Category: dream fiction

the huntington y

THE HUNTINGTON Y was under construction again. There were just beams and cement floors. I was given a tour by an old friend whom I did not recognize but who seemed to know me quite well. He had on a blue jacket, his hair was cut short, and he wore glasses. In short, he looked rather like a real estate agent, or Mormon missionary lite. There he was, showing me around. The entire floor plan of the old Y.M.C.A. was recognizable to me. I remembered the first day I went to that school. How I had promised myself that I would not be a baby like the others and would not cry for my mother. I could remember it all so clearly. Like yesterday.

That was at least one day I had succeeded. We walked together to the room, which was the first on the left, or actually the right, because we entered from the rear side of the building. It looked smaller there. I could see its outline, and had a vague memory of doing some kind of arts and crafts at a table there. I remembered one of the girls, who had platinum blonde hair.

This girl seemed to stick out in my memory.

The place had been gutted of course, but in a way it was refreshing. The sunlight poured through the beams. I could look out on that part of Huntington and see the athletic fields. The breeze smelled fresh. After, we walked to the end of the hall. That’s where we had classes our second year of preschool at the Y. I remembered many things from that room, especially a small book called Ten Little Indians and an accompanying cassette. I could remember some of the lyrics from the song, “one lost his prayer-stick …” When Thanksgiving came, we were all divided up into Pilgrims and Indians. I wanted to be an Indian. They got to wear feathers. But the teachers put me into the Pilgrim group. I got the Pilgrim black hat with the gold buckle.

Looking around this empty room, it was hard to believe that it had all happened here. Those memories seemed so cloudy, they seemed to be submerged in in a gray haze of time. The 1980s? When was that? But now all had been reduced to its bare essence. Only the walls were left, with some scattered wires too. My friend and I decided to walk down the hall toward the pool. It at least was still there. Entirely intact. There were still people swimming in the pool.

Later, we descended the steps of the Huntington Y to the first floor. This had been turned into a sort of open air market, like the one at Balti Jaama Turg in Tallinn, or the Baltic Station Market, as it’s called in English. A woman, who looked something like a flapper from the 1920s, or at least had that kind of haircut, came up to me, and asked me if I would go fetch her dress. I went into a back hallway, which was also well lit, and saw an array of silver dresses hanging suspended from hooks along the wall in the light. Those 1920s la garçonne dresses. Which silver dress would fit the woman? I didn’t know anything about dresses. Which one would fit?

elevator blues

IGRAYNE TOOK A JOB teaching at an old manor house in the countryside. Her classroom was in the cellar. It had vaulted brick ceilings and no natural lighting. Supposedly these were part of an older system of fortifications erected during the Swedish Era. But they had been plastered white, thanks in part to EU funding which had provided for the entire upgrade and upkeep of the school. It was Christmas when I went there to help her with the students. The entire school had been decorated, and there was even a small tree in the corner of her room. She was an attractive though tormented young woman. The torment was the star attraction.

Yes, I liked her very much.

After the final lesson before the break, we walked to the elevator. As soon as the door shut behind us, or in front of us, our hands were all over each other. It was a nice, natural, and passionate feeling. I’m not sure if it could be called love, but it was certainly a form or manifestation of love. It was warm, it was soft. On the first floor, the elevator doors opened. There was a small crowd of Japanese tourists there, waiting. At first they were shocked. Naturally, they started taking pictures. Igrayne didn’t care. “Just keep going,” Igrayne told me. “Just keep going.”

‘i am batman’

THE TOWN HAD CHANGED while I was away, and I had only been away for a short while. Tall pines and birches has sprouted up in every park. Locals had put up field stone walls to demarcate their properties. The streets had crumbled too, and the roots of the trees had grown over the roads, so that it almost made it impossible to ride your bicycle from one end to another. But the inhabitants did ride their bikes. And scooters. Two little boys were doing tricks on their scooters at the corner of Posti Street and Koidu. There was a large barn set back some ways where there once was a series of apartment houses. It had been painted Swedish red. On the other side of the street, the Joala Park side, was a stone wall. Trees towered over every piece of prime town real estate. It was as if they were blocking out the sun.

When I arrived at my house, I was surprised to find Veikko, our old neighbor, working in the yard. I didn’t realize that we had become neighbors again. There he was spinning his metal saw round and round, cutting his wood silently. “Working?” I said to him. “I am,” came the answer, his nose close to the saw. Inside my house, I noticed that Saare Kika was there. He was standing in the kitchen, washing the floors. Then he picked up a large wooden pizza peel, the kind that looks like a shovel and that they use in places like Napoli to slide pizzas into wood-fired ovens. The pizza peel was just dripping with red sauce. Saare Kika tossed it into the sink. He has this stoic, silent-type, iron man aura to him. Rugged, determined features. He turned.

