An Eye for an Eye

Jack wasn’t sure how long it had been since he became aware of his surroundings. A day, a week, maybe only an hour? But no one else noticed his heightened consciousness. Was it real? He didn’t care. It was an interesting, even fun, experience.

Jack had already taken a walk by now. It had been a lot of fun, though it felt strange to go through the motions of walking without touching any solid surface. But Jack started feeling depressed when he tried to get a drink of water in the hallway fountain. Try as he might, the liquid simply slipped through his lips. Slipped wasn’t really the right word. No, more like passed.

Preoccupied with the distinction, Jack almost didn’t notice the broken form of a woman sitting beside him. Strange, too, that he could see even though his eyes were closed. The wardrobe mirror told him that. So pale and limp, he looked like death, but he knew better.

He felt the warmth of a hand in his, and the wetness of a tear that splashes on his cheek.

Mary.

The sound of thunder echoes about the room as a doctor appears in the room in a flash. Jack strained his eyes to focus on his face, but he didn’t recognize him.

“Mrs. Jameson?” The voice is warm and compassionate.

“You’re Dr. Peterson. I rec…” A sudden look of shock heighted her features as she turned to fully face the doctor.

“Yes, I am. I’d like…”

Mary cut him off. “He didn’t mean to, you know. It was an accident.” His wife was sitting vigil at her husband’s bedside, watching, waiting, holding the warmth of the hand that seems to be all the life left in him. A tangle of brown hair matted across her face from the constant crying, she barely looks up at the approaching nurse.

“Mrs. Jameson. Please. I’d like to speak with you in my office.” The doctor reaches out and guides Mary from the worn chair and out the door.

Jack was a good man, a kind man, and one day he’d wake up from this nightmare, and everything would be normal again. He is sure of that.

Normal was being full of life, reaching out to those in need and sharing what he could to make someone else feel a little less lost in their world gone mad.

When he met Mary, he knew instantly she was the one he was going to spend the rest of his life with. When she bore him a child five years ago, he couldn’t have been happier. It never bothered him that the son he wanted turned out to be a daughter.

When his wife was well enough after the birth, he invited the whole neighborhood over for a block party when Mary was up to it, and later there was no distinction between baby dolls and fighter planes in their household: time and effort was afforded each, rounding out his little girl’s upbringing in a way he felt would help her later on in life.

And when they found out they could have no more children, he wrapped his arms around her to ease her tears and disappointment, comforting her with hopeful words about adopting anytime, if that’s what she wanted.

Jack gets up from the bed and glides toward the door. Before leaving the room, he looks back and sees himself lying still of the bed. Curious thing, this ability.

Through the hallways he drifts, not really knowing where to go. And yet he feels something pulling at him, guiding him.

The sense is growing stronger. Tearing at him now, feeding a insatiable hunger, gnawing at him. Burning. He passes through one final door and is in the office.

Suddenly an icy chill swallows him. The bright light fades to barely a dim glow.

“Mrs. Jameson. What we believe your husband is suffering from is a lack of will. His mind is stuck and cannot heal.”

“He didn’t mean to, you know. It was an accident.”

“Yes, I know. But nevertheless, your husband is in grave condition and could remain in this state indefinitely. I want to help your husband.” He stared coldly at the frail woman.

She said nothing.

“I need to help your husband.”

For a long time, she sat and stared blankly into space, pacing the doctor’s reaction to her own. “What do you intend to do?”

Mary, is that you? He mouths instinctively, but she cannot hear him.

“I have been working on a method by which we can stimulate his brain in such a way to make it receptive to outside influence. In short, Mrs. Peterson, we can control his mind, his thoughts, his will.” There was an uneasy sense of pride in the doctor’s voice.

“I see.” Mary’s response sounded far away, automatic and mechanical.

“I must have your permission to help your husband! My…” the doctor paused as if cutting off his train of thought in mid-stream. He averts his gaze. “My whole professional life has been devoted to this moment even more than you can possibly realize.”

Mary, I’m so cold. Please hold me. But there is no reaction from the sullen woman sitting before him.

The icy cold, at first outside, begins burning his insides. Overwhelming fear. His muscles tense and begin cramping.

“And will this help your d…”

The doctor slams his fist against the desk, cutting her off and making her jump. “Dammit, yes!”

