Dreamer

by William Bowden

Giles was dreaming ... Good God! He was in bed with his ex: Dianna. Did he really miss her that much? It all seemed so familiar. Obviously they’d just been shagging, but he could tell from the cigarette marooned in the fleshy pout of her lips that his performance was deemed useless. She flashed the minutest of professional half-smiles at him — and he knew it had been bad. That peculiar withering look was practically patented ... and it signified unbridled failure: she’d had to fake an orgasm. He tried to open his mouth, to say something to her but nothing seemed to work, speech was impossible. As if to add insult to injury Dianna turned to him and said:

“Better get up, time for work.” That bitch, she knew he was unemployed, no wonder they’d split up! Abruptly an unfamiliar arm appeared before his eyes, bearing an alien watch: it’s dial showing the time was 7 am. He then heard a male voice saying:

“Yeah, yeah” ... and suddenly his viewpoint was shifting. He was entering an expensive looking bathroom. When a hairy arm turned the lightswitch on, Giles got a shock ...

He seemed to be peering into an unknown bathroom mirror and the face he saw before him was that of David; Dianna’s new boyfriend. David was smiling at himself and pulling faces. I always knew this guy was a loser, but why the fuck am I dreaming about him ? thought Giles.

The instant this question framed itself — another realisation appeared alongside. For the first time in his entire miserable life Giles was conscious that he was actually in a dream; this was obviously Lucid Dreaming. He’d heard of it of course, yes that was it — he truly knew he was in a dream-state. O.K. Shouldn’t it be possible to control the dream, to be bend it’s fragile ephemerality to his every whim, to play with the windows of reality till they only offered views he found beguiling. For this brief moment he contemplated the next move ...

As David had begun to shave, Giles contrived of a nasty ‘accident’ with the razor. No matter how hard he tried to control events however, the Rockape’s arms worked flawlessly at their task — shaving away with the practised action of a master. Damn it , thought Giles, what kind of a stupid dream was this? Forced to watch his enemy shaving? Couldn’t his mind come up with something better? David meanwhile appeared to have finished the job and was now dowsing himself with some aftershave. Giles could smell that all right — but the odd thing was that he usually hated that fragrance — now, however, it seemed almost attractive.

Whilst puzzling over this sensation something strange began happening. As David was examining his face in the mirror, Giles began to feel as if he could sense the guy’s actual thoughts. Initially it was just a sensation, much like an intuition or premonition. Then it was as if he were within David’s skull, floating around inside the brain. Although Giles could still see through David’s eyes into the mirror, he felt that another part of him was somehow observing internal mental processes. The more curiousity he felt about them — the clearer they became. They looked a little like strands of light, pulsating and whirring. Yes, they seemed to have a sound, a melody ... and he felt close to hearing it. With a supreme effort Giles focussed all his concentration on one particular filament.

It was larger than the others. The more he zeroed in on it, the less he seemed to ‘see’ through David’s eyes. In fact the strand now filled his conscious perception. The beam appeared to be made up of small parcels of light, like tiny packets of information flying along inside the perimeter. They had the structure and ... layout of ... sentences!

As Giles realised this, glimmers of possible meaning began to appear. At first it was just a word or two, then a phrase like: “my nose is bent” and “she’ll look good on my arm at the party”.

After a while he almost began to get the impression of an overview — like looking at a paragraph in a magazine. This David guy was a bastard! He was planning to take his secretary Elizabeth to a party on Sunday. There was no mention of Dianna, only a series of imaginings, like photographs, of what this Elizabeth might do when pissed! Giles began to feel repulsed and shied away from these hideous cogitations. As he did so, the thoughts became distant, lost like voices echoing in the back of a subway. Again he seemed to be looking at a series of strands of light, some close, some further away. He picked another dimmer looking shaft and zoomed in on it’s contents.

This time the process was much quicker, in seconds he understood that it was a memory from David’s childhood. Apparently David had burnt his Grandma’s wig, and it seemed so real to Giles as it blazed away in some distant time-frame, devoid of all relevance, but apparently right in front of him. The smell, the colour, the unruly satisfaction coursing through the young David’s brain; it was all too much like travelling in time. Giles thought: If only Dianne knew what kind of monkey she was dealing with here. Almost as soon as he made that observation, however, a whine-like sound filled his ears. He felt his consciousness being ripped apart ... he was ...

