As I’m setting up the ironing board, something rushes towards me from the living room… low and broad and dark, like a wall of shadow.
I do not flinch.
It breaks around me like a wave around a rock, dissipates into streamers of fading black and gray… and then is gone.
We awake to a burst of static from the baby monitor. This is not uncommon. It seems like almost anything can set it off, if we don’t put the damn thing in just the right spot.
I reach over and shift the monitor on the nightstand, hoping to move it out of whatever signal is causing the disruption. The noise subsides and I lay back.
The room is dark. I run through the usual late-night fears and paranoia in my head: Home invasion, ghosts, something worse than either of those…
It occurs to me that the static had structure, a vaguely familiar rhythm.
Not musical. Not a heartbeat. I can’t quite place it.
I’m just about asleep when it screeches again.
That rhythm. I recognize it now.
Three short bursts. Three long bursts. Three short bursts.
I grab the monitor and head downstairs. I won’t be sleeping anymore tonight.
In the house behind ours, the light in the high attic window keeps turning on and then off again every few minutes.
Disconcerting.
It’s night and we’re driving, my friend David and me.
I’ve known him a long time. Since we were in sixth grade, I think. We’ve stayed in touch that whole time, mostly.
Well, we fall out of touch and then back into touch. We haven’t seen each other in years — almost twenty, I think . . . though I’m not quite sure exactly how long it’s been.
But we’re back together for the evening, heading over to the old mall to see the new Mickey Mouse cartoon that’s just been released. David is excited. I’m feeling sleepy a bit under the weather. I haven’t been sleeping.
Most times it seems like I always haven’t been sleeping.
At the mall, David produces a small swipe card — somehow he’s managed to clone it from one of the security guards, in order to sneak in to the movies without paying. He has one for me as well and I’m feeling a bit panicky as we swipe our way through the back door, coming face to face with a guard.
He ignore us. In our suits and ties, I suppose we look like we belong there, behind the scenes.
I follow David through the hallways to an area behind the movie screen. There is a small riser of stadiums seats, sparsely attended, looking down on a little orchestra pit and a small constellation of microphones. I realize that the movie soundtrack and dialogue will be performed live for the premiere, like an old time live radio show.
For reasons I that aren’t explained, the sound effects are recorded on the film, however.
I watch the actors mug their way through the performance, mildly impressed at how well everything goes. I forget sometimes to watch the screen where Mickey’s antics play out in silvered, larger-than-life magic.
A woman makes her way through the seats, selling concessions. She has the pillbox cap, fishnet stockings, and pin curls of yesteryear. But all she has to sell are oversized chili dogs in greasy wax paper envelopes — far more suitable for a ballpark than a movie.
I buy one and, somehow, my youngest daughter is there to help me share it. Though she makes a terrible mess of it and I worry that my wife will be upset over the junk food and additives. We’re so careful with her diet…
I find myself on a tour of a city somewhere in Eastern Europe. It is a dank, darkly industrial place — all smokestacks and ornate spires, brick walls stained with soot. Tagging along with a friend from junior high — he has made this trip many times before — I wander through the streets and shops, taking pictures as I go…
…the market, full of cheap knockoffs of western products and strange gummy candies, bright as chemicals…
…a flock of pigeons, black with soot, taking flight into a smoke filled sky…
…the rushed tour through a defunct governmental building, paper-strewn floors and broken skylights, a crudely mimeographed guide handed out — rough paper decorated with crayon scrawls and stupid jokes about American super heroes. We join an Australian tour group, twenty or more strong, demanding their money back . . . but the scam artists operating the tour lock us out…
…tagging along with the Australians, safety in numbers, despite the growing signs that they hide dark secrets — hints that they’ve been on this same trip for decades, damned and doomed to wander in a forgotten corner of the world…
…gathering together in a crumbling courtyard for the night, an old movie shown on a sheet hung up on one wall . . . I am horrified to see a young girl, her wits damaged in some way, mutely servicing one of the Australian men with her hands while the movie plays, casting a sickening constellation against the jacket of the oblivious woman in front of them…
…edging out of a brick archway, strewn with vines — no interest in seeing how the movie turns out, wanting to escape their company before the evening reveals even more distasteful secrets…
…standing in a darkened alley, taking a picture of clothes lines fluttering overhead. Two men pass along a narrow opening. They pass by and, after some hushed t ones, they return — demanding my phone and whatever money I have. One of them is dark and menacing, the other blonde and aloof. Despite the danger, I refuse and, somehow, make my escape…
…spending the night in an old flat, the women there gray with age and disappointment…
…the men burst in, having tracked me to my little haven. Somehow I get the upper hand…
…the dark man is kneeling, hands bound behind him. I slap his face roughly once, then again. His eyes raise to me, full of hate, and I pull back my balled fist…
…and then I wake in the cold light, bare branches outside my window and my daughter murmuring across the hall.
