Nano Day 11 - Trippin the Vortex - working title

[joegoda]

For Capi, my darlin sis. It's for you other folks too.


The realm of sleep is an interesting place to me. It contains all of the elements of the waking world, plus the added dimension of whatever you carry into it, regardless of them being real or not. That night I dreamed of my brother James, who had died of cancer four years ago.

I was walking along the side of a country road, just walking, my mind free of anything, not really thinking of anything. Off in the dusty distance, I saw a old red Chevy flatbed, driving ninety to nothing, flat out. Plumes of dirt and road dust flew from behind it, thrown into the air by the rear tires.

It appeared to be the desert, in this dream. It could have been someplace in Oklahoma, out in the empty spots where farmers and cattle folks do their best work, away from towns and cities. It could just have easily been the middle of Nevada. I don't know, the dream me didn't give any indication.

Dreams are like that for me. They're probably like that for everyone else, too. I've never really talked that much about dreams with anyone else. They are exactly like being in the waking world. I have the same sort of feelings; hunger, tired, curious, bored, as I have here. The only difference is that sometimes they add things which either can't exist here or used to exist here and don't any longer.

I have a theory that, when I sleep, I cross over to somewhere else, somewhere another me exists, and for a brief time, I live his life, sort of like riding his consciousness like a passenger, experiencing what he does, becoming part of his life.

The me that is over there in Dreamland is not aware that I'm a part of him, so it's quite likely that when the me that is over in dreamland sleeps, he becomes my passenger, and rides with me, living my life with me, and I'm not aware he's there, either.

It's just a kind of cool thing, I think. I don't have a way to truly test the theory, so I guess it's a hypothesis, and not a real theory. Some day I hope to actually talk with myself, and get a better understanding of what it is that happens. It's just one of the odd things I think about.

The flatbed drove out of sight, but the dust it was kicking up was still visible. The land was flat, the sort of flatness that I've heard people complain about Kansas having. I've been to Kansas. I like it, but maybe I haven't seen that flat part of it.

I continued walking, casually, as if I knew exactly where I was going. I remember having the impression that there was a small town or something nearby. I watched the dust plume grow stronger, and I knew that the truck had turned and was coming back toward me.

I saw the glint of light from the windshield, and watched the red truck grow larger on the road. I just watched and walked on, watched and walked on. I was smiling slightly. I was a happy guy.

When the truck was abreast of me, it stopped. So did I. The driver's window rolled down and I saw the smiling face of my baby brother, James. He looked good. He looked healthy. The ravages of the cancer, which had turned him into a walking skeleton showed no sign. In fact, the me that was me and lived in the dream world was glad to see him.

"Well," he said, smiling that big, bright smile of his. "Do you want to drive, or will I?"

I walked to the other side of truck, opened the passenger side door. "I think you should right now," I told him as I climbed into the high cab.

"Okey doke." He sifted the stick, put the truck into first gear and away we drove, throwing dust high into the air. He turned around on the dirt road, and drove back the same way I was headed.

"I figured that was you," He said, still smiling. "Walking alone, always alone. Rather stupid, on this bright and sunny day, don't you think?"

I hung my elbow outside the window, and looked off into the desolate landscape. It was empty of houses, buildings or civilization. It was dust and dirt and dunes and far off flat-topped mountains. Not a cloud could be seen, just the blue, blue sky and the ever present sun.

"Oh, I don't know," I answered him. "I think I was due for a walk. It clears my mind."

"Always alone." He continued smiling, and focused on the road. "It would have been a long walk, you know." He squinted up at the sun. "A long, hot walk."

"Yeah," I said. "I know."

He looked down at his watch. It was one of those plastic Casio watches, with the LED that tells the time. James never spent more than he had to on anything. "I don't have much time, and I figured you would want to see me off."

"Hell, Jamie, I didn't even know you were here."

"I know." He turned off the dusty road and onto a flat blacktop. There was a city or town not to far away. Small buildings popped over the horizon. He increased his speed. "I came to find you."

The dream shifted, as dreams do, and we were walking down a long concourse. There were stores and little shops and many, many people bumping into each other as they made their way to wherever it was they were going.