The sound of the telephone ringing filled the room. It was insistent, climbing into his ears, rattling him out of sleep. In his groggy state Giles remembered there was no answering machine anymore — it had belonged to Dianna. He could ignore the call ... through bleary eyes he looked at the bedside table. 7.38 AM. Fuck! Who the hell was ringing him at this hour ...? Clearing the sputum from his throat and picking up the phone he grumbled:

“Hullo?”

“Giles, it’s your mother!” His Mum’s voice responded in an overly formal tone.

“Oh really ? that’s interesting because I’m adopted — look whatever ’it is you’re selling I’m not interested at this hour in the morning.” He was wide awake now and reaching for his packet of Stuyvesants.

“Alright, alright ... I’ve just spotted this job in the paper, that’s all ... and since it’s dole day I thought ...“

“Thought what?” interrupted Giles firing up the Zippo in his left hand.

“You’re not still smoking are you Giles?”.

“No of course not,” said Giles exhaling noisily into the receiver.

“Do you want to know about this job or not?”

“Allright, whatcha ya got baby?”

“Oh Giles ... it’s in the Herald page 33, errrr ... top left hand corner!”

“Well what is it woman, groundsman at a girl’s school, spare-part surgeon?”

“You’ll find out ... and it’ll get you out of that flat. Got to run, ring me later and let me know how you get on. Bye!”

Giles lay back on the bed, puffing lazily away at the cigarette.

“Got to run.” That was a laugh. His mother never moved at more than a snail’s pace. She’d wanted to keep that conversation short for some reason. Must know about the recent breakup with Dianna somehow, or maybe she’d just wanted to see if he was still alive. Oh well, at least she was trying to help. He’d pick up the paper, make a few calls and then head down to Social Security. Perhaps after a little nap though. He hadn’t been up this early in aeons. It was inhuman. Then he remembered that freaky dream! — what was all that about? It was the weirdest dream he’d ever had ... no two ways about it.

As he sat thinking about David’s brain, a neighbour’s stereo blared into life. A Latino- chariot roared past on the street below; bleating out it’s characteristic; BOOM Tee BOOM Tee to the no-doubt deaf pilots... and the slumbering neighbourhood.

“Sweet Jesus!” he found himself saying. The universe had clearly conspired to get him out of bed at this unholiest of hours. So he gave in and got up.

“Giles Campbell?”

“Yeah, hi ...”

“Come in ... take a seat, I’m Geoff. I own Pygarg’s Vintage Watches.”

Giles found himself sitting down on the only available chair; it was little better than a piano-stool. The endless rows of wristwatches in the glass case that stood before him all showed 4.05pm. He was late again ...

“Now the guy from Job Centre told me that you don’t know much about ’watches, and youve had no retail experience. Before we even go any further, just tell me straight out. Are you interested in working with us here at Pygarg’s, or is this just another obligatory interview to keep the dole-cheques flowing?”

Wow this guy was a straight-shooter. Like a precision swiss mechanism, in fact he did sound slightly foreign, especially with a name like Pygarg. Before Giles had time to reply however, the door to the shop swung open.

“Hi there! Are you interested in second-hand Rolex’s?” came a booming male voice.

Geoff swung into action. Looking at Giles sternly as if to say: “sit boy”, he swivelled to face the customer. Giles noted a calculated look of disinterest flowing over Geoff’s face.

“The market’s a little quiet at the moment, but we’re always looking. What have you got?”

“A Red Submariner Date; Box and papers,” came the reply.

Although Giles now had his back to both Geoff and the interloper, he could see them both in the reflection of a nearby mirror. The Rolex guy was big and swarthy. He almost dwarfed little Geoff. Giles immediately began questioning himself: What the fuck was he doing here? He didn’t want to deal with the public — he knew nothing about watches. As if to underly this conviction he gazed idly down into the glass case. The rows of Rolex watches smiled back at him. Hullo!, he thought, there was a diver’s watch with a special card beside it. The card read: Red Submariner, no papers but very rare $5000. Bargain. A bargain at $5000? Jesus, maybe he should look into this watch thing. In the background he could hear the voices of the other two droning on. Eventually they ceased and Giles realised the big guy had asked the big question:

“So what’ll you give me for it?”

The room was silent, save for the traffic outside and a few muttering clocks. Geoff seemed to pause, as if weighing up his options, he sighed ... and then finally offered:

“Well, the most I can give you is $1500. That’s about all they’re ...”

