Neither Here Nor There
by Kevin O’Cuinn
He dreamt about peace and quiet, and women out of his league who weren’t at all interested in just being friends, for example. And teardrops as big as teaspoons that tasted like 12 year old malt. That was a good dream, one of the best. He didn’t believe in esoteric bullshit though, and the likes thereof, but when his dog died the same day his old lady left, he briefly considered enrolling at The Dream Academy. Maybe they could give him some pointers, stuff to look out for. So he called to enquire about terms and conditions and etceteras. And man, was he was disappointed to learn it was a soccer school. So why don’t you call it The Soccer Academy? They laughed a polite laugh, ho-ho-ho, everyone asks that, sir. So he went back to dreaming. He dreamt of low-flying clouds that resembled poorly drawn swarms of blackfly, and navigated the streets just above the treetops. And a circus strongman called Macel who was AWOL from the French Foreign Legion. He dreamt about touchdown passes. And the neighbours thundered down the stairs, and daylight drilled his eyes. He excelled at dreaming; he played an active role. He could COBOL way better in dream-time than in wake-time. Not that it mattered, he was a caretaker at the polytechnic after all. On occasion when his dreams got dark he’d throw his eyelids open, but mostly he stuck the pace and learnt how to deal with it, scary stuff and all. Dragons, goblins, law-suits.
He steered clear of tooth-dreams. The less he tooth-dreamed, the less he anxietied. It was a simple equation but simple equations sometimes hold the highest truths. If he anticipated a tooth-dream unfolding - a dentist, a white coat even - he’d jump into a bar maybe, or introduce some sun. He’d become that good. He liked to introduce sun into his dreams, it was good for his seromtonic levels, or however you call the happy hormone.
He was so busy in his dreams that by noon he’d be d-o-g tired, sometimes earlier. Like after that one time he ran amok on Sesame Street and took out Big Bird with an ax. Bitch had it coming. He’d become tired, so tired that he’d drift off on the bus or in the line at KFC. Wake- and dream-time became indistinguishable; his senses and faculties were as sharp in either place. So sharp, that he lost track of which world he was in. He suffocated late one Thursday while chewing gum, reciting ancient Sanskrit, and being especially kind to an exchange student from Munich called Heike. And that’s when things got really interesting.