Dispatch from a Dream

         We've all witnessed some curious things, because the world is littered with them. Life itself is one big curious phenomenon. When I think of some of the things that have made me step back with dilated pupils, and wonder in my heart, one incident from my childhood sticks out.
         Check this out. It's a cloudy 1994 day. The era of the overalls with the straps down and discmans and bandanas. Am seven years old and just learned to ride a bike a few weeks prior. So, am stoked about bike-riding, naturally; I want to hop on the bike of every guest that comes to our house. I want to ride every damn bike I can find. Today my friend Oscar tells me that his dad has gone on a trip for a few days, so I convince him to steal his bike so we can go ride. I don't think he'd even consider it but he does. So now we find ourselves here - inside my friend's dad's garage - about to steal. The inside of the garage is the color of a soul drained of all goodness. The unblinking eyes of the solitary window look out into the backyard, where a hen and her five chicks peck away, oblivious of our plans. A dank smell of half burnt firewood mixed with the sweet smell from the earth hangs in the air around us, poking its fingers in our noses. I remember that smell, because it is the smell that has come to define garages for me.
         We've just unlocked the bike when it begins to rain outside, and next we hear approaching footsteps and voices. We go quiet. The footsteps stop on the verandah. It's Oscar's uncle and a friend come to shelter from the rain. they're not aware we're in here, so we keep still and wait it out.
         Oscar's uncle is a quiet man. To me he carries a certain loneliness about him, slung over his shoulder, that he never puts down. I've known him since I was a baby but I do not believe I've heard him speak more than twenty words total. Even around people he's always quiet, in his own little world. He talks only to his thoughts. So imagine my shock when from my hiding on the other side of the wall I hear Mr. Quiet Uncle crack jokes and narrate to his friend a story of a dream he said he had in black and white just the previous night. Now, I know how bullshit looks; I can tell it from a crowd in the dark. I smell major bullshit here and now...so what do I do? I turn to look at Oscar, as though to ask "why is your uncle making shit up, buddy?"...but the  look that passes between us is so long and unrelieved that I feel it like a bar in the air; something that would stop you if you tried to walk through it. Nothing is said. But after a moment, he cups his hands around his mouth and whispers in my ear, "It's true...I heard him tell it to my mom in the morning."
         In this dream everything is in black and white, like in a 40's world war newsreel, and he's a giraffe by the name of Chichi. He's tall and lanky like a ball player. Looms over everyone, like a Swede. He chews cud, which he says feels like rubber. The story gets better because he describes a scene where he's chilling with friends and because of their height they can see through third or fourth floor windows what people are doing in their apartments. And they're giggling and high-fiving each other about it. I should pause here and mention, before I get sucked in any deeper, that homeboy can tell a story. Give it to him. He weaves it like a Persian carpet. He starts to narrate and do you know what you want to do? You want to close your eyes. You want to listen with the blinds drawn over them because then you see the narrative build in your mind. You watch it unspool in black and white from a solitary word. And as if by magic, you watch other words appear and walk with the first word, holding hands, and then more words. And before long you see a dance of words. The words curtsy and shimmer; do a little moonwalk. The narrative encroaches its way to the four corners of the canvas before your very mind's eye. You miss nothing. And this, coming from someone you've never heard utter more than a few words, moves like a force of nature.. 
           
         It left a strong impression on me, that story. It stepped into me mighty hard and rearranged things. And for the longest time it sat at the top of the pile for me as far as dreams go, defying time like a sphinx. But we all know that time is like a hurricane, don't we? Sweeps you up when it gets to you - even in your defiance - so that the only way to defy time is to comply. So last night while I slept I complied. There was a sweep-up. I had a dream that knocked homeboy's old black and white dream story off its high perch, and now there's a new heir to that throne.

          It was horrible, though - this dream of mine. It broke my heart. And it felt so unbelievably real I was embarrassed while I dreamt. Ever felt that? You know how the dream gods sometimes decide to pull your leg while you’re knocked out and craft something so true to detail, so real-looking that when they finally slip it into your sleeping head you freak out? That was me last night. They made me endure a walk of shame through the streets. And it seemed everyone in town was invited to my parade.

