, you seem to have awakened me to a stratum of abject terror. I will at least admit that your ideas form a powerful psychic metaphor, though no more than that. Which is quite enough, isn’t it? It’s certainly quite enough to inspire the writing of this letter, in which I plead for your attention, since I’ve failed to attract it in any other way. I can’t go on like this! With your harrowing trickery you have possessed me down to my deepest self. Please release me from this spell, and let’s begin a normal romance. However unknown may be their psychic mechanisms, it’s only emotions that matter—not zones of the unreal, not a metaphysics stripped of all that is human.
In Miss Locher I believe you sent me an embodiment of your deepest convictions. But suppose I start admitting uncanny things about her? Suppose I grant that she was somehow just a dream. Suppose I allow that she was not a girl but actually a thing without a self, an unreality that, in accord with your vision of existence, dreamed it was a human being and not just a fabricated impersonation of our flesh? You would have me entertain such thoughts. You would have me think there is some mysterious affinity among the things of this world, and of other worlds. So what if there is? I don’t care anymore.
Forget other selves. Forget the third (fourth, nth) person view of life in which some god or demon has individuated itself into bits and pieces of all that is. Only first and second persons matter (I and thou). And by all means forget dreams. I, for one, know I’m not a dream. I am real, Dr.————. (There, how do you like being an anonymity without foundation in this or any other universe?) So please be so kind as to acknowledge the reality of my existence.
It is now after midnight, and I dread going to sleep and having another of those nightmares. You can save me from this fate, if only you can find it in your heart to do so. But you must hurry. Time is running out for us, just as these last few waking moments are now running out for me. Tell me it is still not too late for our love. Please don’t destroy everything for us. You will only hurt yourself. And despite your high-flown theory of masochism, there is really nothing divine about it. So no more playing of the inhuman visionary. Be simple, be nice. Oh, I am so tired. I must say good night, then, but not goodbye, my foolish love. Hear me now. Sleep your singular sleep and dream of the many, all the other things that are you and that are me—and that are none of us. Wake up to the dolls of your dreams, which are their dreams, too. Die into them and leave me in peace. I will come for you later, and then you can always be with me in a special corner all your own, just as my little Amy once was. This is what you’ve wanted, and this you shall have. Die into them, you simple soul, you silly dolling. Die with a nice bright gleam in your eyes.
The Chymist
Hello, Miss. Why, yes, as a matter of fact I am looking for some company this evening. My name is Simon, and you are…Rosemary. Funny, I was just daydreaming in the key of Rosicrucianism. Never mind. Please sit, and watch out for splinters on your chair, so you don’t catch your dress. It appears that everything around here has come to the point of frays and splinters. But what this old place lacks in refinement of decor is amply offset by its atmosphere, don’t you think? Yes, as you say, I suppose it does serve its purpose. It’s a little lax as far as table service, though. I’m afraid that in the way of drinks one must procure for one’s self. Thank you, I’m glad you think I have a nice way of talkin’. Now, can I get you something from the bar? All right, a beer you shall have. And do me a favor please: before I return, you will already have taken that wad of gum out of your mouth. Thank you, and I’ll be back shortly with our drinks.
Here you are, Rosie, one beer from the bar. Just don’t belch and we’ll get along fine. I’m pleased to see you’ve gotten rid of your gum, though I hope you didn’t swallow it. One’s gut should probably remain ignorant of what it’s like to accommodate bubble gum and beer in the same digestive episode. I know it’s your gut, but I take an interest in what gets into the workings of any human vessel. That’s right—vessel. You want me to spell it? No, I’m not making fun of you. It’s just that there are certain interactions that take place when the vessel in question is the delicate system of H. sapiens, as opposed to a chalice in a church or a serum vial in a laboratory. Quite so, that none-too-
sterile glass in your immaculate hand is a vessel, now you’ve got it.