“Hang on!” Giles piped up. “Didn’t you say a Red Submariner? There’s one here for five grand!” Turning round to face them, Giles pointed at the watch with it’s all-too-flamboyant special card.

“... and no papers, either!” were the last words Giles yelled ... as he was thrown from the shop. Geoff’s face was a mask of controlled fury. Somebody had upset his ‘Officially Certified’ existance and he wasn’t happy. Giles was ranting: He’s wound up way too tight. How’d he think he was going to get away with that one? I s’pose he just thought he’d drape me over his cases to avoid customers. Well fuck him ! I’ll never see him or his stupid clocks again!

That night Giles dreamed once more. This time he found himself inside Geoff Pygarg’s brain. It was vastly different from David’s. The strands of light were there again. But in this mind they were of an altogether finer weave. Closely packed — like the glass cases in his shop. There was no sense of sound attached to anything at all. Giles couldn’t even see through Geoff’s eyes. It was all cerebral-mental-architectural. For starters, this guy’s brain was more like a library. Everything appeared to be catalogued, organised, laid out. There were large strands that sectioned off smaller partitions — and these led to even tinier filaments. Not surprisingly a huge amount of space seemed assigned to wristwatches. The first large strand Giles encountered was the watch brand OMEGA. Branching off this were many smaller threads, so he chose the largest one.

Immediately his mind was filled with information: The OMEGA MOONWATCH, the only wristwatch ever worn on the moon. Calibre 321 is the original mechanism. Buy for around $1200. Sell for around $3000. Calibre 861 is the technically superior version, not as collectable, still in production, only worn on MIR and some early shuttle flights. RRP $3675. See STOCK. At this point Giles became aware of another strand coming into view spontaneously; as if required. As soon as he concentrated on it more information appeared. 1 x Calibre 321 in stock $3200-3000. Good God, thought

Giles. Geoff’s a fucking computer !

He pulled away from the strand and tried to get more of an overview again. There were several clusters of strands with a bluish tinge nearby so he went for it. Hey, it was the memory Geoff had of the interview. He could see himself sitting in the micro-chair, looking dishevelled. It was uncanny viewing one’s self through spectator’s eyes. His posture looked appalling. Then there was the fat Rolex guy, and there he was; being shown the door. Wait a minute. Why was the Rolex guy laughing. In fact why was Geoff laughing — as his reflection in that mirror clearly showed. Geoff was saying:

“It’s a quick interview technique, but it always works mate.”

“Yeah, ’no time wasters’ eh Geoff,” said the big guy, handing Geoff the watch, box, papers, everything he came into the shop with.

“He was too honest ... and a little outspoken ... they all are.”

Giles laughed. Well ol’ Geoff was just full of surprises. So the big guy was a set up — a test. That was cool. He’d failed, and no job meant more dole. That was excellent, just what the Dr ordered, ideal really ...

Then Giles caught himself. He was acting as if this was real. For all he knew this was just another dream, and Geoff Pygarg wanted him dead. He made a mental note to phone a watchdealer when he woke up. After all, the Astronauts probably did wear something on their wrists. Meanwhile there were other strands that looked interesting. Unusual colours, and now there was a sound, a thumping sound a bit like a drum ...

Giles snapped awake.

Thump, Thump, THUMP! Shit, someone was smashing down the front door ! Or was he still dreaming ? Experimentally he got up and crept towards the entranceway.

“Can I help you ?” he called out, half expecting to find that this was still some back closet in Geoff’s mind.

“Giles ... open the fucking door!”

It was Dianna. Giles deliberately took his time, wrapping a manky towel round his waist. Opening the door, he fired off his first salvo:

“Ohhh, you’ve come back darling. I s’pose that tart Elizab ...”

“Piss off, I’m here for the rest of my stuff.” she interrupted, pushing past him into the flat.

“ I can see you’ve been entertaining yourself, it stinks in here!” she said while shoving magazines back into an old cardboard box.

“Well, if I’d known you were coming over ... what time is it anyway?”

“It’s half past one, and NO! I don’t want to relive a few old times. ” : This was said as Giles began provocatively adjusting his towel.

“But darling, I’ve grown so much since I saw you last ...”

“You’re pathetic Giles, and the tragedy is — you know it!”