          Now listen, these folks in the dream who came to watch me didn’t simply show up; they showed up strong: entire families - kids, parents, grandparents, great grandparents. Even ancestors turned up [or is it turnt up?]. I saw a few ancient-looking fellows who seemed like they’d draw a complete blank if you leaned over and asked what blue-tooth is, or internet or a selfie. They must have been ancestors, no doubt. Neighbors came, friends came, associates came, which is to say that everyone came. I remember seeing some pets there too, from the corner of my eye as I plonked along - those designer dogs that everybody has these days.

          Anyway, isn’t it funny how those dogs always think they’re so tough, attempting to put the fear of God in you, barking at you in their little whiny voices while they stand at a safe distance tethered on a belt? Or is it just me?

          One evening, though, last summer one of these little guys scared my buddy Big Head so bad, man. My buddy’s real name is Tim but we all call him Big Head Brother or simply Big Head. A good sport; he loves the name. Big happy guy, built like an oak-tree, with a pair of big strong hands, a head the size of Zimbabwe and thick eyebrows. Dude can bench like crazy, you don’t want to mess with him. He benches something like 650 pounds or some crazy number like that. Sick, right? But you wait till you see his handwriting. You’ll laugh so loud. I’ve always felt somewhat embarrassed reading those little notes he slips under the door when he stops by and nobody’s home. My man Big Head writes so tiny you almost see the letters on the page bow their heads in shame when you open to read. And that is something I’ve never quite wrapped my head around seeing as how everything about him comes in a big gush, in big generous portions, you know? Listen to him tell a joke, for instance, then watch him fill a room with his laughter from the same joke, the sound of it like the rush of many rivers.

          So on this day we are walking back to my apartment. We’d gone to play pool at the bar. Late afternoon. Dusk is creeping around our shoulders. We’re exchanging banter as we go, talking loud. Down the street is this house whose residents are forever hanging out on the porch. Always talking or drinking beer or roasting something or other, and their dogs always goofing around in the yard. Big Head and I are walking past this house. We can hear voices on the porch but we’re not paying them any mind; there could as well be dinosaurs on that porch but we wouldn’t be interested.

          Suddenly, without warning, Big Head lets out a shrill shriek and jumps up in panic, really knocking the wind off of me in the process, and before I can register what’s going on dude’s about nine-ten meters ahead, dashing like mad, an itty-bitty white terrier giving chase. Took me a moment to dust my thoughts and put them back together, really. And now I remember that the dog turned and gave up after about four-five meters of giving chase, after it became clear that she wasn’t catching the man; not at that speed of his. And I remember seeing something of a dog smile plastered on her face as she trotted back, and a little spring on her step. Walking like a champ, little bitch. Probably saying This is my pond. I run shit around here and y’all better watch out!!! I gave her this evil side-eye as she walked past me, my whole body seething with so much fury seeing as how the whole porch had ruptured in laughter when my boy ran for dear life. My ego was more than bruised; it was punctured, and I was ready to start world war 3 right there. But I remembered the words of Romans 12:19 yo, “Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord”. And just like that I took the high road home, albeit with a heavy heart.

          You think Big Head stopped somewhere to wait for me to catch up, right? Well, let me burst your little bubble real quick cuz’ ain’t nothing like that happened. I was almost home before I caught up with the brother. I was literally in our parking lot, and I was too upset from the incident to even ask but he explained it anyway. Said he was walking slowly so I could catch up to him. I didn’t believe his ass. I think the guy ran all the way home.

          Let me get back to my dream.

          Look, I don’t know where to start this but in the dream I have gone to watch at a football match at this fine stadium overlooking the sea. The beauty of dreams is something of a wonder we’ll never really wrap our hands around for sure. You can smell the brine in the air. I can’t tell now where all this is happening but I know the streets well. I live here and I’ve come to this stadium before - a huge facility built like a Roman colosseum, and usually packed to the rafters during home games. Today is no different and the weather couldn’t be nicer. The sky is sea-blue and the sun is all eyes on us. From a good seat you’d even see little boats in the distance, with white sails out in the sun-kissed water. Horns are blowing, banners are swaying in the wind and the whole vibe around the stadium is festive and gay. If happiness could talk it would fill the whole sea-blue sky with a deafening roar from this place.

          Am seated several rows down, just a few from the main field. And about twelve or thirteen seats in. The game is on.