My glass? Yes, you do see a lot of red in there. I like red drinks. Created this one myself. A Red Rum Ginny, I call it. White rum, gin, pale ginger ale, and, ideally, cranberry juice, though the bartender here had to substitute some maraschino solution, which has neither the rich red color nor a fraction of the tartness of your smile. Here, take a sip. If you don’t like it, say so. Yes, different is the word for it, the wellspring of its interest. Even the most faithful adherence to an established mixological formula results in some difference that can be discerned in even the most banal of cocktails, not to mention other concoctions in the alcoholic formulary. You just have to cultivate the sensitivity to notice that difference. Ask any wine taster. And that sensitivity may be extended to every experience in our lives. Though we may think we’re doing the same old thing in the same old way day in and day out, fluctuations from the norm are the norm. You can’t step into the same river twice, as the philosopher said. Each passing moment diverts to follow its own course from the one before, often quite strangely.
I have a very keen appreciation of diversity, if I do say so myself. You’re smiling at my emphasis. You think you know something about me, and perhaps you do. Sharp girl! But perversity, as you no doubt were thinking, is only one of the more ostentatious forms of the diverse. And diversions call the tune of the dance of life, even at the subatomic level.
Wow, you really guzzled down that bubbly beverage. Would you like another, or perhaps I can offer you something of my own invention? Yes, I have created other drinks. There’s another red potation I’ve pioneered that’s actually just a variation on a standard number. The Sweet and Sour Bloody Mary, made with high-test vodka, tonic water, sugar, a lemon slice, and ketchup. It does sound like a meal in itself at that. Very fortifying. No, sorry to spoil your joke, my fondness for crimson highballs does not extend to the vampire’s neck-drawn nectar. Besides, I’m quite able to work during daylight hours.
Where? Well, I suppose I can tell you, sub rosa, that I’m employed by a pharmaceutical company not far from here. I’m a chemist there. Yes, really. Well, it’s nice the way you could see right off that I wasn’t no average guy just lookin’ for some fun after a hard day’s work. Perceptive girl! However, I did in fact come directly here after working a little overtime. I noticed while I was at the bar counter that you were eyeing and toeing the briefcase I brought in with me and set so discreetly under the table. You guessed it, I do happen to be carrying “work stuff” in there, among other things. Spot on, my dear—it would be foolish to leave anything important out in the car in this red-light district.
Well, I wouldn’t say that this part of town is simply a pit. It is, of course, that. But your colloquialism doesn’t begin to describe the various dimensions of decrepitude in the local geography. Decrepitude, Ro. It has your pit in it and a lot more besides. I speak from experience, more than you would believe. This whole city is most certainly a pitiful corpse, while the neighborhood outside the walls of this bar has the distinction of being the withering heart of the deceased. And I am a devoted student of its anatomy—a pathologist, after a fashion, with an eye for necroses that others overlook.
For instance, have you ever been to that place called Speakeasy? Well, then you have some acquaintance with a bastardized nostalgia—the putrescence of things past. Yes, up a flight of stairs inside an old burlesque house is a high echoey hall with a leftover Deco interior of arching mirrors and chrome chandeliers. And there the giant painted silhouettes of bony flappers and gaunt Gatsbys sport about the curving ballroom walls, towering over the dance floor, their funereal elegance mocking the awkward gyrations of the living. An old dream with a new veneer. It’s fascinating, you know, how an obsolete madness is sometimes adopted and stylized in an attempt to ghoulishly preserve it. These are the days of second-hand fantasies and out-of-date distractions.
But there are other sights in this city that I think are much more interesting. Not the least of which are those storefront temples of dubious denomination. There’s one on Third and Dickerson called the Church of the True Dividing Light, not to be mistaken, I presume, with that false light which blinds so many searching eyes. Oddly enough, I’ve yet to see any light at all shining through the windows of this gray dwarfish building, and I always look for some sort of illumination as I ride by.