Somehow, I have become two people. There is the adult version of me, as I am now. And there is the teenaged version of me.
Together, we are plotting to rescue my youngest daughter from her daycare. The details of why she needs rescuing aren’t explained but, armed to the teeth and sick with worry, we make our plans.
(Even in my dream, the proximity of guns and children disturbs me. My younger self tries to reason with my older self, to convince him that it’s better to go to the police. But he/I refused.)
We sneak into the school one night — something else that isn’t explained, why it’s nighttime — doing our best to bluff our way past the receptionist. Explaining why there are two of us is difficult.
My older self is relieved when my teenage self says “I’m her older brother” — good thinking, kid.
We do our best to keep the guns hidden as we make our way through the halls. But one of the kids sees the sawed off shotgun my younger self carries under his/my trenchcoat and we’re off to the races.
Teachers and parents and children scramble everywhere in a panic. With the police on the way, we rush into a classroom and get my/our daughter out safely. No one has been hurt, no one has been caught.
But back at the house, the police are waiting — painting the cheap stucco walls of our neighborhood with screams of blue and red.
My older self says “Take care of her for me…” leaving my younger self to hold onto his/our daughter while he/I (the older version of me) leads the cops away. He doesn’t get far. And neither do we.
It is terrifying, stressful, and heartbreaking. And I am relieved when I wake.
We’re all a little worried about Patton Oswalt.
Having known him since we were kids, it’s obvious he isn’t himself lately. He’s depressed, lethargic, and we’re all little bit worried.
But he’s a celebrity. It’s not like we can just check him into a hospital. So my wife and I and a few other friends go on Patton watch.
I take the first shift, spending the evening with him driving around town.
After hitting a few bars, we end up wandering aimlessly through the darkened streets. He’s got a very cool, fully restored 1970s van with wood paneling and shag carpet.
I look over at him behind the wheel and ask “So… What do you want to do now?”
He considers for a moment. Then he turns the wheel sharply, crashes the van through a small wooden fence, accelerates up over a hill and down into a small lake.
As the engine misfires and dies, we sit there bobbing along.
“I kinda knew you were going to do that,” I tell him. I figure it’s good he got it out of the system.
“Holy shit,” he says. “Do you think we’re gonna sink?”
I shrug. I figure were pretty buoyant for the time being.
We drift closer to shore. Relieved, I gather up my cell phone and an old dream journals I’ve been carrying around lately.
Then Patton rolls the windows down.
The van tips in his direction and water starts to pour in. I scramble out my door and managed to step onto the shore without getting too wet.
I look back as the van drifts away and sinks.
Patton Oswalt goes down with the ship.
I wait. After a few moments he surfaces, sputtering, covered in duckweed and laughter.
Squishing all the way, streaming gray-green water, we walk back to his house.
While he gets cleaned up, I make some calls. “The situation has gotten a little bit more complicated.”.
When my wife arrives, she is particularly worried. She reveals to us that Patton has surgery schedule for tomorrow, which is the source of his depression.
“Oh, right. Is this for his penis thing?” someone else asks.
Apparently Patton was born with a very small… member. It’s haunted him for years and he’s finally famous enough (and rich enough) to afford a surgical procedure to enhance it.
Still coming to terms with this news, I realize that we haven’t seen Patton in a while. After a quick search, it’s clear he’s snuck out the back.
While a few people go off to see if they can find him, my wife and I and another comedian — I don’t remember who now — sit and talk as the sun comes up.
At one point, the comedian gets out his marijuana and rolling papers. He offers the joint to me.
I tell him I not only don’t do drugs, but have never done drugs.
He gives me a look and I suddenly feel very old and conservative, like Don Draper hanging out with beatniks.
He puts in a VHS tape from the doctor who is performing the procedure for our friend. I have to admit the before-and-after shots are impressive.
Apparently the doctor Is particularly popular with rappers. Who knew?
Sometime later, Patton returns… a changed man.
He is glowing with pride and infused with glee. It’s a relief to see him, and see him so happy again.
“It went great!” He proclaims, hands on his hips. “The doctor says I’m ready for action again.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” my wife says.
Patton unveils his majesty and, I have to say, I’m impressed.
Not only is it quite large, both in length and girth, but the doctor has also done some sculpting as well, giving it the appearance of a cartoon shark. Fiberglass teeth complete the hot rod look.
“I’m not entirely sure that’s what ladies want…” I say carefully, not wanting to hurt his feelings.