          We’re all happy people inside this stadium, cheering our team on, beating the drums of war, hi-fiving each other, and our team is really taking it to them, I tell you. Right now you could even reach over and grab someone’s beer and drink it and they’d hi-five you and perhaps even snap a quick selfie with you. The bonhomie is on steroids. Suddenly I feel an urge to use the bathroom. Yes. But I ignore it. My people never gave in easily to simple urges like those at a time like this. Nope. Not when there was an issue at hand more pressing. Like a home game going on. To give in just chipped something off of us, stooped us a little, you know. So I stood my ground like a Viking, waited for the Mexican wave to arrive and rose up with my men as the ripple heaved and rolled past us, a giant surge like a mighty river sweeping over us. On any other day you’d feel the wave carry you on its belly as it passed because, truth be told, this thing is a beast. You’d feel peace in your heart, like you swallowed a piece of heaven. But today is not that day. What I feel is a tight wringing in the lower part my stomach, like long knives digging in and twisting my intestines, turning them inside out. I sit it out for a few minutes but the thing is killing me; I can’t follow the game. I can’t think. And if I wait a few more minutes I might begin to forget my name. My rectum is struggling to hold fort now, like the last band of fledgling fighters holding out against a marauding army of an evil emperor, the last hopes of a people.

          So I say to myself hey, I can always talk to my people; they’re reasonable folk and I rise up to go.

          It gets a little murky here because am relying on recollection. But ever heard someone say they were caught flat-footed on Mrs. Odongo’s avocado farm? Huh? Or that something hit them like a train? Well, I found myself smack in the middle of what felt like a five-train collision. I cannot remember, honestly, how it happened. Such agony smack you so hard and fast you cannot keep up with the sequence of events. I only know that somewhere along the way as I climbed the stairs towards the exit my rectum let go. Set down both sword and shield, and bowed in defeat. And the world, for me, went black. Like the ass of a snake. Everything stopped. The world held its breath. And in that moment I just floated away. Not for long, though, for even the gods have a sense of humor.

          When I come to it, am draped in diarrhea like you wouldn’t believe. Am marinated in it, and everyone’s looking at me some type of way. Some are screaming at me for splashing poop on their popcorn or their shoes or their kid’s toy; some are dying of mirth; some are shaking their heads, wondering whether there lived a greater loser than this, but most just watch, paralyzed by what they just saw, still trying to fathom how the gods could be so cruel. There’s this one guy who comes to within inches of my face and screams, “Get out of our stadium you pooping jackass… you got shit on my jersey you sonovabitch!” and I show him the cool, collected guy holding a packet of messed up popcorn who, in my view, should have been complaining more but wasn’t.

          To be honest I don’t know how it came out but it must have been fighting like mad, just considering the splashes it left on my face and on the clothes of the people standing nearby and on a few terrace seats next to where I stand. The floor it hit like a ballistic missile; it nearly cracked it. Most of it ended on me, though, naturally, on my thighs and calves down to my shoes, which, when I walk, emit this wet sploshy sound.

          My pants are a mess. They look like a soiled baby diaper, saggy as a sail.

          The most embarrassing bit was the walk home. I drove here but for some reason I walk back. In dreams you do dumb shit but they somehow make sense then. This is the longest walk I ever took. The distance seems to stretch without end, and time with it. It feels like a lifetime of walk. On either side of the street are people craning their necks, watching and whispering in each other’s ears, capping their mouth - gossiping me - and spectating and booing and chanting. Everybody and their mama is here. This is where the party is at. And then there is me in the middle of the street – the main man, the star attraction of this show, treading like a sick mule, a riot of shit and stink.

          I understand that in these parts the last time a man soiled his pants the way I did mine was back when bell-bottom pants were still the rave. That is to say that a lot of these young folk gathered here weren’t even born yet. Apparently dude had on one of them bell-bottom pants when his insides dropped ball and catapulted him to fame (or infamy, depending on your philosophical bent); that’s the whisper doing rounds here. But, at least, for the poor guy, he was genuinely ill. It is said he was waiting at the lobby to see a doctor who was, at that time, at the back of the building smoking. What is my excuse?

          Am just glad I woke up before I soiled my bed for real…because sometimes the wily hands of dream over-reach the boundaries of sleep and into our beds. You’ll think you’re pissing in the bathroom in your dream when you’re, in fact, pissing in your bed. And that right there is the danger we’re forever condemned to every time we close our eyes to sleep. Which, I think, makes sleep a poisoned chalice, no?