“Your life is a complete mess,” he said. “And I’ve come here to help you clean it up.”

I nodded along and looked him over. Then I noticed that Saare Kika had sprouted a pair of gray wings. Were they real wings? Or just part of an elaborate Halloween costume? This I could not really say for sure. But they were wings, dangling from his back as he scrubbed down the pizza peel in my sink. It reminded me of legends I had heard about The Mothman in both West Virginia and in and around Chicago. Dark, insect-like creatures with the bodies of men but the wings of moths. They called them ‘winged humanoids.’ One woman claimed to have seen several of them. I asked Saare Kika if he was the Mothman, but he just laughed at the question.

“Mothman? No,” he said, pulling the peel from my sink. “I am Batman,” Kika said. “I am Batman.”

a layover in the clouds

ON THE WAY to Germany we had a layover in the clouds. We were probably midway over the Atlantic Ocean when we set down. The clouds were denser here, but also gauzy, like balls of cotton stretched out from both ends. Pieces of old aircraft had got stuck up here in these clouds. Commercial airliners, private planes. They bobbed up and down there like driftwood.

But there was more. Some people had moved into the cloudy layover. They were living up there. Maybe they were connected in some way to the airlines? There were islands of suburbia spread out between the clouds. It was like Daly City, California, except up in the sky. Hundreds of houses built in the same fashion. Driveways, football fields, and lawns, well, white, cloudy lawns. Each house had its own mailbox, of course. Strangle little place. We had lunch at a café.

We didn’t stay long. Just a few hours. The journey continued and we landed in Munich on time.

board games

I WAS IN THE SHOWER when her mother stopped by the house. My 77-year-old father received her. She was wearing sunglasses and walking a small dog, and was wearing an unusually business-like purple coat that might have belonged at one time to Prince. Her black hair was held back in a ponytail. She said she wanted to see me. I popped my head out of the shower and through the window could see her talking to my father on the front lawn. She gave him her business card and left. I did not detect one hint of a smile or jolly mood in that one. She looked cross and concerned.

Afterward my father gave me her business card. He told me I had to arrange a meeting with the woman. “She wants to know what’s been going on between you and her daughter,” he said while making coffee. “Is there something you want to tell me?” The black drink began to boil.

As far as I could recall nothing had been going on. We had just played board games with her and her brother Gustavo. Innocent stuff. Candy Land. Chutes and Ladders. Scrabble. Checkers. Battleship. “Direct hit! You sank my battleship.” That’s all I could remember. It was odd, because her daughter was a woman. By each and every metric. In the 18th century, she would be considered the unlucky, unmarried daughter. But in my memories, she was much younger, maybe about 14 years old. My board game memories didn’t seem to match the reality. Had I known the girl earlier than I remembered? What was this about? Maybe it was all a dream.

Still rattled with doubt, I made plans to meet and smooth things out with the mother. There had been nothing illicit or devious about my relationship with her daughter. Anything sexual was purely imaginary. Yes, she was a pretty girl, but that was the older version of her. We had been playing board games, that’s all. Just board games! I picked up the phone and dialed her. Sometimes you had to face the music, even if you thought or felt you were wholly innocent.

The phone rang a few times and then her mother picked up.

the golden idol

THERE WERE multiple archaeological teams in pursuit of the golden idol. We just happened to get to the source first, but the others weren’t far behind. It was like a real football pileup. So many people wanted it, this small rectangular piece of wood. It was adorned with golden symbols and engraved with the face of a goddess whose name was H. The name was inscribed across the idol in a strange and unknown alphabet. The goddess’ face had a small mouth that could talk or rather whisper. In this way it imparted its secrets.

We took the idol back with us. Along the way, the golden idol turned into a lion.

***

WE TOOK the idol along to Maggie’s Farm. It was beside the Port of Tallinn and had direct access to the sea. Maggie was outside hanging laundry to dry when we arrived. I was afraid the lion would eat the rest of her livestock, but it curled up in the barn with the donkeys and geese and took a well-deserved nap. At the farm, there was a small ceramic figurine of the philosopher John Locke, but its face had broken off. I took it as my task to replace the Locke figurine, but this turned out to be harder than it seemed. At the same time, she bustled about in the other room, rushing with the renovation work. A lamp needed to be installed. A ceiling needed to be repainted. “Stop messing around with John Locke!” Maggie scolded me. “I need your help over here.” We were fighting just like in the old days. She couldn’t slow down.

