Notes from the Future: Dreams of the Sleeping Porpoise, Part IV

I've been daydreaming in Guptill's office. I snap back to focus when he slaps a budget down in front of me: it's 8.5 x17, color coded. One of four he's just printed. We have very little money for The Three Musketeers, it whispers to me in cheery pastels.

I'm here after a production meeting called by George, in which he kept mixing up Of Mice and Men (his show) with The Three Musketeers (my show), with somewhat hilarious results; now I'm in Guptill's office with Guptill and Herndon to map and clarify some things.  I'm somewhat shocked that the show is actually happening: since the Board of Governors voted to sever all ties with SCTA (Solano College Theatre Association), I have been expecting a polite e-mail thanking me and letting me know that The Three Musketeers is just too much for the school right now, and they've opted to hold four Talent Shows instead.

Gone are the Glory Days of Solano College Theatre, when big shows like The Producers drew packed houses (during the fourth and final week, anyway), regional theatre awards for the actors, artists and designers, and recognition for Solano College. Now we are scrabbling for peanuts as bureaucrats with clipboards and expensive suits tell us there isn't enough money for tents and elephants while they take away the one tent and elephant we already have. This is what happens when Board Members and Vice Presidents are unimaginative Corporate America types who feel a school must be run as a for-profit enterprise. May their ovaries sour and their balls dry up, we need no more of their ilk.

Herndon has to go, he has some people in from out of town. He wants to clarify things and get on the road. But Guptill is trying to figure out how my e-mail address got so botched up in his computer -- someone somewhere thought it was edhightower@gmail.com. That's not it at all and never has been. Both of them look at me with that doubtful, I-think-you're-crazy gaze that seems solely reserved for Edward Hightower, the gaze people use when I make a statement based in fact. Guptill says it's a good idea to let people know when I change my e-mail address. This is mildly annoying: I know what my fucking e-mail address is and has been for the last decade. All anyone would have to do would be to go and LOOK at e-mails they've received from me. But I don't say that, I say the part about my e-mail address being the same for the past ten years. Guptill isn't looking at me, Herndon is -- bright blue eyes twinkling in Herndonian amusement.

All of this confusion is based around the fact that there have been e-mails flying around for the last four weeks on the subject of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (Abridged), which was going to be produced at the Harbor Theatre this coming October but, when SCC cut ties with SCTA, the director (Jon Tracy) and one actor (Cassidy Brown) took other offers. Understandably so. Meanwhile, having heard nothing at all in what feels like four months, I simply assumed that the production had quietly folded, like so many of the small theatre companies in Solano County this year. So these e-mails have been sailing back and forth, with everyone assuming I was receiving them because nobody bothered to check.  Enter our new director (Dyan McBride), who had the bright idea of using every e-mail she had for me. Lo and behold, I got a message loosely detailing dates of rehearsals and performances. Amen and pass the pancakes, I have a job in the Autumn.

To Herndon I say, "So you've been reading the blog."

"I have ..." is his response. That ellipsis does not bode well. "It's getting very ..." he makes a zagging, flip-flop gesture with his right hand.

"Complex?"

"Not complex, necessarily, just ... What are we, in, what, the fourth or fifth story within a story right now ... ? ... Let's see, first there was the Father Robert thing, very good, I liked that, but now we've got Veronica with the Prophet thing and then you're dreaming or there's a porpoise riding you in your sleep ... it's all very very."

This is precisely what I do not want to hear. There's a plan, there has to be a plan. I have an idea of where I'm going, in fact I think I mapped it out but right now I can't remember where I put that map.

"There is a plan, of course," I say, self-defecating as always. He probably saw my face fall, we Pisces tend to wear our hearts on our sleeve. In my case, it's on both sleeves, my pantlegs, my collar, lapels, zipper and codpiece. The codpiece is invisible, my heart is not. Herndon is a Pisces as well, but he's closer to the Aquarius side of things. Whatever that means. The Age of Aquarius as misunderstood by drug-addled hippies in the late Sixties and early Seventies has nothing to do with universal enlightenment, unless one considers universal wireless Internet to be a form of enlightenment. Certainly there's the potential there for enlightenment, but I suspect that it's tightly squeezed between porn, YouTube and forwarded e-mails from Republican grandparents predicting Obama's personal roundup of our firearms. All of this runs through my head in a nanosecond, and Herndon continues his analysis:

"It would be different if I were reading it in a novel, in book form," he says, making a left-palm-out downward waterfall gesture. "Then it would all be of a piece. But I keep having to go back and it's like, wait, where was that happening? Who is this person? And what is with the Prophet? Is he really you in disguise?"