Jack also jumped at the seemingly irrational emotional outburst. He glances past Mary,
straining to focus on the doctor.

Another blast of icy air.

Cold sweat. Breathing unsteady, shallow, rapid. Heart pounding. Nausea.

A foul stench of death pervades his nostrils, choking.

He wretches to vomit, but it is a dry heave.

He’s back in his bed, sweating, exhausted, thirsty.

***

Like an amputee convinced of feeling where there is a limb no more, he can’t understand why she doesn’t hear him. Then he realizes his ears now only hear the wanderings of his mind.

He looks long and hard at the hazy outline of the two as droplets of tears ooze from his eyes but don’t wet his face. Strange, he thinks, that he could feel her tears but not his own. Maybe he only imagined he could feel hers. Maybe his mind was lying to him again.

He looks over and sees his wife engrossed in conversation with the portly nurse. Try as he might, all he hears are distant echoes that fade into nothingness, drowned out by a louder voice closer to him.

It’s his voice, himself, standing at the foot end of the bed, but it isn’t a bed anymore. He’s lying face up, surrounded in the softness of silken padding. He hears the distant chirps of birds calling through a soft morning mist that surreally enshrouds the scene.

A different voice now. Someone else is talking to him but he cannot see them clearly, as if a veil is draped across his face. Though the words are loud and rhythmic, he can’t make them out, for they are muffled as if he’s inside a box.

The clouds roll in, bursting open and flooding his padded resting place with a harsh down-pour. Opening his mouth, he feels each droplet splash on his tongue. Sweet. No, salty. Yes, definitely salty. And warm.

Yet the breath of the people gathered around hangs lazily in the crispness of the winter morning.

He blinks, and the scene is gone, replaced by the soft tone of his wife’s voice. “I understand, Doctor. When can you start?” Hope? Firm resolution?

Doctor?

“We’re ready to begin as soon as you sign the papers. Our specialist is anxious to start the treatment as soon as possible, so if you don’t mind, I’ll get the forms for you now.”

“Then he’ll be all better?” Mary’s despondent tone cuts into Jack. He’s not used to hearing his wife so distressed, and it hurts.

“Please understand, Mrs. Jameson. The treatment is completely experimental. There are no guarantees.”

Mary smiles as she looks over to his bed. “I have to at least try.” Mary then turns to the doctor and looks into his eyes for some sign that he knows Jack will be okay, but his eyes, narrowed and tired of the facade, reflect her own exhaustion and frustration, not the glimmer of hope she wants to see.

The doctor leaves Mary alone with Jack, giving her the chance to ease her grip on herself. Tears in her eyes smudge her makeup, but Jack can’t tell where the mascara ends and the dark rings of sadness and exhaustion begin. Through it all though, even now she looks beautiful to him.

The doctor promptly returns with a small bundle of papers he eagerly hands to Mary. Flipping each page, her eyes scan quickly down to the bottom as she feigns comprehension. She knows there is no choice now. She must sign the papers no matter what they say. But her face is awash in puzzlement Jack don’t understand.

“They’re already filled in and dated.”

“Yes, Mrs. Jameson, they are. We’ve been keeping them here for you for about the past month, waiting for just the right time…” His eyes narrow on Jack.

“Right time?” What’s wrong, Mary? You sound so desperate, so urgent? What’s he hiding?

“Please, Mrs. Jameson, we are only interested in what’s best for your husband. It was too early for us to even consider changing his treatment. But now we feel we have no choice.”

“He’s a good man, you know.”

A flash of colored light streaks by me, a hallucination or a passage to a plain Jack is unfamiliar with he doesn’t know which. Roses cover his face, the petals old and withered with only the scant remnant of color. If not for the thorns, he’d not know what they were. But as he brushes them from his face, the thorns move and tickle, not pricking as he remembers they should. Straining, he looks further down his body to see millions of maggots oozing from holes in his rotting flesh, but when he opens his mouth to scream, it falls away to become some succulent tidbit for the ravenous larvae.

Another flash of light brings him back to the hospital room, unaware of how much time has passed.

His wife has returned to her perch in the chair by his bed when the door bursts open again. A tall man dressed in a white uniform with a long white jacket comes in shuffling a small stack of papers in his hands.

