Chapter One: Percy's Hypothesis
Part 1.3 - The Hypothesis: Waking and Dream Life, the Very Same
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At the bottom of a hill where the road wraps around it I see college-age-kids carrying boxes out of an old house that has far too much character. Gravity pulls me sharply downhill as I bound past lazy grazing cows whose hooves stab into the lush earth hillside for balance. This is where I go when I get upset; when I feel life is strangling and stagnant. But, I don't remember the house ever being here.
When I near the kids I call out to them from across a dusty gravel road, “Hey, how much is the rent?”
They sheepishly refer me to the owner who lives inside and then quickly they shuffle-feet away, disturbing the dirt mounds and weeds and patches of flora that naturally decorate the compound.
As I approach the open door of the single-story, mud-brown structure I begin to make out its contents, forming a muddled narrative in my mind. I invite myself in and absorb the environment. The heavily seventies architecture speaks clearly to me of a quality long since departed. The house is falling apart, but it's well held together, like a pair of pants whose stitches are more durable than the fabric that they bind.
Framed family photos and homespun art from all manners of folk cover the walls in chronology of their creation. Strange clay masses and junky-piles of random metal scraps line the baseboards below. I can't tell if this is more art, if all the tenants are in process of moving, or if the heaps of debris mean something different to their creators altogether.
I come around the corner of the entryway into what can only be referred to as a kitchen area; not quite a fully formed kitchen, but rather a (quote-unquote) kitchen area. Just then a scrungy, middle-aged, quickly graying hippy rises from behind a chopping block island as if he were being elevated from a level below. His Grateful Dead t-shirt peeks out at me from beneath a cascade of wiry wisps of long dirty beard hair. I ask him a series of questions which he masterfully dodges using only subtle body language, but it communicates effectively. Rest assured.
I point at a spot on the counter where the tile is chipping away and say, “If we were to rent this place, I could fix things like that. I'm the type of guy who would even email you a report with pictures attached.”
He offers me triangles of warm wheat tortilla which he rubs with slivered lime cut with a dull knife, pushing it forward on an old dollar-store plate and finishing my thought saying, “Maybe even knock a couple bucks off yer' rent, right?” He continues, “Why don't you go check out the compound. Make yerself at home,” then he gestures lightly in the air as if shooing a fly from his presence.
Maybe he was shooing a fly. After all the back door is scarcely a door at all. But my, does the wall ever peel open to a view of the wondrous sprawling valley behind it. I step out to the sun. What a day. What a scene!
Children run past, screaming and hitting each other with small desiccated tree branches as their parents sit worry-free, fixed firmly between the drooping wicker hats atop their unwashed melons and the grounded quilts pulled beneath their bums; the ones they've collectively stitched for generations. All the while they synthesize vitamin D in nature's only true way. But, out of the periphery of their gaze they spy me with distrust in their hearts; I can smell it. It becomes apparent that I am intruding. At the owner's allowance – neigh, his instruction – I continue on around the compound.
As I meander a small familiar hand slides into mine and Militant Millicent, clad in worn-up surplus boots and all, joins to my side. That smile warms me greater than the beating star above; that crooked smile; that knowing grin.
Together we round an impossible corner (how many sides does this house have?) and we spy giant winding troughs carved down into the earth. The troughs move as the connecting hills do; inlaid in the natural flow of them and overlaid with cement around the entirety of the rear of the complex. The troughs course with bacterial waters that they've illegally diverted from a nearby creek. These people have long since become immune to the infections that lie therein. They have claimed these as their waters in every way.
I step boldly down a cement staircase – a purposeful entrance to the troughs – and as I enter I am instantly knocked off my feet by the current, separating my grasp from Millicent who waves lovingly to me as I'm swept away into a pool around another impossible corner. I reach down and run my hand across the bottom of the pool, caressing large crags and sharp protrusions of concrete, thinking to myself, that doesn't seem so safe for the kiddos. Suddenly a mass of children pour into the pool via speedy-trough, begging to differ. They begin to pile up around me, clawing happily at my belt-line as I pull myself out of the pool onto the grassy dirt. Millicent again fills my hand.
As we begin to leave the open compound the adults form a line blocking our exfiltration. They may not let us leave.
In a commanding voice I tell them not to worry, that I'll be back soon. I tell them not to worry. But, that doesn't seem good enough. They want something more from me.
My head starts to spin and throb. Something's wrong. I think the lime tortillas may have been drugged. I'm just now gathering the fact that the serving plate had two piles: one meant for the owner, the other meant for visitors. Unbeknownst to the owner I have an advanced history of ingesting sedatives of many natures. I'll be just fine, I bet. I just need a minute to gather myself.
No minutes allowed. The owner meanders up from behind the blocking line of compound dwellers pronouncing, “I'm so sorry I didn't fully divulge myself earlier. My name is Graine Tourette and we'd like it if you'd consider staying with us. No pressure, of course. No pressure.”
I reply simply, “You drugged me.”
“Well, not exactly. You're probably used to eating all that no-trans-fats kinda' garbage, aren't ya'?”
To their surprise I center my equilibrium, standing straight now and saying, “I eat a bit of everything.”
As I push through the line, pulling Millicent in tow, I fumble elbow deep in my pocket and pull out my wallet. I search endlessly through a stack of homemade business cards, trying to find one without defect, but all of them are smeared or tattered or ripped in half.
The owner grabs at random from the center of the pile and pulls from the deck my handwritten doctoral thesis which is finally nearing its completion. He goes to put it in his back pocket, the one with the permanent ring from his chew can, saying, “You don't mind if I keep this. We don't take too kindly to documents like this.”
I quickly snatch it from his grasp and offer him the best business card I can find, all which now have zero flaws. He puts his hands up denying the card. “That's alright. We know how to get a hold of you. You know, we could really use a guy like you around here. Someone who can... build things.”
From out of no where, Mom breaks through my slumber by shutting off my fan and shouting, “Wake up, wake up and be a productive member of a free society!”
I slowly come to consciousness in my bed with the breeze again flowing over my scalp and in through my eyebrows, feeling assaulted and a bit worried. But, when I reach in the drawer of my night stand – the only location that I keep my thesis and my dream journals – I find a horror. They're missing. All are gone. In their place is a Grateful Dead, Steal Your Face, jacket patch set perfectly in the middle of the drawer at right angles to the wood, as if to stand out from the items below. Atop the clear hardened fixative on its back, written in bold red ink are the words, “WE NEED TO TALK.”
Over the next few days I turned my house, my school, my life upside-down, searching for any shred of my thesis, any notes or back ups. Anything! Anything? Nothing...
How is this possible? How could my hypothesis be so correct. Our worlds are truly separated by sensory filtering alone. This much is now starkly apparent. And, in the wake of this crushing defeat, this heinous act of thievery of my most inner workings, I fall down in despair. Depression sets in deep and all that is left is the work in my mind.
It occurs to me that madness (it being so often hereditary) may be what I am suffering from now. A phenomenon that I do not yet understand, perhaps. But, when I receive my suspension notice from school, my beliefs are vindicated. For the letter is signed by the Dean of Students and on the back of the single sheet, written in bold red ink are the words, “WE NEED TO TALK.”
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