"Wow, you know, I actually considered that early on. But no, he's not me. His origins and purpose will be revealed. Possibly soon. Do you really think I should --"

In walks George Maguire.

"Edward! Brian! The Golden Hope of the Future, all in one room! Guppy, my love, I'm here to check on the thing we talked about, is it all set the way we discussed?"

Guptill's head bows in momentary torment, he's deep in his computer search. I've always felt that his office would have more power, better feng shui, if he didn't have his back to the door. If it were my office, which it will never be, that is the first thing I would change. I would also panel the room with scrap lumber from past productions and make it look like the den of a Dickensian madman. Alas. Who knows what this office will become in the future? For now, it's sort of still Guptill's and he is asking George for some clarification.

"Of course," George says. "The door Edward needs is right here in this room, but he hasn't seen it yet. There are four doors. He must choose the correct one." George is looking right at me, very intense.

"There is every likelihood we can do that, George, if the college honors the budget as Jeff has promised," Guptill sounds tired, but I can't take my eyes off of George. I see Herndon out of the corner of my eye, he's setting up a zipline to the faculty parking lot. Just like Herndon to have a fucking zipline in his backpack, probably something Theatreworks gave him in thanks for his amazing performance in Zagmodious of the Tarheels.

"The door by which we entered is no longer an option. It is one of four, but not the one. The way to find the one, Bubby, would be to use your rod, eh? Use your rod, am I right, boys or am I right?!" George is looking at Guptill and Herndon for confirmation. Guptill nods absently, reaching into his computer screen with the robot arm left over from our production of Metropolis!, the musical. The school has no idea we still have the robot arm, and everyone in the department who knows about it is keeping it a secret because it's the only way to find things in the computer sometimes. There are four other robot arms, but they are made of Nerf and do not function electronically.

Herndon has donned a yellow and black masked vigilante costume, replete with cape and gauntlet gloves. His logo is a hornet in the style of Michael Schwab, whose amazing iconic artwork you will no doubt have seen in posters for Mt. Tamalpais, Roosevelt Woods, Hetch-Hetchy National Park, Yosemite Reservoir and the like. In fact, his Hornet is definitely by Michael Schwab. This stings.

"Eddy, pumpkin," George is very insistent. I look at him. He's wearing Dumbledore robes and his beard and hair are growing as he speaks. "You have got to look for the door. Ignore Herndon's costume, that's just frippery. Yes, he's an excellent masked vigilante, but we both know you've not got the shape for it. Neither do I, that's why I passed the Hornet to Herndon. But you are the one who can find the door. You are the one, Eddy. And you've got a very short time. Very short time, indeed. In fact, Eddy, you have about four minutes. If I were you, I would hop to it!"

Herndon puts his hand on my shoulder, I look at him. With his mask on, all his hair has grown back. 

"It's very good," he says. "Just keep writing." He squeezes my shoulder, turns, and ziplines over the rooftops down to the parking lot. His encouragement is incredible, I feel empowered -- as though Batman liked my performance. As though The Hornet reads my blog. Oh my God, The Hornet reads my blog! And after he complimented me, he used a zipline to get to the parking lot! I had no idea we were this high up. They must have moved the theatre to higher ground for the demolition. 

George is trying out his wand, and Guptill has climbed into his computer, pulling the screen across him like a blanket. He looks very sleepy and comfortable. "Kalamazoo!" George shouts, and a blast of rainbow energy hits the wall behind Guptill's desk; Sheetrock explodes away to reveal a 1920's bank vault door, sealed tight.