We walked and talked about nothing of importance, or maybe it was all important. I don't know. It's possible that everything that is said and done in a dream is important, or it could be that it's just a dream. Regardless, I didn't remember most of it when I awoke, so I remember even less now. It was the sort of talking you hear on a Charlie Brown special, whenever adults talk. Waaa waaa waaa. So I think it wasn't all that important, or else the me simply wasn't paying attention.

"That's my flight," James said. There was a woman's voice coming over the loudspeaker, saying "Waaa Waaa Waaa".

We stood at the base of two long escalators. Both of them going up. I hadn't noticed that the place we were in was two storied, but then, it was a dream after all. Different rules apply.

He looked at me and smiled his best friend winning smile. He hugged me hard, told me he loved me and then said "If you need to contact me, just call." I didn't quite understand him, so he nodded down at the cellphone in my hand. Up until that moment I didn't know I was carrying one.

It was a little red Nokia. Nothing fancy, just a phone.

He hugged me again, said, "I love you, brother," and road up the escalator on the right. Up, up and away with Jamie.

I stood there for a bit, just watching him go. When he got to the top, he turned, waved once, adjusted a bag over his shoulder that he had not had a moment ago, and disappeared into the crowd of people.

I suddenly remembered something I had to tell him, so I dialed the number on the phone. I don't know what number it was. I didn't have to look it up or anything. I just pushed the call button and I was dialing what I knew was his number. Dreams, like I said, are like that.

"The number you are dialing is no longer in service, or the person you are calling has moved out of your area." It was the typical woman's operator voice. I remember looking down at the phone in amazement.

And then the boy woke up. The bad thing about dreams is that they always seem so... unfinished.

It was nine in the morning, and the sun shining through the windows gave the promise of another glorious day.

Angelina was not in her bed. I didn't hear any water running, so she wasn't in the shower either. Maybe she was out getting breakfast, like she did yesterday. I shrugged, because that's what I do when I'm alone and not knowing what else to do.

I went into the bathroom, turned the water on and decided to take a shower myself, since nobody else was. I stripped down, leaving my clothes on the floor, tried to lock the bathroom door and found out I couldn't. Apparently, motel bathroom doors don't come with locks. Instead, I blocked it with my clothes and bag, so that anyone else trying to come in would hopefully get the idea that is was occupied. Wouldn't stop someone that was serious about coming in, but it would give the impression I didn't want them to come in. Hopefully.

I always take showers carefully. Mainly because I don't like water in my face, and that is what showers do. They spray water. Plus, while I'm taking a shower, my vision is limited, so I tend to take a shower with my eyes and ears very open. Yes, I'm paranoid. I like to see what's going on.

I heard the room door open and close, and so my hearing got very sharp. Fortunately, I was practically done, I had shaved and was almost dressed. I stopped what I was doing and listened. Nobody called out to me, and that makes me very nervous.

I cracked the door and watched Angelina move about the room. I closed the door again, and continued dressing. When I was done, she was standing on the other side of the bathroom door, holding a cup of hot coffee for me. Startled, I pulled back.

"What the hell?" I barked at her. "You could have yelled or something to let me know you were back."

Her smile faded, and all she could say was, "Sorry." She handed me the coffee and squeezed past me. I walked into the bedroom and turned on the television, very low. In a few minutes, I heard water running.

The dream with James was still bothering me. When ever I dream of someone that has passed on, I always wonder what the heck the dream meant. I ran over as much as I could remember, and two things that stood out out. The color red, because that was the color of both the truck he drove and the cell phone that magically appeared in my had, and the fact that he asked me to call him if I needed to get hold of him, but when I tried, I got an error message.

Strange things, dreams. They do tend to mean something, though, and what this dream reminded me of was that I didn't get a chance to see who Angelina had called on my cell phone. Thanks, Jamie. I was too tired or occupied to do it last night, or I just plain forgot.

I pulled my cell phone from it's belt clip, and checked for the last number dialed. The Area Code, 505, was unfamiliar to me. It could have been a New Mexico area code. Thank goodness for phone books in motel rooms, because it verified that 505 was indeed New Mexico.

I dialed the number. It rang a couple of times, and then I heard a familiar voice say "The number you are dialing is temporarily out of service, or the person you are calling has moved out of your area." Huh.