“Yeah ... well least when I’m by myself I don’t have to fake orgasms. It must be wonderful doing that with David.”

“Look Dickhead, I’m leaving you to your Han Solo routine. Enjoy it!” and with that she was launching past him into the hallway. At this Giles threw caution to the wind and yelled after her:

“You’ll be sorry on Sunday!”

He slammed the door violently. How satisfying. Then rushing to the cabinet and pulling out the Yellow Pages he muttered:

“I must find out if these dreams are real or if I’m going insane”.

Suspecting the former, but preparing for the worst, he skipped past the ill-fated ’Pygargs listing. Danny’s Vintage Watches sounded like a probable candidate. He dialed and promptly a voice answered:

“Danny’s, Chris speaking,”

“Oh, hi there. I was after an OMEGA watch. It’s called The Moonwatch,”

“Hang on a second ... I’ll just check,”

In the pause that followed, Giles listened frantically at the receiver. There was too much traffic noise in the background, he couldn’t hear a thing! Finally Chris’s voice re-appeared:

“We haven’t got one in stock, but there’s one down at Pygarg’s. It’s a Calibre 321, very collectible I’m told. I can give you the number if you’d ...” Giles convulsively dropped the receiver. It couldn’t be ...

Time seemed to grind to a halt. He scrabbled for a Stuyvesant, hand shaking as he attempted to light up. The ramifications were almost too staggering to contemplate. He’d NEVER heard of a moonwatch, it was something in the dream — in Geoff’s mind - Fuck, he had been inside Geoff’s brain; HOW ELSE COULD IT HAVE HAPPENED! I must calm down, he thought. Then he began laughing. CALM DOWN. How the hell was he going to do that? Visit the brain of a Yogi?

Giles was so exited he wouldn’t be able to sleep for a week. Imagine the possibilities. A top level adviser to the government. The guy who could solve every crime! He’d even know gameshow questions the night before. If a girl was interested in him, he could do his homework on her. Roswell and Area 51 could be his: if he could just get inside the right mind. I wonder what John Howard’s brain is like, he laughed to himself. I bet it doesn’t exist !

“I’m going to be a star !” he yelled, dancing round the room. Everything was going to change. Giles could feel it. And I won’t tell a fuckin soul , he mused.

Stuff the police, stuff the government — I’m gonna make me some cash !

Giles was flying high. As he sat comfortably eating his lunch in a city restaurant, it really felt as if everything had fallen into place. Even the reliance on sleeping pills had been easing up lately. Courtesy of Rupert Murdoch’s advice, among others, Giles no longer had to worry about money. Gone were the endless nights of studying the brains of stockbrokers, analysts, and corporate giants. Of looking through annual reports for pictures of executives who might know something he could use. He still needed at least a photograph to focus on, otherwise he could end up anywhere — as his ‘jumps’ inside random passerbys had clarified. But as a general rule things were under control. He now felt that even if his gift failed him, life would be bearable. Still, he was grateful for it’s continued power, and always looking for improvements ...

Recently he’d discovered that visiting several minds a night was possible. If he found himself inside a dud it was easy to move on to the next. A simple case of refocussing and he was there. At times Giles felt like a vampire. Operating only at night, and without the victim’s knowledge; in and out like an invisible spirit. He could now read minds very easily. The structure had become so familiar that most of the time he was simply browsing these days. Occaisionally there was something unusual in the chemistry of the construction — only last week a schizophrenic girl had been a source of surprise. Once the natures of her mind-loops had become apparent however, Giles quickly lost interest.

For a while he’d fallen in love with musicians, and spent many happy hours performing with them at concerts, rehearsing and composing. He’d tried a few artists, but their progress was so slow ...it was about as fascinating as dentistry. Their parties were the most interesting bit, a few of them real beauties!

TV stars and Actors weren’t all they were cracked up to be either. Everything in the entertainment world was done in such a hurry — with all this hanging around in between. And as for Roswell; it seemed that only the loonies really believed in it.

His latest project was the most challenging. It really pissed Giles off that he had to be asleep in order to get inside people’s heads. Could he do it during wakefulness? Surely there had to be a way. After a little research, a potential clue has revealed itself: meditation. That, combined with a little self-hypnosis, was beginning to look very promising. Only the other day, during a deep trance, there had been tantalising glimmers of a possible “jump” inside a next-door neighbour’s head. He felt on the edge of a break-through, this new method — if it came off — would really rev things up a notch!