"Oh, my!" George turns to me, full Dumbledore by now. "Where did that come from, Eddy? This thing doesn't seem to be working. Let me try again. Shostakovich!" He whips the wand toward the window, rainbow lightning shatters it to reveal a beat-up 1902 tenement door, battered, bloodstained.

"Not an attractive door, Eddy, but perhaps paradise lies just beyond. Nevertheless, I am more concerned with this wand than any egress," and so saying, he shakes the wand like a carbonated beverage and, bellowing, "Smockadoodle Spanikopita Spermatozoa!" he sends several gallons of viscous rainbow egg whites jetting onto the wall to the left of Guptill's desk.

There are footsteps coming up the wooden stairs from the scene shop. George turns to me, deadly serious.

"You can only open one door, Eddy. One door. You've got to choose correctly, or we are all doomed. Not to pressure you, but everything rests on your shoulders, now. Choose and choose well, I will stay to fight them off. Give me a hug, Pumpkin."

We hug, and I realize George is sacrificing himself for me. I wish I were a wizard and could stay to fight. He seems to hear me.

"Not a chance, Eddy. You're the Traveler. Now choose."

Tears in my eyes, I hear the footsteps slowly getting closer as I turn to face the doors.

Directly ahead, 1920's bank vault. To my right, battered and bloodstained tenement. To my left, the rainbow spooj has dripped down the wall and peeled Sheetrock away to reveal a simple, thin bedroom door of the style one would find in tract homes built between 1965 and 1975: brown "wood" with a brushed brass knob in overly ornate style. Something familiar about each door.

Bank Vault looks like something from City Museum of St. Louis, and I can hear the footsteps near the top of the steps. George has stationed himself near the giant printer inside the door, arms crossed, feet in fighting stance, alert and at ease all at once. His head is bowed and his eyes are almost closed, but he is watching me.

Tenement door looks like the back side of the door from our kitchen to the back stairs at 1686 Washington Street in Boston; we only opened it once or twice. It had similar stains, but wasn't broken. Was that building ever a tenement? I don't think so, but ... does it matter? There is breathing with the footsteps, labored, heavy, wheezing. Some kind of grunting growl, some kind of hungry, keening, slurred intonations on the exhale. I see the slightest shake of George's head. Was that a signal, or is he just preparing to fight.

Tract home door is not impressive at all. It's boring. It is just the kind of door I do not want to open, the kind of door that was in the houses we lived in when I was a kid. It's ugly, the door is not very strong at all -- I know because I put my foot through one when I was ten -- and I doubt that it would hold back whatever is coming up the stairs. But the longer I look at it, the more comfortable I am. It is everything I've said, and: it's familiar.

I take a breath. There's a stench from the stairs. Only one thing to do. 

I cross to the Tenement door and lock it, then to the Bank Vault, spinning the wheel until it's fully locked, then to the Tract Home door. I put my hand on the knob and turn. 

"Good boy, Eddy. Well done," George murmurs.

I hear a rising screech from around the corner outside Guptill's office door. Pulling open the Tract Home door, I see a mostly-yellow and avocado kitchen beyond. The smell of something delicious -- Blitzkuchen? -- wafts out and I hear Joan Baez singing something on LP. 

Oh my God, I know this place.

I step through, and the last thing I hear is George bellowing, "Breathe from your cunt, you cunt!" This is followed by a deafening explosion and then the door is shut behind me.

I'm in South Lake Tahoe. I can smell it on the air. I know what happened in this house. I know what lurks in the soil beneath it, and glancing at the analog clock over the stove I see that it's late. I head for the stairs -- how small this place looks, now. How late is it? How late am I?

I see two people snuggling on the couch, but I don't pause as I pass the living room because I don't want any distractions. I'm at the top of the stairs, it's the room at the end of the hall. I nearly run down the hall and open the door. There's a little girl, age three or four, lying in bed in blue onesie footies with some circus animal prints, there's a toddler of, what, a year? Under? Standing in his crib. His mouth is open in a silent scream, his right hand outstretched toward his older sister.

