Name Games

by Michael Craft

DREAMS HAVE ALWAYS PERPLEXED me. I’ve taken pride in building my career on the methodical gathering and rational scrutiny of facts, and I confess to a degree of smugness in judging myself intellectually superior to those who are less objective. Superstition, mysticism, dogma, and the occult are all products of a rankly subjective realm, and I have little respect for the opinions of those who place faith in such illusory nonsense.

  Yet, we all dream. Over the ages, attempting to explain our dreams, we have imbued this phenomenon with all manner of ominous powers. From the totems and fetishes of the ancients, to the religious ecstasy of the Middle Ages, to the labyrinth of psychoanalysis, we have struggled to make sense of the images spun by our sleeping minds. Most of us have come to understand that these nocturnal fantasies are not supernatural visitations from the beyond; rather, they are generated from deep within. While this knowledge has helped to unscramble the neurological mechanism of our dreams, it has done little to render them less freaky.

  Especially unsettling are those long, rambling dreams that often occupy our last hours of slumber before daybreak. These are the dreams that seem so confoundingly real, that speak to us with the narrative precision of a film loop fluttering behind our closed eyes. These are the dreams that stick.

  Early the next morning after Carrol Cantrell’s murder, I had such a dream.

  I am behind Grace Lord’s house, looking into the vast backyard with its carpet of lawn and canopy of trees. Music thumps from somewhere—a low-fi disco tune that sounds dated and seedy. The synthetic music doesn’t match the natural simplicity of the scene. I turn my head to search for the source of the sound, but my field of vision is limited to the horizontal rectangle in front of me—I am unable to look up into the sky or beyond the sides of the scene.

  A dog barks. It’s a canned sort of bark, synchronized to the disco beat. The dog, a big friendly collie, a dead ringer for Lassie, bounds into view from the right side of the scene. It stops, looking back, wanting someone to follow. Then its head snaps skyward, following a Frisbee that arcs past. The dog leaps after it, barking to the beat. Just as the dog exits to the left, a young man (perhaps twenty, a grown boy, really) enters from the right.

  It is Ward Lord. Dressed for summer in cutoffs and T-shirt, he flashes a perfect smile, flexes a perfect body. He gleams in the bright daylight, sweating from his romp with the dog. But he doesn’t follow the dog—their game is finished. Instead, he turns from the scene and fixes me in his stare, grinning seductively, beckoning me.

  I have watched all this from some distance and would gladly step forward to meet young Mr. Picture Perfect, but I am powerless to move, unable to walk. Then, responding to his will, not mine, I begin drifting toward him, gliding as if propelled along a frictionless track, arriving at some middle distance where his body fills my field of vision.

  The music has grown louder, and Ward has caught the rhythm, moving to its pulse. His gyrations aren’t exactly a dance—not one that you could name—but more of a visceral interplay between his body and the beat. His feet barely move from the patch of grass where he stands, but his legs sway to the sound. His torso jerks. His hands explore the fine nap of hair on his thighs. Then his fingers reach up the frayed legs of his cutoffs, feeling his crotch. And all this time, he’s watching me.

  Transfixed by this erotic spectacle, I respond with my own arousal. I want to zip open my pants and take hold of myself, stroke myself, but again I am powerless to move. I cannot even glance at myself to see if I am clothed or naked. I can see only Ward Lord—framed in the hard-edged rectangle of my vision.

  He’s clearly enjoying himself, judging from the lump in his shorts. Curiously, though, the purpose of this performance seems to be my satisfaction, not his. With a wink, he bids me to move closer as he peels the damp T-shirt from his chest and lifts it past his face. Tossing it aside, he shakes his head and swipes a hand through his mussed hair. With his other hand, he unbuttons the waistband of his cutoffs, letting them drop.

  Zooming toward him (there is no sense of my own movement, but simply a larger, closer image of him within my view), I absorb every detail of his groin, the bluish ridge of every vein that feeds his penis, the sandy crater of every follicle that peppers his testicles. With my face between his legs, I feel the heat that radiates from him as he writhes to the rhythm of some disco diva. I feel his heat, but I do not feel him. Though close enough to lick him, to aid him in his mounting quest for orgasm, I cannot touch him. He is right there in front of me, and yet he is not.