“Mrs. Jameson, I presume?”

“Yes, that’s right. Who are you?”

“You don’t know how I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. We all appreciate the opportunity to help your husband. We’re going to see to it he gets only the best treatment here.”

“What is this…this new treatment?”

“Ah, what is it indeed! In simple terms, your husband does not have the strength to pull himself back to our reality. With my research, I have found a way to penetrate the subconscious mind and control it. By controlling the subconscious, I can stimulate good thoughts, powerful thoughts I can use to build up his strength. Eventually we’ll be able to take over his thoughts and stimulate him artificially.”

“Is it safe? I mean, how many people have you tested this with.”

The doctor’s eyes drift to the floor. Then they focus directly on her, piercing into her with their determination.

“It is safe. I will prove that. Your husband will be the first to benefit from my research.”

Doctor, I’m here! Why can’t you see that?

“But he’s been here a month already and…and…”

“Mrs. Jameson, your husband is doing just fine. We’ve had him on the treatment since he arrived. I’m sorry we could not let you see him before now, but we must gain control without the possibility of outside emotional influence.”

A blank look of acceptance washes over her as she looks over to me. In her hand a small white handkerchief poised at the ready.

The doctor moves just a little too smoothly, too enthusiastically and willing to extend a helping hand. What was he doing to me? Who’s that in the other partition? All these tubes stuck in me. God! They hurt so much. I can’t stand the pain, but I feel no pain. Why don’t I feel the pain? I’m so thirsty…water. Hey you, can’t you hear me? I said I want a drink of water!

The attendant keeping a watchful eye over my every need doesn’t stir.

Jack’s eyes suddenly focus on the room. A bright light in the ceiling…no…several lights grouped together in a ball, each one shining down into his eyes nearly blinding him. Yet despite the glare, he can see his wife, dressed in her best Sunday outfit, watching from across the room with their daughter by her side. Something warm and wet on his face, a foul odor in his nose. He reaches out and feels the softness of long fur. A dog.

“Hey boy, how’d you get in?” Smiling and grateful, he looks over at his family and sees the dog playing with a roll of gauze by their side. As if sensing his stare, the dog looks up at him, waggers over and jumps up on the bed to lick his face. He pets the dog, shaking off the déjà vu.
“Mrs. Jameson, I think we are achieving planal control now.”

“How long have you been doing this? Is he okay?”

“He’s perfectly fine. We had a slow start, but after fifteen treatments this month I think we’re seeing some results.”

Results of what, you fucking moron! I’ve only just gotten here and you’ve done nothing. Nothing! NOTHING!

“Hello Mister. Are you okay?”

He jumps, panicked at the voice, and spins around to see a little girl.

“Are you okay Mister?”

“Y… yes, I’m fine. Y… You can hear me?

“Of course, silly.”

“Oh….thank God, you can hear me. I thought I was going insane.”

“Where’s that?”

“It doesn’t matter. Who are you?”

“I’m Sammy.”

“That’s a funny name for a little girl.”

“I’m really Samantha, but I don’t like that name.”

“Why not? What’s wrong with Samantha?”

“The boys won’t let me play with them when they call me Samantha. I guess Sammy is easier for them to pronounce.” She winks at him as if keeping some great secret.

“You’re a little young to be playing with boys, aren’t you?”

She rolls her eyes immediately, a frown on her face. “I am not. I’m almost eight!” Her blonde hair, done up in pigtails tied with little red bows frames her slightly pudgy babyface. Blue eyes like glacial ice almost smother his stare at her. Where did she come from, and who was she?
“What are you doing here?” His voice, soft and warm, drifts like an emotional void.

“Wanna play hopscotch?”

“What?”

“You know, hopscotch.”

“I can’t. I can’t get up.”

“Sure, you can. All ya gotta do is try.”

“Look, uh, Sammy, I don’t know who you are, but I think I know better than you what I can and cannot do.”

“Aw, you just don’t wanna play with me.”

“I can’t”

“Try!”

“I can’t! Honest!”

“Yes, you can…TRY!” The shrill pierce of her scream makes him cringe in pain as he covers his ears, but his legs do move in response, and he’s amazed as they take his weight.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”

“Huh, huh. See? I told you so. Now, who gets to go first?”