Dreams, like I say, are strange things.

Angelina came out of the shower, wearing a towel. She wasn't very happy.

"Why are you so mean to me?" she demanded. Her hair hung limp and wet. "I've done nothing to you." She waited for an answer, but I wasn't ready to give her one. Angry and wet women are something I'd rather not deal with. She stamped her foot, something I had never seen before, but had heard and read about forever. It was kind of cute, actually.

"I'm don't mean to be mean to you, Angelina." I muttered an apology. "It's just that there are people looking for us, and you could have been one of them. I was just being cautious, is all. I'm sorry, really. But next time, when you leave and come back, if you don't see me, let me know who you are, okay? For that matter, next time you leave without me, let me know. You could have been kidnapped or something." I looked at her, she raised one eyebrow. "Okay?"

"You were worried about me?" she asked.

"Yeah, a little bit."

"You were worried about me, and decided to take a shower?" This was not going well.

"Look," I started to say, trying to explain something I had no explanation for.

"You were worried a bit me and took a shower instead." She shook her head and proceeded to roughly pull a brush through it. "When were you going to come looking for me? After dinner tonight?" She sat down at the little table in the motel room, so she could use the mirror on the wall.

"Why would I go looking for you if you were perfectly safe?" I know it sounded like a logical question. Logical questions don't always work in illogical situations, dad.

She stopped brushing her hair, looked into the mirror at my reflection. A old bald man, wearing a brown plaid shirt and jeans looked back at her, and at me.

"I stepped out to get you some coffee. I know that you do not like to start your morning without it. I know you do not take any sugar and you do not take any cream in it. I thought it was a nice thing to do. We had a nice time yesterday, and I wanted to do it because I like you and I wanted to thank you."

It was a statement I don't normally want to hear from someone that I'm trying to be done with. I prefer to leave no mark at all, if I can. "Thanks aren't necessary," I said.

"I'll remember that," she said shortly. She went back to brushing her hair, in short, angry strokes.

There are times I feel like a jerk. Yes, I know, it's hard to believe. They don't happen very often, but when they do, I really, really feel like a jerk.

"Look," I said again. "Even though I had no proof that you were safe, I knew you were. I woke up to find you not here. I made the assumption that you were out getting breakfast."

I sighed and continued. "The thought that something might have happened to you did cross my mind. I reached out and checked to see, and I didn't find anything wrong. No bad vibes. So I decided to take a shower, so I wouldn't smell so bad you jumped out of the van."

She stopped brushing her hair and looked at the old man in the mirror again. "You... reached out? Like your kite-flying?"

I nodded. "Something like it." I decided to sit on the bed and watch the weather channel. It got me out of the mirror and I wouldn't have to look at myself. I sipped the coffee. It has hot and strong, and exactly like I liked it. "Thank you for the coffee, by the way."

She turned from the mirror so she could look at me. The towel slipped a bit, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw the barest hint of a naked breast. I decided that looking at the door was a better thing to do.

"You're welcome," she said behind me. I felt the tickle of her eyes on the back of my neck, and I could feel her thinking. I heard the slight rustle of fabric. I turned back to the television and noticed that the towel had slipped back to it's proper place. She went back to brushing her hair. Apparently long hair requires a lot of brushing.

"So, in reality, you knew I was all right, but you still worried about me." It was a statement, not a question. She was rationalizing what I had said, so that it became the truth to her. People do it all the time.

"Did it affect you like the last time?" It was a question from a more softened voice.

"No," I told her, watching the impending low come down from Canada. If it got too severe, I would have to push it back a bit. I don't mind driving in cold, but snow and ice is a different matter. That's another reason I stopped in Montrose for the night. Mountain driving in the dark is also not a fun thing for me.

"It was something a bit different than, um, kite-flying. Takes a lot less energy." I sipped a bit more coffee. "I'm all right."

"Ah," she said, standing. Her hair was very shiny and still wet, but a tangle one was not to be seen. She adjusted her towel, looked over at me and winked. "I'll just step into the bathroom to change."

From the bathroom, she called out to me. "My mother used the same technique, I think, keeping track of her children. We would be out, running and playing, and every so often I would feel her, searching for us. It was like a butterfly had landed on my neck, and tickled. I always knew it was her by the way it felt, and I would always answer her. When I answered her, the butterfly tickle would go away."