  It’s a dream, I remind myself. Just enjoy it.

  So I submit to the fantasy being played out around me. I indulge in the sensory treats that are offered, taking in stride the restrictions of my surreal presence, my disembodied participation. Though I cannot see Ward’s hands, I can now feel them between my legs—surely it is he who rolls my balls through his fingers while stretching my cock stiff.

  And so it continues, this sensual joyride. I am suspended—neither in space nor in time—adrift upon waves of pure but incomplete ecstasy, rising and falling to the cadence of Ward’s carnal ministrations, both of us lost in some pumped-up, never-ending disco beat. Over and over, measure after measure, the music goes on. Seconds, minutes, hours (who knows?) pass in a long instant of sightless lust.

  “Ward,” I warn, “stop.”

  But of course he does not. Flashing that perfect smile, he grooves onward, slipping a finger inside me.

  And I’m slipping off to some other zone, rushing toward a climax that I couldn’t forestall even if I wanted to.

  Ejaculating, I awake.

  That morning in the kitchen—it was a Monday—the pace was brisk on Prairie Street, with our household preparing to begin the week. Neil and Thad stood at the counter, talking about something while opening the assortment of bags, boxes, and bottles that would dispense our “continental breakfast.” I was already at the table with my coffee, looking over the morning paper. The big news was of course the story of Carrol’s murder, which even upstaged the rehash of yesterday’s Packers game, at least in the Dumont Daily Register.

  My mind wasn’t on the murder, though. I was still mulling the dream that had launched my morning with such a disconcerting, if pleasurable, bang. Am I, I wondered, so sexually needy that I can find fulfillment only in fantasy? Wet dreams are more properly the amusement of Thad’s generation, at sixteen, not mine, at forty-two. After all, I have Neil, an experienced and eager partner who seems no less attracted to me than when we met three years ago. Granted, the frequency of our intimacy has waned of late. Living apart has put a predictable strain on our relationship, and even now that Neil has been spending more time in Dumont, our sex life has been inhibited by family life with Thad. Is this whole setup a mistake? Should I simply have stayed in Chicago at the Journal?

  Even more rattling was the cast of my dream. Star billing went to Ward Lord, with his dog featured in a walk-on and me as an anonymous, lucky extra. My subconscious was lusting after Grace Lord’s nephew, for God’s sake—a “kid” just a few years older than Thad. I wondered, Was Miriam Westerman correct after all? Am I totally unfit for fatherhood? I ought to be ashamed of myself.

  I was ashamed. When I woke from the dream, sticky with my involuntary orgasm, I felt as embarrassed as a child who’d wet the bed. Neil lay next to me, waking, it seemed, at the same moment. Had I perhaps thrashed or moaned at the climax of my dream, rousing him? It was still early, but the sun had risen and we both anticipated a busy day, so we kissed, deciding it was time to get up. I lingered, waiting for Neil to pad off to the bathroom, then scrambled to my feet and stripped the bed, wadding the soiled sheets. When Neil returned, he stopped at the sight of my feverish housekeeping. I explained, “Monday. Wash day.”

  “Who’s Charles Oakland?” asked Neil as he sat next to me in the kitchen, snapping my attention back to the moment. He tapped the front page of the Register, which displayed the murder story under Charles Oakland’s byline.

  “Staff reporter,” I ans
wered with a shrug. “General assignment.”

  “Never heard of him.” Neil slurped some coffee, warming his hands with the mug. Sunday’s change of weather had brought a cold rain overnight, and the morning felt damp and chilly. “How was he lucky enough to land such an important story?”

  Again I shrugged. “He happened to be covering the Sunday shift in the newsroom.” I turned the page, landing Charles Oakland’s story facedown on the table. I glanced over the contents of pages two and three.

  Thad sidled up behind me. I knew from the heady aroma that followed him that he carried peanut-buttered toast—our pantry had been replenished. He asked, “So this guy got killed, and you like…saw him?” From his tone, I expected him to add, Too cool!

  “Yes,” I answered dryly, “Mr. Cantrell died yesterday, and by sheer coincidence, I discovered the body.”

  “How cool is that?” (Okay, I was close.) Setting his milk and the plate of toast on the table, Thad sat next to me, across from Neil.