He looks up to the sound of a barking dog in the distance. A chill runs through him as he watches the little girl draw out the hopscotch squares with chalk. From where? He realizes he’s outside now, on a sidewalk in front of an old, wooden house he doesn’t recognize. Cars pass by slowly, a lawnmower hums nearby, a mailman approaches and smiles at the little girl.
“Hi there, Sammy. Having fun?” he says as he passes.

“Hi Mr. Jimmy. Me and my friend are gonna play hopscotch.” The mailman looks to Jack puzzled. Jack smiles and shrugs his shoulders.

“Don’t believe I know you, Mister. You’re not from around here?” Jimmy cautiously eyes Jack. I read you Jimmy. Must seem strange for a grown man, a stranger, to be hanging around a little girl like this but now I can’t begin to explain how I got here or even where here is.

“I’m Jack Jameson. This little girl just asked me to play with her,” he says.

Jimmy turns to the little girl, a look of concern on his face. “Now Sammy, you know you’re not supposed to talk to strangers.”

“Oh, but Mr. Jimmy, he’s no stranger to me.”

He turns back to Jack. “Jack Jameson huh? The Jack Jameson? Well, can never be too careful these days you know.”

“Ya, I know,” his mind racing. What was he doing here? “Never know what kind of freaks might come to prey on a kid like Samantha here.”

“I told you it’s Sammy!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot”

“That’s okay. Everyone does, so I remind them.” Sammy continues chalking the lines on the sidewalk.

Jack steals a glance around hoping for clues. What was this place and what was he doing here? Suddenly, as if someone turned out the sun, it’s black and cold. A blinding light flashes in his eyes and he can hear the faint cry of the little girl. What was she saying? “Nooooo!”

“Doctor, he seems to have stabilized.”

“Good. Is the system ready?”

What are you talking about? Yes, there you are. I see you now. Are you clearing the haze or is that my doing?

“Jack?”

Who’s that?

“There it is again Doctor.”

“What the hell is it? I’ve never seen anything like it”

“Doctor, what’s wrong?” My wife! God, she sounds scared. Where are you, Mary?

“Nurse, would you please escort Mrs. Jameson to the waiting room. Now!”

Jack is on a grassy lawn, the sun warm and bright. A splash nearby, he sees a duck quacking its way across the small pond in front of him, watches the duck as it swims, darting in one direction and then abruptly changing course.

Suddenly, the duck utters a gut-wrenching shriek amidst frantic splashing. Something has caught it from underneath. The duck fights for its life, quacking and honking. It disappears under the water, then breaks the surface. Free, it limps its way to the side of the pond to in front of Jack, and collapses on the bank. Jack’s eyes bulge wide in amazement as he rushes down to do what he can for the unfortunate duck.

“Lovely day, isn’t it?” His wife’s voice, calm and quiet, startles him. He walks back to the blanket now spread where he had been sitting, the injured duck in hand. Small containers of food strewn before them, a bottle of champagne given pride of place in the cooler. It’s feels like he’s done this before and yet has no clue what will happen next.

“Mary? What are you doing here?”

“Have you found salvation?” What the hell are you talking about?

“I’m serious!” Jack shoots back.

“Block the light, Jack.” Jack can see Mary, but it’s like a scene from a romance movie casting her in a soft focus. He reaches out to touch her.

“Hey! Jack’s back!” Someone calls out from behind him. Surprised, he twists around to see who the voice belongs to but is immediately surrounded by a throng of people all with their hands thrust out to greet him. Pats on the back and smiles everywhere follow him as he moves toward the bar.

“The usual, Mr. Jameson?” The barkeep asks calmly while drying a glass with his apron wrapped about his waist.

“Huh?” Jack’s not sure of the question, not sure of himself for that matter.

“Do you want your usual?” The barkeep puts the clean glass on the teakwood bar.

“Uh, ya, sure. Fine,” he says automatically, looking around the tavern.

“It’s nice to have you back with us Mr. Jameson. This one’s on the house.” A broad, disarming smile doesn’t help warm the coldness of loss.

“Uh, okay. Thanks….”

“No sir, thank you!”

He doesn’t know this fellow, but the fellow seems taken with his presence.

“Jack! How the hell are you? It’s been a while since I’ve seen you here. Wife keeping you tied down like a good little boy?”