"When ever we children would get back home, I would tell her that I had felt her, and she would just smile at me, nodding. That's how I knew it was her." There wasn't anything I needed to say to that, so I didn't. "You did the same thing, didn't you? But there wasn't any butterfly tickle." She popped out of the bathroom, all pretty and fresh wearing a red sweater over jeans. "You must be very, very good at it."

"I don't like to use it," I answered her.

I turned off the television and stood, gathering my bag. It was ten thirty, time to leave. Checkout used to be noon in most hotels and motels, back in the days. Now it was eleven. Eventually, it would be as soon as the sun rose. Anything to move the customers in and out. McDonalds does the same thing. That's why the seats are uncomfortable, and the lights are always glaring.

She packed her dirty clothes in a plastic bag and packed the plastic bag into her main bag. She slung her bag over her shoulder and walked over to me. She looked at me smiling, her brown eyes laughing.

"Now, Chester. I know you try to be a big tough guy, grouchy and cynical. Usually you succeed, and it makes you look like an old man that doesn't like anyone." She winked at me again. "I think I've got your number, now." She walked out the door to the van.

Before she got in, before she even opened the door, I called to her to wait. If she got into the van, the soda can would pop out of it's place, if it hadn't already, and my alarm system would be screwed.

I left the keys on the television, tucked a five under the pillow and went to join her. I knelt down on the ground and saw the soda can had moved, just a bit, from under the front tire. Someone had gotten into the van. I walked around the van, searching for everything, looking for any clue. While I walked, my eyes searched the parking lot, looking at the cars and the people nearby.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Someone was in the van while we slept," I told her.

"Are you sure?"

"Unless you got into the van before I woke, yep." I looked at her from over the driver's side hood. "Did you? Get into the van before I woke?"

She shook her head slowly, eyes wide. "Someone was in the van?"

I nodded, opening the door. I didn't get in, just let my head pop in let my eyes and nose do the searching for me.

There was a male scent, an aftershave, not mine. I don't wear any. It was a very subtle, nearly musky smell. Old Spice, maybe. Something like that. It came from the driver's side, and drifted from the back. They had climbed in this way, and for some reason went into the cargo area.

I carefully climbed in, making sure I didn't disturb anything as I went, watching where I put my feet and hands. I added a little extra pair of eyes to the search, and let my invisible eyes join in.

Last night I had put a sigil, a sign, on the door of the motel room to make it invisible to seeking eyes. Sigils can be used for all sorts of things. They can protect, they can harm, they can act as eyes and ears and even homing beacons. They can be hidden anywhere they are needed. On a person, on a piece of clothing, in the air, or on the ground. They can be any size, from micro-dot to the size of crop circles or ground carvings, like those in Macchu Pichu in South America.

There was a very, very, very small something, scribbled in ashes on a bit of crumpled up paper in the very back corner of the van. I picked it up carefully, using sleeve covered hands, so I didn't leave any sort of residual energy on it, other than fabric to skin. Just as carefully, I walked the bit of paper out the driver's side door, carried it to the nearest vehicle and gently slipped it into the curve of the rear bumper.

I have seen sigils created using ink, blood, sweat, all manner of liquids. I have seen them carved, drawn, and dug into whatever material they went into for some sort of permanence.

If you want to create a sigil that will alert you the second it's been disturbed, though, you would use ashes, and preferably the ashes created by burning a command. The command would be what you needed the sigil to do, and the ashes would alert you immediately that the sigil had been moved. That is, if the ashes broke apart during the process of moving. A gentle touch is needed in the disposal of the sigil, if you didn't want the creator to be aware that the sigil was disturbed.

Like I said, I'm paranoid, and good thing too. I came back to the van and went though it again, just as carefully. Nothing showed up, to either my outside eyes, or my inside eyes.

I told Angelina that she could get into the van, that it was safe. Once she did, I told her what I had found.

"Someone put a tracking device on us?" she asked. She sounded surprised.

"I don't know why you're surprised, Angelina." I started the van, and drove out of the hotel parking lot. "Apparently you're a very popular person."