I tell you, no one worships this city as I do. Especially its witticisms of proximity, one strange thing next to another, which together add up to a greater strangeness. One of the more grotesque examples of this phenomenon occurs when you observe that a little shop whose display window features a fabulous array of prosthetic devices is right next-door to Marv’s Second Hand City. Then there are those places—you’ve noticed them, I’m sure—that are freakishly suggestive in a variety of ways. One of them is that pink and black checkerboard box on Bender Boulevard that calls itself Bill’s Bender Lounge, where a garish marquee advertises Nightly Entertainment. And if you stare at that legend long enough, the word “nightly” will begin to connote more than the interval between dusk and dawn. Soon this simple term becomes truly evocative, as if it were code for the most exotic of nocturnal entertainments. And speaking of entertainment, I should cite that establishment whose owner, no doubt an epicure of musical comedy, gave it the title of Guys and Dolls, Inc. What a genius of vulgarity, considering that this business is devoted solely to the sale and repair of manikins. Or is it really a front for a bordello of dummies? No offense intended, Rosalie.
I could go on—I still haven’t mentioned Miss Wanda’s Wigs or that ancient and squalid hotel that boasts “A Bath in Every Room”—but maybe you’re becoming a bit bored. Yes, I can understand what you mean when you say you don’t notice that stuff after a while. The mind becomes dull and complacent, I know. Sometimes I get that way myself. But it seems that just when I’m comfortably mired in complacency, some good jolt comes along.
Maybe I’m sitting in my car, waiting for a red light to change. A derelict, drunk or brain-diseased, comes up to my defenseless vehicle and pounds on my windows—with both fists, like so—and demands a cigarette. He touches his ragged lips with scissored fingers to convey his meaning, having left speech behind him long ago. A cigarette? I am a chemist, good sir, not a tobacconist. The traffic signal changes and I drive on, watching the bum’s half-collapsed form shrinking in my rearview mirror. But somehow I’ve taken him on as a passenger, a ghostly shape sitting bleary-eyed beside me and raving about all kinds of senseless and fascinating things, the autobiography of confusion. And in a little while I’m back on the lookout once more.
Touching story, don’t you— Yes, I suppose it is getting a bit late and we haven’t made much progress. Your apartment? I think that would be fine. No, I had nothing else in mind as far as where we might do business. Your place is okay. Where is it, though? No kidding? That’s the old Temple Towers with a new cognomen. Excellent, our ride will take us through the neighborhood in the shadow of the brewery. What floor of the building do you live on? Well, a veritable penthouse, an urban aerie. The loftier the better, I say.
Shall we go, then? My car is parked right out front.
I hope it hasn’t decided to rain. Nope, it’s a beautiful night. But look, that’s my car where that cop is standing. Just stay calm. I certainly won’t say anything if you don’t. You’re not, by chance, a vice officer in disguise, are you, Rosiecrantz? You wouldn’t betray this unsuspecting Hamlet. A simple “no” would have been sufficient. If you use that kind of language again I’ll turn you in to the authorities right now, and then we can see what sort of arrest record you’ve accumulated in your brilliant career. Silence, that’s good. Just let me do the talking. Here goes.
Hi, officer. Yeah, that’s my car. It’s parked okay, isn’t it? Geez, that’s a relief. For a second I thought…my license and registration? Sure thing. Here you go. Beg pardon? Yeah, I guess I am a little far from home. But I work close by. I’m a stockbroker, here’s
my card. You know, I’ve been in the business for some time now, and I can almost tell just by the look of a guy if he’s got something invested in the market. I’d bet that you have. See there, I knew I was right. Doesn’t matter if you’re just small-time. Hey, have you been in touch with an investment counsellor lately? Well, you should. There’s a lot going on. People talk about inflation, recession, depression. Forget it. If you know where to put your finances, I mean really know, it doesn’t matter if it’s Friday the 13th and the streets are bloody with corporate corpses.
Smart advice is what you need. It’s all anyone needs. For example—and I tell you this just to make a point—there’s an outfit in this city, not a half-mile from here in fact, by the name of Lochmyer Laboratories. They’ve been working on a new product and are just about ready to market it. ‘Course I don’t understand the whole technical end of it, but I know for sure that it’s going to revolutionize the field of—what d’you call it—psychopharmaceuticals. Revolutionize it the way antidepressants did. It’ll be bigger than antidepressants. You know what I mean? That’s the kind of thing you’ve got to know.
Songs of a Dead Dreamer Page 7