Jack turns into the gaping smile of an enthusiastic man. Tom…Tom…damn, I can’t remember your name. I know you, but from where?

“Jack, my man, you’re looking a bit pale. Feeling all right?”

“Ya, sure, just a touch of something. Where are we?”

“Mr. Jameson, that sounds like more than a touch of something?” The barkeep slides the drink toward him, and he thankfully picks it up and takes a large gulp.

“A touch of withdrawal, I’d say. Hey, I want you to meet a couple of friends of mine.” Tom’s demeanor is alarmingly enthusiastic, but Jack is looking for answers, and Tom seems to be a good place to start.

“I really shouldn’t. I just dropped in for…” He looks down at his drink inquisitively, hoping for further clues. His usual? What was his usual? Yellow with a touch of red floating on the bottom of the glass. Tom wraps an arm around him and leads him to a table where two young women are seated.

“Ladies, this is Jack. Jack Jameson.” The grin on Tom’s face looks painful to Jack, but the warmth of the two ladies stirs his attention. This must be a dream, right?
“Hello ladies.”

“This is Charene, and her friend Carol.”

“Nice to meet you,” he says. The young women look at each other as if empathically linked, asking questions and subtly giggling at the answers.

“Are you the Jack Jameson?”

“That’s me.” Jack feels a sense of pride rising as the two ladies beam with excitement.

“Oh m’God! I can’t believe I’m talking to the Jack Jameson! I wish Teresa could see me.” Carol gasps slightly as her words trail off.

Did she just have an orgasm? Well, she’s off to a good start for herself. Charene is panting with excitement.

“So, Jack, where ya been all this time. Jesus, it must be five years since you’ve ventured into this part of town. I mean, with winning the Nobel prize and all. How’s that pretty wife of yours?”

Nobel prize? He looks at the young ladies now squirming disappointedly. So, what if I have a wife? This is a dream and I can do anything I want.

“You ladies do like to have fun?” Tom’s eyes glare wantonly.

Their squirming subsides as the two ladies look at him wide-eyed. “Sure, we do. What do you have in mind?”

“Tom? Uh, can I talk to you for a moment?” Jack can feel his knees twitching with nerves. Even in a dream Jack feels awkward. This is not helpful to him at all.

“Sure Jack, anytime.”

“Are these friends of yours, or are they, uh, business acquaintances?”

“What’s the difference?”

What’s the difference? Now that is a good question. I’ll bet these ladies would love to bag the elephant, and I’ll even bet the elephant’s truck is full of just what they want.

“You’re right, Tom. What’s the difference?” He laughs, joined by the other three.

“Barkeep! More drinks all around.” Tom shouts out to the bar.

Jack again looks around the tavern, relaxed confidence mixes through him as the red and yellow in his glass merge to orange. His mood is changing. Perhaps he needs to play the game to see the outcome? Maybe then his questions will be answered.

He stares at Charene, her pouting lips overflowing with desire, her eyes gleaming, riding a high of commercial hospitality, her red hair flowing over full, shapely breasts. He fancies her, and Carol can tell.

“We both like to have fun. Charene and I like each other a whole lot and I’m sure we could make you very, very happy.”

Jack eats up her words, his eyes lighting up at the thought of sharing the two women at the same time. But then there’s Tom. Dammit Tom, go away.

“Jack, here’s my card. I’ve gotta run now but call me sometime and we’ll get together for lunch or something.”

Jesus Tom! What are you, clairvoyant?

“Sure. I’ll do that,” he says, staring at Charene and Carol hungrily.

Jack waits until Tom is gone before speaking again. “What do you girls like to do then?”

“Anything you want.” Charene says.

“Anything?”

“Anything.” Carol’s voice tranquil and seductive.

Jack looks down at the table to gather his thoughts, his mind ablaze with the two young women naked.

“Jack, where’d you go?” The little girl was nearly in tears as she tugged at his jacket.

On the sidewalk again, he is looking down at the little girl standing beside him, her red hair no longer tied in pigtails. She’s nude.

Jesus, what the fuck? He rips off his jacket and wraps it hastily around her, jerking his head from side to side to see if anyone might have seen them. When he looks at her again, he sees her dress extending down from beneath his jacket and breathes a sigh of relief.