***

THE WIND PICKED UP and carried away the lion. But it was no longer in the shape of a lion, but a large golden sphere. It blew up and away along the coast, in the direction of Pirita. Naturally, I ran after that. On the way, I passed a seaside pub where utterly worthless characters, most of them British, were playing cards. I took a stone staircase down to the sea, where there was another beachside bar. A British bartender materialized and helped me to pull the floating golden sphere, that had once been a lion, and had also once been an idol, from the sea. It was lodged between two rocks in the coastal waters. This Brit was friendly. He had a mustache and apron. He said, “All in a day’s work,” and smiled once we had the idol in hand.

***

TRIUMPHANT I returned with the sphere. I felt like I mattered, that I was worth something, and therefore worthy of affection. When I got back to Maggie’s Farm though she didn’t even look at me. She was too busy planning another renovation. This time the roof would get an upgrade. Her fortune teller Magda was there with her hair pulled up inside a white scarf, and a small Andean flute band had congregated and began to play. “But we don’t need all this bread and circus,” I told Maggie. “I’ve got the idol right here!” She didn’t listen. “Everything we need is right here, in this idol. Let’s go inside the house and make love.” Maggie couldn’t hear me. She was telling the roofers what to do. The Andeans were playing their songs. The fortune teller held a finger to her lips. Nobody could hear me. Everyone else was too busy to listen.

night swimming

CONGRATULATIONS on your marriage, someone said. I got married? I thought. When did that happen? “And her mother is so proud?” “She is?” “Yes, because you’re such a good person!” Then I knew I must be dreaming. This was the stuff of dreams. She was the girl, quite literally, of my dreams. But now we were married? There we were in some kind of apartment. It was night out. She was sitting there on the couch. She looked dazed, as if she too wasn’t quite sure what had happened or where she was. She said she wanted to be free. She made it very clear she wanted nothing to do with me. But there she was, sitting. “We’re really married?” I asked. She just blinked at me, but also looked a little tired. Like a kitten that is licking its fur a few more times before it takes another long nap. I walked over to the kitchen table. There were, sure enough, multiple documents in Estonian, with both of our names typed onto them. Abielutunnistus. The whole thing was puzzling. I had no recollection of getting married to her. But she was the girl of my dreams. The most beautiful woman, as I saw it, to be found on the green globe. These were facts, not to be doubted. Doubting them only made life a terror.

Quickly, I accepted this wondrous fate.

Later, I found myself walking through a tunnel. There was no light in the tunnel, and when I reached the end and felt for a door. When I opened it, seawater flooded in. I was afraid I would drown, but it only rose as high as my thighs. As I emerged from the tunnel, I saw someone leap over me into the water. I looked up and realized that the door was in an old tower. There were other dark forms up there, readying to leap into the waves. A young blond man came walking my way from the beach and I asked him what was happening. “Night swimming!” the youth announced. Then he proceeded to climb the tower to prepare for another big sea jump.

All along that beach, I could see people night swimming. The sea, they said, was warmer at night. There was a grand hotel along the promenade, perhaps built during the Victorian Era. It was very clear that I was in England now; I could tell from the people’s accents. Maybe some place like Brighton. “Is the water that warm?” I called out to someone. “Oh, yes, come in, love,” she answered. “It’s so lovely.” I waded into the seawater and an enormous wave rose up high. Thereafter I dove in straight. An exhilarating feeling.

When the sun came up, I could see the beach was not all it seemed. There was a lot of seaweed along the shore and it smelled rather ripe. There were a few cargo ships moored nearby. The smell of their fuel mingled with the sea detritus. At the hotel, a café had opened up. People were sitting around and having their morning coffee. Women in poofy white Victorian dresses and men with black bowlers. Waiters were taking their orders. I walked into the café and looked around. What else was there to do, but pull up a seat and order up my own hot cup?

number two man

THE ACTOR was at the bar, but seated a few stools down, and on the opposite side. He looked as he usually does, in fact, I can’t say he’s aged a day in 20 years. Longer hair, tucked behind his ears. A blue shirt open at the neck. Features that I suppose could be called both masculine and beautiful. Women loved him and men hated him. I had nothing against him, I just thought he was a fool. Just another fool. He had been drinking and the alcohol had loosened him up, he said, “And that’s why she left him, you know. He can’t kiss as good as I can in bed. She said he’s too soft, she needs a firmer, masculine kiss.” At this, all of the other men at the table laughed.

