Projects

I met up with him on a quiet old person residential street. Out front of the house we were going into was knick knacks arranged as if they were (and they might have been) FOR SALE. A table like the one my record player rests on, doilies, chairs, lamps, etc. Going inside: a shaded, small living room. Cooler than outside. He was black, his mother was black, and we sat in stunted silence so that they could visit, for what it was worth. I believe they spoke a bit, saying nothing.

He was my mentor, perhaps.

We went back to a warehouse. I was part of a team of sorts. A special, vigilante team. Very cinematic and typical of action oriented films. There was a technology guy, a weapons guy, a dangerous woman, a hothead. There was much jawing and light. The warehouse was sectioned into areas for working on projects that were meant to thwart the danger outside the warehouse. It was lawless out there. At one point a known hooker came to the front of the warehouse that was open but shut off by locked chain link, a warehouse high. She was a trashy blonde and she wore daisy duke cut offs. She wanted in and something. She was told to leave and laughed at. One of the men wanted her. He was laughed at.

Our main concern was a creature that was strong, fast, violent, deadly, and elusive. We were to hunt it, or kill it; protect ourselves or the population, or study it. Perhaps all three. No one had ever seen it clear. Someone (a woman) described it as a ghost.

In a side room of the warehouse (a room situated like the side room in my garage) was art supplies, sharpies and paint and markers. I heard a noise after the hooker left, looked at the back door. It was ajar. I then heard gargling sounds and the shuffling of supplies on concrete floors. The creature had gotten into the warehouse! I could see it clearly. It was in the door like a dark grey cat, standing charcoal tall about seven or eight feet, smooth and shiny, sleek and broad. I was terrified.

It moved inside.

Then it was like dried play-doh, all cracked as it stretched – but pliable and easily shifted. It moved in frames rather than smooth movement. One second it was still, suffocating people, the next it was in another shape, breaking them slowly. It moved about fighting and killing in near total silence. I went to the art supplies and started looking at the highlighters, kneeling behind a cart full of paint.

And I woke up in the dream from the dream I was having in the dream about the creature killing in silence. Everything was fine in the warehouse, everything was normal.

But the back door was open and I was by the highlighters. A thuggish black man kneeled down and took a highlighter out of my backpack (ignoring the hundreds of highlighters on the tray). “I’ll take this,” he said. “Fuck you,” I said, “that’s mine.” “What the fuck are you going to do about it? Break my leg?” “Yeah. Let’s go outside.” We stepped out the door and there were 2 of his thug friends. “You ready?” I asked. I kicked his ankle super hard, punched him in the gut, elbowed him in the back of the neck when he bent over, then gave him a fierce kick right in the side of his knee. His leg snapped and he cried out in pain while I rose my arms in the air like a champion! One of his friends reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a handgun. I dodged and the shot missed me, hitting the warehouse wall. I ran toward the door, angry as he missed again. “Someone give me a rifle!” I shouted, “A rifle! Who has a rifle?!” One of the warehouse people retrieved a rifle from a wall. It was in a soft case and as I ran back toward the door with it I unzipped it. I was very aware that everyone was watching me and assumed they had heard the handgun shots outside the door just moments ago. The rifle was smooth beautiful silver and at .22. I ran outside the door with it and saw the trio running away from the warehouse down the side alley. I kneeled and raised the rifle, finding the sight and matching it to the guy’s ass who shot at me. I pulled the trigger and the gun sputtered. A moment later he yelled and reached back at his ass where the bullet hit him. I shot him once more.

My mentor and I went for a walk amongst the general population of the area. It was a whole area like industrial work places. Condominium jobs. Offices and shit parks like sardines. Post-apocalyptish. We walked through a hilly park and into a building. We started going down a large stairway, walking over sleeping, resting, or dying bodies. The ground got dirtier, wetter, and more disgusting.

I thought we were going to a secret jazz concert.

But we came out finally on a whole another part and he wondered aloud. He was amazed at the connections underground.

We continued to walk in the area and we passed the men I had shot at. They were bandaged up and I knew that they wouldn’t mess with me again. They were cowered against a wall, pitying themselves.

The same house it all begins at. This time I know that I have no place going in and sharing in the awkward semi-silence of my mentor’s meeting with his mother. I stay outside. It’s hot. I take my shirt off. But a skinny Forest Whitaker comes outside and tells me, “It’s alright.” “What?” I say. “He says it’s alright if you come in now.”

I walk in and take a seat next to Forest Whitaker (skinny) across from my mentor and his mom. There is supreme silence.

Covered Stands

Stands. Covered stands. Packed with people and approached from behind and above, walking down a paved path toward the entrance. Once inside, navigating rows and tiers to find my seats. Passing forward, a football from the field is thrown my way and I catch it humbly. I toss it somewhere while the fans around me cheer. I find my seat up on a tier toward the left side of the massive and boxy stands. Am I sitting next to Dr. Nick? I think so. Is that Nick Ova? Do I call him Nick Hennigar? I DO tell him that he looks like Nick Ova (he does) but I think I say Hennigar instead. He is holding nachos.

Once in my seat the ball game resumes. Football. In between plays the stands become like Star Tours at Disneyland. The stars in the sky are innumerable and bright. The stands thrust upward and the stars spin, they lurch back, twist over, jerking the steel and cement.

Leaving the stands, a group of mostly females plays catch with footballs. It is some sort of female empowerment exercise. The girls are horrible at throwing the footballs. The throws are off and bounce on the cement pathway I walked in on. As I pass a pair their ball nearly hits me and I think to pick it up and return it to them but it bounces away from me. As I pass them the ball again comes my way. I have a pen in my right hand so I do not grab it but instead I flip it back over my shoulder to them. It is a swift and deft move. They murmur to themselves that they should say thanks but it all happened so fast. I walk away.

Before all this, a house, a white square house with awnings and balconies stained brown-red and poking wood out. Inside corridors drop down 3 or 4 stairs and then bounce up ramps into new rooms.

Later in the night, back at the stands, I am there with two friends. We find a manhole cover in the seats. We lift it. There is another cover. We lift it. Inside is a small shaft that recedes back into the stands out of sight. It looks to definitely be too small for a human man. Suddenly, a small sled attached to a rope or a chain slides out toward us. It has a jagged headrest and a portion to lay your buttocks on. I suggest one of my friends gets on. He does. As soon as he does I click what I know is the lever to release the sled back into the stands. He is jerked on the sled, sucked back into the stands, down the tiny shaft. He remains there, in sight, staring up in awe but speechless.

Later, he is gone and I put a human sized nascar replica on the manhole cover and push it down. It clicks in place and zooms like the human from before back into the stands.