Her big, blue eyes stare sadly from behind the blond curls now messed across her face. The chalk squares are faded from use, the dog is still barking in the distance. She grabs his hand and leads him toward the house. Up the front steps across the creaking porch and through the door, Jack has no clue what to expect.

“Mommy. This is Jack. Jack James…James…”

“Jack Jameson! What? Oh my! What are you doing here?” The woman is standing in the kitchen, an apron round her waist soaked with water and suds from the sink full of dishes. Her golden hair like her daughter’s, her eyes the same glacial blue, haunting and yet warm with life. Thirty-two years old, I’d say, and she is beautiful.

“Hello.” The word’s so matter of fact, so insincere, but in the confusion Jack is unsure of what else to say.

“Samantha! Where on earth did you meet Mr. Jameson?”

“It’s all right, Mrs… Mrs…”

“Oh, please excuse me! I’m Janice Peterson. Oh, I just can’t believe it’s you! And in my house too!”

“Pleasure to meet you, Janice.”

He hears a scratching sound at the back door and sees an Irish Setter panting, wanting in.
“I guess Bo is excited to see you too,” Janice Peterson says, chuckling while unlatching the door to let the dog in. Before she can get out of the way, the dog bolts through and jumps up to greet Jack. He scratches the dog’s head a couple of times, then moves to help Janice steady herself from the onslaught of the dog’s entrance.

“You okay?” Jack asks, holding Janice firmly.

“Oh, sure I am. Can I get you anything? A drink of iced tea?”

“No, I won’t be staying long.” Why not? Maybe there’s some answers to be found here.

“Oh please, have lunch with us. My husband will be home shortly. We’re having steak sandwiches with salad.” Her voice is as tempting as the meal sounds, so he decides to stay.

In the half hour of small talk, he finds out more about the family, the grandparents, the dog, the fish, the crayon drawings hung prominently on the fridge, the family portraits on the mantel in the living room. These are simple people in love and happy, just as he is…was…is. But who are they and what is he doing here with them?

The front door opens, revealing a man six feet tall at least, built like a tank and yet gentle in his stance. He lays a briefcase down in the hallway, picks through the mail and slowly walks into the kitchen. He doesn’t notice Jack at first, engrossed in flipping through the envelopes, sorting the bills from the junk mail as Sammy throws herself around him.

“Daddy, Daddy!”

He squats down and picks up the little girl, throwing her up to arm’s length, smiling.

“Hello Sammy, and how’s my little girl?”

“Ahem,” Jack lets out.

“Oh, hello there. Didn’t know we had company,” he says, staring at Jack puzzled. It starts to come together as his eyes widen in recognition. “You’re Jack Jameson, aren’t you? What are…” he says , the shock wearing off a little.

“Don’t ask,” Janice advises, smiling at her husband. He looks at her and stifles the line of questions that seem to come up out of nowhere.

“I’m Janice’s husband, Samuel Peterson.” So, he probably wanted a son to and got a daughter for his efforts. But it was obvious to Jack that the man loved his daughter, his family, without question.

“Nice to meet you, Samuel.”

“Please, call me Sam,” he says thrusting out his hand to shake Jack’s.

At touching the man’s hand, Jack crumples to the floor with a searing pain rippling through his body. Convulsing, he throws up uncontrollably as he is immersed in the blackness once again. The faint beeping of machinery echoing around him pulls at his attention, but he can not move. The odor of vomit, urine, and sweat choke in his nostrils as he fights for consciousness. He feels a sting on his arm and sees a trickle of blood appear where there is no wound. Terror courses through him in waves.

“I don’t think he can take much more of this, Doctor. His heartbeat is irregular and his respiration is shallow at best.”

“We can’t lose him. I’ll not let that happen! I’ve been bowing to the psychrocrats who laughed at me, but I know I’m right, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let this shit laugh at me with all those other psychofuckers! He must survive! HE MUST!”

Doctor, aren’t you getting just a little carried away here? I’m the one who’s having the problem, remember?

“10 Cc’s Hypoxyenol. Stat!”

“But Doctor…”

“Look you twerp, either do as I say or I’ll find someone else who will and fuck you out of here so fast your head won’t stop spinning down the fucking steps. Is that clear?”

“Jack, do you want some candy?”