  Leaning toward him, I looked him in the eye and tried to explain, soothingly, “No, Thad, there was nothing cool about it. The murder was a tragedy both for Mr. Cantrell and for the city. Sheriff Pierce is under lots of pressure, and Miss Lord is utterly devastated.” I was tempted to remind him of how he had felt last winter when his mother died too young, but in truth, I felt he had never properly grieved that loss, and I suspected he was still suppressing those feelings with an adolescent veneer of fascination with the morbid.

  He nodded, grudgingly conceding my point that murder’s not cool. Then a thought brightened his eyes. “So he was like…strangled?”

  Lord. There was nothing to be gained by lecturing him on the appropriate tone of this discussion, so I simply answered, “It appears so, yes.”

  Neil jumped to my rescue, pouring more coffee while changing the topic. “On Friday, Thad talked to Mrs. Osborne, his English teacher, about the school play. She’s directing it, and she encouraged him to audition.”

  “Oh yeah?” With the events of the weekend, I’d forgotten about Thad’s budding interest in theater. He needed something to get enthused about, and drama was vastly preferable to homicide. I asked him brightly, “What’s the play?”

  “Arsenic and Old Lace.” He actually licked his lips while leaning to explain, “It’s about two old ladies who poison a bunch of men and bury them in their basement!” He’d risen a couple of inches from his seat.

  I laughed, telling him, “I know what it’s about, Thad.” Hell, in my day there wasn’t a school in forty-eight states that hadn’t produced it, and the movie version with Cary Grant had been on television countless times. But to Thad and his contemporaries, this theatrical chestnut was brand-new, and I understood his delight in discovering its ghoulish humor. Recalling that the play is often produced in the fall, I asked, “When does it open—Halloween?”

  Thad’s eyes bugged, as if I’d performed a psychic feat. “Mrs. Osborne said she wanted the play to open on Halloween, but she’ll need a couple more weeks.”

  Neil told him, “I was in that play, Thad.”

  “You were?” we both asked him.

  “Wasn’t everyone?” Neil began peeling an orange.

  “No,” I assured him. “Who’d you play?”

  “Just a small part, one of the cops. But the role I came to love was the aunts’ goofy nephew who thinks he’s Teddy Roosevelt.” Neil broke the orange into sections, sharing one with each of us. He asked Thad, “Is there any role you’re particularly interested in?”

  “I’ve never seen the play,” he reminded us, “but Mrs. Osborne said I could borrow a script today. I’ll start reading during study period this morning.”

  “Good idea,” I told him. “Be prepared.”

  “Well”—he squirmed—“I can try to get the script read, but I don’t know how to prepare for the tryouts. I’ve never done it before. It makes me sort of nervous.”

  Neil smiled. “That’s perfectly natural. Just do your best. Most of the others won’t know what they’re doing either. Listen to the director—that’s why she’s there.”

  Thad nodded, weighing all this, taking courage. “All right,” he told us. “If I like what I read, I’ll go for it.” He stood. “Nothing to lose, right?”

  “Right,” we both answered.

  “Then I’d better get going.” He wiped his mouth, picked up his dishes, and carried them to the sink, telling us, “Mrs. Osborne is usually in her office early. If I catch her, I can get the script.” He grabbed his books from the counter.

  Neil and I rose and sandwiched him in a hug. “Have a great day at school,” I told him, “and good luck with the audition.”

  Neil reminded me, “Don’t wish an actor good luck—it’s a jinx.” He told Thad, “Break a leg, kid.”

  I rolled my eyes in response to this superstitious ritual, but I let it pass, smiling, without comment. Thad, though baffled by it, chalked it off as the first of many lessons he was willing to learn as a novice seeking entry into the world of theater. Returning our hug, he thanked us for our wishes and headed for the door.

  “Take a jacket,” Neil told him. “It’s wet.”

  Leaning into the back hall, Thad grabbed a zippered sweatshirt from a coat hook before leaving the house with an upbeat “Later, guys.”

  Neil and I shared a soft laugh. I asked, “Think he stands a chance? It’s great to see him revved up about this, but it could backfire. He might be setting himself up for a bitter disappointment.”

  “That’s just a chance he’ll have to take,” Neil answered with the voice of common sense. Stepping to the counter, he tidied some breakfast debris while reminding me, “His teacher encouraged him to audition—that bodes well.”