I turned to her, as she was also seated at the bar. She was dressed in some kind of Western-themed cowboy getup, like she was taking part in a traveling play about Annie Oakley. Saloon garb. Her golden hair was curled around her shoulders. She looked at me and she blushed.

“Is this true what he says?”

“Well, there are probably some things I need to tell you. I could show you.”

I fainted and fell from the bar stool. I ran out the saloon door into a dusty street. She came after me. “You need to calm down,” she said. “I’m sick of all your drama. Besides, I spoke with him. He said that he likes you, but that he knows that you don’t like him. So he just keeps away. Isn’t that nice of him?”

“I hate him.”

“But he doesn’t hate you. In fact, you’ve got a lot in common. He’s a creative, you’re a creative. There’s an apartment that came up for rent. It’s a cellar apartment, but you can both afford it. You boys could room together. And whenever I am back in town, you can both share me.”

“This situation destroyed my life.”

She looked away when I said this. Since when did I wind up in Tombstone or Yellowstone or The Adventures of Brisco County, Jr.? Maybe I had just been watching too many cowboy movies. Maybe this was just another dream. Nightmare dream of evil women. She came close to me, put her hand on mine. “Don’t be mad at him,” she said, stroking my hand. “You’ll always be my Number Two Man.” At that I took off down the street into the night. I ran and I ran and I ran.

lost in translation

AFTER A LONG period of blackout silence, I heard back from Dulcinea. She didn’t care how I was doing or feeling, but wanted me to translate something for an essay she had written, either for an employer or university. Actually, it had been translated already, by her or ChatGPT, but required a native speaker’s touch. It was just four or five sentences about some humdrum topic. I wondered if I should even touch it given the way she had treated me. The blocking, the ignoring, the side-eye, as they call it, did she even deserve my attention?

I walked away from her. She stood there, as if emerging from a gray alleyway, in a beautiful dress, with her hair all gold. I kept walking away but then something pinched me from within, and I turned around. Fine then, you’ve got me girl, I thought, as I walked back toward the rather sullen young woman. For life! I made quick work of Dulcinea’s translation request.

It didn’t help that Putin was in town with Kim Jong Un. There was a motorcade and ensuing security conference. The secret police were out in force. I led Dulcinea up a series of back alley stairs into a room where others were sheltering. Outside, it had begun to snow. I could hear the security police coming up the steps, and noticed that just outside the window there was another staircase. The window could be opened wide enough for us to escape. All we needed to do was jump and we would be free for a while. All we needed to do was have the courage to make that first big jump. “Don’t you want to be rescued?” I asked. “Don’t you want me to save you?” She had already befriended the others in the room. She didn’t want to go.

traditional music

I ALWAYS KNEW they had rooms for rent, or stay, in the cellar of the Pärimusmuusika Ait, or Traditional Music Center, but I did not know they had these kinds of exclusive suites, or that a woman had been living down there for some time. I didn’t even know how I happened to get into that room, or into her bed for that matter. We were lying together in a queen-sized bed, with messy beige sheets. The frame of the bed was made of a darker wood, and there were some shelves across from us lined with vinyls and compact discs of groups and solo performers supported in one way or another by the center, plus thick compilations of runo songs collected from various rural municipalities over the preceding century and a half.

None of that matters though. What matters I think is the quality of those kisses in that basement bed. She was a younger woman, she had a round face, freckles, blue eyes, and inside of those eyes was kindness. In situations like these, you don’t even need to kiss, you don’t even need to touch, you can just look at each other. It’s better than a kiss. There we both were, beneath the blankets, perched in some kind of euphoria. The young lady said, “Mother was right about you. She said you were a good kisser. And so good in bed.” This of course was fluff to my ears, and I almost found myself adopting a Sean Connery accent, “Yes, yes. Of course, Domino. Of course.” But that word that preceded it, mother, made me sit straight like a rock.

“Who is your mother?” I asked the beautiful girl. “You know very well who she is,” she said, in a playful way. “She’ll be here soon.” But didn’t even know that she had an adult daughter, and still was confused about it. Sexual anxiety throbbed in my veins. I pulled my trousers from a chair, buttoned up my blue shirt, and ran upstairs, the girl’s warm kisses still all over me. In the garderoob or coat room of the center, a number of folk musicians were arriving, among them the mother. She was so busy talking to a guitar player though that she didn’t see me as I grabbed my things and was out the door. I felt bad for her. I felt bad for everyone. I felt like I had done something wrong. I hoped that she would never know about this. She should remain blissfully unaware of the cellar tryst with her daughter. And it was still a loving experience.

You can’t deny that.