“What? Oh, it’s you Sammy.”

“Who’d you think it was?”

“I don’t know, Sammy. I’m so tired suddenly.”

“Here. You’ll like this. Mommy lets me have candy after lunch. I like candy, but she taught me to share.”

Anything, Sammy, to get this taste from my mouth. He reaches out and takes a piece of the yellow rock candy and puts it in his mouth, sucking the tart sweetness that tingles on his tongue. His mouth waters profusely, and he swishes the spit back and forth over the candy, rinsing the liquid through his mouth to drown the rancid taste from just moments ago. He feels a thud on his arm, a mild shock but Sammy is still there, smiling at him.

“You don’t have to leave.” She says quietly. He closes his eyes, relishing the quiescence of the chirping birds perched high in the trees that rise from the grassy lawns of the neighborhood. He hears music, and a quiet purr of a car engine.

He opens his eyes and finds himself staring out a windshield at a red stoplight. Anonymous people cross the busy intersection in front of the bronze Jag as he waits for the light to change, his hands wrapped around the solid English Walnut steering wheel comfortably, the soft leather seat cushioning his tired body. He looks to his right at a yellow cab, the driver burly with a large cigar hanging in his mouth. The cabby periodically looks in the rearview mirror at a young Japanese couple in the back, but Jack turns away as soon as the cabby looks over at him.

On his other side is a green Dodge, puffs of smoke from the exhaust causing him to gag. He reaches and turns off his air-conditioning, but soon he is sweating and must turn it on again. A horn honks him through the now green light, his foot presses hard on the gas, unintentionally squealing the tires and yet he is happy at the sound scorning the impatient driver behind him.

So where am I going now? Elm Street passes by as he watches a young boy riding his bike along the sidewalk, throwing afternoon papers onto the front porches of the houses on either side. The Jag eases over a man-hole cover as his attention drifts to a bikini-clad coed by a 7-11 holding up a “Car Wash” sign.

Further along he comes to an intersection and locks his doors when he sees the transient selling copies of The Grapevine. The transient leans toward the car, drops of sweat splattering on the side window as he does. The air-conditioning picks up a foul odor, and he looks at the transient in disgust, but he knows the smell is really from the car in front of him. Shouldn’t be allowed, pan-handling money from people. There’s lots of jobs just for the asking. The hot sun is powerless against the tinted windows as the Jag rolls through the intersection.

Approaching a park on his right, he sees a group of people, probably from the college, busily playing Dolf. He watches as they throw the Frisbee® down the green and laughs as a dog breaks free from an old man and jumps to make the catch. Bad dog, he chuckles in admiration. He slows for a school-bus up ahead, its lights flashing as children disgorge from the yellow mobile stop sign. That’s so fucking annoying. The car pulls to a complete stop just as the lights go out and the bus starts to move.

As he passes the children, laughing and playing and free from the confines of their institution, he smiles, remembering his own daughter. She’s just starting school, and then sadness as he wonders if he’ll be there to see her grow up.

“Hey Jack, why don’t we stop off at the Tavern for a quick drink…I’ll buy.”

“Jesus Tom, where did you come from?” Jack screams, fighting for control as the thumps of cat-eyes reverberate through the careening car.

“I’ve been here all along, Jack. Why so jumpy for?” Tom’s voice is relaxed, like a wise old man telling the secrets of the world.

“I just…I just…Jesus man.”

“What’s the matter Jack. You know where you are, you just don’t realize it yet. Are you worried?”

“Jesus Tom, what are you on about?” Desperation fills his voice, his eyes hollow in the grimace straining his face.

“Jack. Don’t you know where you are?”

“This is a dream. This is all a terrible dream I’ll wake from anytime now. You’re not real. None of this is real! It can’t be. Mary! Where are you?” Jack closes his eyes hoping to be away from this scene. Even the hospital would be more agreeable than this.

“Tch…tch…tch, Jack, you really should watch where you’re driving,” Tom says matter-of-factly.
Jack opens his eyes and looks over at Tom in surprise.

“Huh?”

Jack is wretched forward in his seat and collides with the airbag exploding in his face. He screams at the searing pain of friction as momentum fights to take him forward and the bag fights to push him back, crushing the breath from him. Finally, the motion stops, the bag deflates, the win