These musings were interrupted by the arrival of three businessmen at the next table. Dressed in the stock-standard penguin-suits, to Giles they represented a source of data he’d abandoned long ago. Pure information, facts, figures, deals nothing more. It was obvious they were here to broker some kind of “arrangement”. These business lunches were all the same. The bald one with his back to Giles was clearly on the defensive. The other two — who looked like mafioso thugs — just seemed to be staring him down. The bald guy turned side on to Giles and looked out the window. All this ridiculous posturing. Baldy trying to look disinterested. He wasn’t fooling anyone!

Returning to his Capucchino after one of the thugs gave him a nasty look, Giles suddenly felt a wave of deja vu. Was it Baldy that’d brought it on? Yes maybe there was something familiar about him. Racking his brain for a lead, all he could come up with was the vague impression that he’d seen him in a lawyer’s mind some time ago. Then again these corporate types were pretty generic, and there’d been so many minds in the last few months. I should really visit my friends instead of all these strangers, he surmised — and immediately made a mental note to check up on his Mum and Dianna that evening. Moving his chair back slightly, so that there was little chance of the bald character bumping him unexpectedly, Giles decided to try another trance: right here right now. It was unlikely the waiters would disturb him, and he had to be able to do this in public places - otherwise what was the point?

Beginning with the Tibetan mantra: Om mane padme hum, he cleared his mind and began breathing deeply. The hardest thing was to shut off that rambling inner voice. He must find try to find peace — that alluring and most delicate state of non-verbal calm. It was almost ironic that to find relaxation — effort was required.

After what seemed like an age however, the inner voice died away — and with it the mantra. Giles felt as if he was floating in the unruffled waters of his subconscious. He’d been this far before: the trick was to extend his awareness to encompass the room somehow, without fluctuating, without waking. Extending his perceptions, becoming one with the space around him. Allowing the sounds and smells to pass through him, listening, sensing, untouched by what he observed, unaffected by events. To be both centered and expanded to hear without reacting, to travel without moving, to rise above ... beyond ... this body ... this form ... this space ... to try and ...

And there he was. It was done. Where was he ...?

After some initial disorientation it became clear. Giles had ‘jumped’ into the mind of one of the mafioso thugs. The first thing he saw was the bald guy in profile, and then just behind him; his own body — still sitting upright in the chair — head tilted slightly forward. Giles fought back the exitement, this was fantastic: his very own form of astral travel, he could actually see himself — although the thug’s eyes were very focussed on the bald guy for some reason.

Giles allowed a warm sense of achievment to flow through him. Fuck! He’d done it — at long last. This was a whole new beginning, a new set of possibilities. Still time for that later, he’d better get back, the expression on the bald guy’s face was an indicator that out in the real world things could take an ugly turn.

As he began to consider how to get back to his own body, events took hold of the situation for him. The bald guy was standing up and appeared to be yelling at Giles’ host. Surely that would wake up his body, surely the backward-thrusted chair would bump into him, wake him up, get him the fuck out of this moron’s head!

No, the chair had missed by a whisker! He must concentrate, WAKE UP, WAKE UP! he screamed to himself. Nothing happened. Then he was in real trouble: watching with a horrified fascination and the thug pulled a gun and aimed it at Baldy’s chest. Shit! he was in a direct line of fire and there was no chance to duck, if that guy pulled the trigger ...

Bang!: A plume of blood erupted from the bald guy’s chest.

Bang!: Another bullet slammed into the neck as Baldy went down.

Giles could still see through the mafioso’s eyes! Perhaps he hadn’t been hit, perhaps he’d made it, could still escape ...?

All these hopes faded in light of what Giles saw next. The mafia guy was standing stock still — not even lowering the weapon. Through his ears Giles could hear muted screaming and his companion yelling;

“Come on Joe, let’s get outta here!”

And in that sickening pause Giles saw the shattered remains of his own skull, strewn all over the coffee table, blood mingling with Capuchino, slumped like a stringless puppet. Fuck! he’d been shot in the head, right in the temple and the other side of his head was ... missing! There was no chance his body was still alive — let alone his precious brain.

As Joe headed for the exit of the restaurant, against a tide of terrified customers, Giles inner-voice came up with a single chilling observation:

He was trapped ... trapped in his own murderer’s mind.