  “True,” I admitted. Returning to the table to finish my coffee, I sat and turned the newspaper back to page one, which silently trumpeted news of the local murder. Gesturing toward the story, I thought aloud, “I wish Thad weren’t quite so intrigued by the gruesome details.”

  Neil sat next to me, having poured himself a bowl of cereal. “He’s at that age—kids, growing up, seem fascinated by death. Thinking they’re immortal, they defy death with that adolescent brand of gory humor. I wouldn’t worry about it.” Again the voice of common sense.

  I nodded. Silently, I sipped my coffee. Finding it tepid, I warmed it with more from the pot.

  Neil looked up from the cereal he was eating. “You’re rather pensive this morning. It seems Carrol’s murder has really thrown you.”

  I could have dismissed my mood by simply concurring that I’d found the murder unexpectedly disturbing. “Actually,” I explained, “there’s something else on my mind.” I paused—did I really want to get into this with Neil? “I had a strange dream last night.”

  He put down his spoon. He grinned. “A hot one?”

  I’d made him privy to some previous reveries. Returning his grin, I admitted, “It was a scorcher.”

  Common sense again: “Then enjoy it. Why the angst?”

  I leaned over my cup to tell him, “Because the young object of my middle-age lust was none other than Grace Lord’s nephew.”

  Neil’s grin sagged. With a look of blank astonishment, he said, “I wasn’t even aware that Grace Lord has a nephew. How’d you meet him? And, uh—just how young is he?”

  “Relax.” I felt my mood lightening even as we spoke. Voicing my concerns had put them instantly into perspective, and I now found the dream considerably less vexing. I explained to Neil, “I didn’t meet him—I only saw his picture, once, while helping Grace move some things out of the coach house. And don’t worry—he’s not twelve, more like twenty, at least when the picture was taken, which must have been years ago. He’s Grace’s brother’s son. His name—get this—is Ward Lord.”

  Neil twitched a brow. “Yow. Sounds hunky.” With a laugh, he added, “Sounds like a porn star.”

  I laughed with him. “Believe me, he looks like one! And in fact, my dream had the feel of a porn video, as if I
were a detached spectator, watching him perform on a screen. There was even a cheesy sound track of background disco music.”

  With a heartier laugh, Neil remembered, “Those were the days. Production values have come a long way since then, but some of those early videos, crude as they were, remain some of the best. The video medium was still new, still defining itself. That early work was seminal—no pun intended.”

  Amused by the near academic slant of Neil’s interest in porn, I reminded him, “This stuff isn’t art—we’re talking about jackoff tapes.”

  “Even trash,” he lectured drolly, “can rise to greatness in its execution.”

  Though I found this assertion dubious, I conceded, “Ward Lord certainly ‘rose to greatness’ in my dream.” I leaned back with my coffee, sipping. Neil resumed eating his cereal.

  The more I thought about it, the more obvious it became why I had spun my dream with Ward as a porn star. Undoubtedly, my nighttime subconscious was still dealing with pornography because, for several days, my waking mind had been wrestling with matters related to smut. The obscenity ordinance, the looming trial, the report of the County Plan Commission, my editorial endorsement of Doug Pierce—all these concerns rose from the issue of pornography. Also, while visiting Carrol Cantrell at the coach house on Saturday, I had absorbed an eyeful of hard-core erotic images from the open magazines scattered on his worktable. No wonder these snippets of my waking life had taken the form they did in my dream.

  Neil got up from the table with his bowl and rinsed it in the sink. Loading the dishwasher, he said wistfully, “My interest in collecting gay videos goes back fifteen years or so, to my college days. Can you guess who got me started?”

  From the tone of the question, and from my limited knowledge of his college circle, I had an inkling where he was headed.

  He answered his own question, “Roxanne. She’s a couple of years older than I—and had no qualms about procuring my first tape for me on the day she turned twenty-one.” He chortled at the recollection.

  I laughed with him—this revelation came as little surprise. Roxanne Exner, the spunky Chicago lawyer who had introduced Neil and me, had first befriended Neil during college, and I could well imagine that she’d taken perverse pleasure in purveying to him the forbidden fruit of pornography. I would later come to know her as a news source while working on several high-profile stories at the Journal.