I’m awake before he can reply.
The voices again tonight.
No music this time, no men.
One or two women, I can’t quite be sure. Possibly a child.
I told my wife about the voices a few days ago. She could tell tonight that I was hearing them again. And, of course, she cannot.
We keep a fan going at night, even in cold weather. White noise.
She suggested I turn it off, just to see if that helped.
She might be right. I honestly can’t say for sure.
Maybe it’s a trick of the sound in the room, the combination of the fan and the hiss of the baby monitor.
With the fan off, we sat there in the dark and waited.
There. Not as loud, not as much. But there.
And again.
“I don’t hear anything,” she told me.
I apologized, turned the fan back on so she could sleep and came downstairs to wait it out.
Down here it’s the usual creaks and hums of the house by night. The fridge ticks over from time to time. The radiators gurgle. The cats snore, dozing. The baby monitor sounds a bit like running water.
And, sometimes, I think I catch a brief murmur underneath it all. Somewhere.
I honestly don’t know. Maybe it’s all just paradoelia.
But . . . I have a vague memory of something similar when I was a child. This would have been when I was maybe six or seven years old.
I remember my two older brothers got to stay up later than me, I remember thinking that it wasn’t fair they got to watch Hawaii 5.0 and I didn’t.
I remember lying there in bed, listening to the pulse of drums and what sounded like singing or chanting –faint and very far away.
I got up to complain that the TV was too loud.
My mother told me that the set was off. It was later than i realized, my brothers had gone to bed, She asked me what I heard. When I told her, she gave my father an odd look.
I would get to know that gesture very well in the coming years — the sidelong glance, lips compressed, a knot of worry in between her eyes.
[This is directly transcribed, without changes or edits, from a journal entry dated May 4th, 2003]
…and as I’m walking through the parking lot towards my car, I see two guys approaching — I make eye contact, just to established that they know that I know they’re there . . . One of them nods and says “How’s it going?” And I realize that I am in trouble. They’re both heavier than I am, and they move with a raw plodding strength that I do not possess and cannot hope to match — Like an idiot, I’ve parked on the far side of the lot. The other cars are very far away and a few people are moving in the darkened a lot.
As I said, they’re big and they spread out a bit, drawing my focus first one way and then the other. I exchange words with the smaller of the two, can’t remember now what was said but things escalate and I realize that I’m not looking at a typical robbery — These guys are looking for someone to be and I’m more than convenient.
Bad news for me.
And this is the strange thing… I don’t remember how I got away from them but I did.
I remember shouting to a group of people who were standing in a pool of light 100 yards away… I remember leaving my car behind — perhaps Iran?
At any rate, I get away and at least one thing sank in — I wasn’t clear of them. They’d be waiting for me when I went back for my car.
The next day is Sunday and I am at church — not my real church but one of those awful Seeker churches tucked away in an industrial park behind a Sam’s Club and a warehouse.
And then everything gets murky. The dream went on for much longer, but it just didn’t stay with me long enough to capture it here.
[This is directly transcribed, without changes or edits, from a journal entry dated January 6th, 1997]
I stand in the front window and watch as the car makes its second pass, making myself as visible as possible to the men inside . . . letting them know that there are people home and they’ll have to find someone else to rob.
On their fourth pass, I make eye contact with the driver and I know then that this is no normal robbery. They want me to see them.
We stand there, watching the pass and I realize that we’re being diverted.
Misdirection.
Someone is already in the house, I know. Someone came in the back — the car had been empty? The car had been full on the first pass, but the last few times, I could see that the men inside were not so cramped; one of them was gone.
They were already in the house.
Through the house I go, searching.
Passing by my room I see that the french doors have been kicked in.
Someone is in the house.
In a back room, my teenage daughter’s room, I find them. He is sitting at the piano, holding a gun in her face. She sits on the bed, crying.
With a broken crystal candlestick, I stab him in the back — just to the left of the spine — before he can turn.
Push the splintered end deep into him, glancing off the shoulderblade, scraping against the bone.
He breathes once, heavy, and then dies.
When the car passes by the window again, I am there — his head in my fist, raising it high, my fingers in his hair.
I see the eyes widen as they see his glazed, empty gaze.
I meet the eyes of one in the car as it speeds off — that is the one, I know, who will return for revenge.
The car drives off into the night and I drop the head, realizing that — for the first time — it is snowing in the Midlands.
[2013 Addendum: This is a odd one to look at now. In 1997, I did not have a daughter. Now I have two. And, for what it’s worth, my bedroom (four houses and sixteen years later) has French doors. That’s not going to help me get to sleep any easier.)