She is deathly pale, eyes wide, perfectly still. Surrounding her bed are shadow figures made of wispy, congealed darkness. It's hard to count them, to see how many there are. They seem to absorb the light from the clownish plastic lion night light plugged into an outlet near the door. There is a baby bottle on the floor near the bed, thrown by the toddler. What look like scabs of shadow molting off some of the figures skitter cockroach-like toward the bottle, then disappear. Mother's breastmilk banishes shadows, I note. But there is a main figure, more solid than the others, standing near the head of her bed, grinning down at her: his skinless body is nude and he is grabbing at his flayed, weeping genitals, reaching for the girl as the other figures reach for her, their hands sliding under her to form a sheet of darkness.

I remember this. Isn't this when they appeared? Isn't this when something happened? Or has something not happened yet?

The flayed corpse is reaching for the girl and I hear a voice shouting and realize it's me around halfway through the phrase.

"Anal nathrach, orth' bhais's bethad, do che'l de'nmha!" There is a bright star in the sky. And I have the Blitzkuchen in my hands and it's made with cinnamon and sugar and I see their heads turning toward me, these dark figures and the flayed corpse's lidless eyeballs are fixed on me as he licks his lips with his dead black tongue and his hand is almost on her face, but I am throwing Blitzkuchen at them and as each crumbled chunk of this crumbly cake hits a shadow the cake sends out blue-white lightning bolts of cinnamon and sugar and the shadow gasps, hissing, head thrown back.

Snatching up the bottle of breastmilk, squeezing it at the shadow figures, I bellow, "Anal nathrach! Orth' bhais's bethad! Do! Che'l! De'nmha!" There is a bright light outside the window. Breastmilk seems to burn them and they are howling, keening, eyes somehow deep red and smoldering black all at once, as though oozing red smoke. The flayed corpse has stopped reaching for the girl's face and is leaning toward me, his teeth long and sharp, stepping backward and sideways toward me in a way that bodies can't move, somehow taking the whole room with him. He has moved me toward him, shifted the room. I slam the rest of the cake into his face and cross my wrists above my head, "I stand in Circles of Light that NONE may CROSS!" 

And I do. Oh, my God, I do.

The cake is shooting lightning into his face but he is unaffected, shaking his head to get it off his raw, weeping muscles, ligaments and tendons.

Moving through the window now are five bright white lights, and they are instantly around the girl. One at her head, one at each shoulder, one at each foot.

I realize that she is and has been in the air, lifted away from her bed, halfway through a dark tear in the wall, door-like, but not a door; almost like a torn mouth. The white lights are becoming figures, humanoid in shape.

The shadows are tearing and falling to pieces, scrabbling against the floor. The flayed figure is trying to rape the walls, the bed, a stuffed animal, eyes burning in skinless rage. Then he sees the toddler in the crib, and grins his creaky rictus grin, reaching.

But I am next to the boy in the crib and I take his hand and

-- nuh-nuh-nuh-huh-huh-huh-no-thing --

he is surrounded by bright white light as well

-- cah-hah-hah-hannn-nnn-nnn-nnn --

but we are shaking, uncontrollably, unable to breathe, both bodies wracked with a seizure beyond imagining

-- huh-huh-huh-huh-huhrrrr-rrrrr-rrrrr-rrrrrtd-ddd-ddd-ddd --

The white lights reach as one for the flayed corpse, each easily touching him on an arm, a shoulder, his neck, his head. He freezes, eyes rolling back in his head.

He implodes.

The tear in the wall seals instantly, with a sound like sunrise and birdsong.

The room is flooded with light so bright it shines through everything, like the sun is cleaning a wound. There are voices, soothing, singing, there are voices and the figures of light have put the girl back in her bed; two are drawing symbols, seals and sigils on the walls around the room, two are whispering to her, telling her to draw pictures of this for her parents as they draw seals, symbols and sigils in the air over her bed and over the toddler's crib. The fifth, the one who went to the head of the bed, comes to the toddler and I where we shake, clenched, hardly able to breathe. He touches us on our foreheads and the seizure immediately releases, our hands dropping to our sides.

"You will always doubt your memory of events. Instead, remember my words: no matter how you return to this day, it was far worse than what you remember. And this light is brighter and more healing than you will ever know. Sleep, now."

He releases us and I have fallen, I'm falling, I fall awake into my bed.