I pursed my lips and whistled a bit of Billy Joel's 'Piano Man'. I decided to toss my runes and turned on the radio. Apparently I was not going to be able to avoid playing the magic game, so I decided that I would play to win.

The Doors, with the wonderfully smoky voice of Jim Morrison rang into my ears. "Riders on the Storm." Makes perfect sense. Jim was singing the beginning of the phrase "There's a killer on the road/ His brain is squirmin' like a toad", so I listened. "Take a long holiday"... yep, it fits. "If you give this man a ride/ Sweet family will die./ Killer on the road."

Okay. So it was going to be an interesting trip to Winnemucca. I made the decision that was our destination. Ten hours on the road. I told Angelina what the lyrics meant to me and she nodded.

"You read palms, do the Tarot using radio lyrics, look out for bad guys by flying a kite." She laughed, but only a little bit. "Chester, is there anything you can't do?"

It was the sort of question I don't like to think about because the answer is one that may or may not keep me humble. I have a problem with ego, anyway. I know there are things I can't do. I can't grow any taller. I know, I've tried. My hair won't grow back. Yep, tried that too. I can't raise the dead, because I gave up in disgust at my weakness. There are a lot of things I can't do. I just don't know all the things I can do.

"Sure, Angel. There are a whole bunch of things I can't do." I smiled over at her. "I'm not a God, you know."

Her reaction was rather odd. Her eyes went wide, as if surprised by my answer. Then they narrowed at me, as if checking to see if I was kidding. Then they went back to their normal olive shape and she smiled and laughed back. "Yes, I know." She kicked off her shoes and put her bare feet up on the dash of the van. I guess she didn't notice that the temperature outside was just clearing forty degrees. "It just seems that there are more layers to you than first seen."

"I feel like a donut this morning," I said, spying a Dunkin Donut. I had not had a Dunkin donut in forever. Tulsa doesn't have any. They all closed down years ago and I don't like Krispy Kreme. Too sweet for my tastes.

"That's strange," Angelina said. "You don't look like a donut."

"Ha Ha." I pulled into the Dunkin Donut parking lot and got out. "You can come in if you want to," I said as Angelina stepped out the other side.

I went in and stepped up to the counter, standing behind two other customers. I made my choice; applesauce with orange glaze. Yeah, I know... I have odd tastes, but it just felt right.

I looked at Angelina and said, "Take your time, okay." She nodded at me, searching the menu of over seventy variations.

While I was standing there, and using the mental static of all the other customers to shield me, I did a little psychic whistle for my whirly-gig, the one I sent out last night. I let my mind drift into meditation mode, and my silence caused Angelina look over at me. She smiled, nodded once, and went back to the menu. Smart girl, she started to read every single variation out loud. I guess she's all right.

The whirly came back to me, and I unfolded it. In my mind, the colors and mental scents unfurled, like a rose. I let the impressions flood over me and I rolled around in them, letting them coat my subconscious mind. The taste was warm, the smell was blue, and the feel was sweet and filling. Aphasia is something I understand very well. There were word images in the thing, wrapped under layers like an emotional baklava. I teased them out, one by one.

It was stubborn. Whoever owned these impressions was someone I would not want to play chess against. It was nobody I would want to try to bluff in poker. I would lose, every time. I would, however, love to sit and talk and compare experiences. This was a well guarded mind, someone who played close to the chest and kept their true feelings to themselves. They were very strong, emotionally and mentally, sure of themselves and of their role in the universe.

Still, once a whirly picks rides a line, it always comes back with something. It was just a matter of unraveling it, of pulling the layers apart like a crescent roll. I make a very tight crescent roll, and that is what makes it so tasty. It has many, many layers.

I felt hugs and soft kisses. I heard music. A piano played quietly somewhere and it was mixed with the quiet sound of tears hitting a lacquered table top. Visions of children riding on horseback. Curious. Curious and curious.

I dug a bit deeper through the pastry thin levels of emotional shielding. What I found was pain. Not a normal pain, like the pain a person gets from having their teeth pulled or finding a sliver of metal in your eye. Not the pain of a broken limb or the gnawing pain of a terminal illness. This was a sharp pain, that came in waves. I know that my physical reaction, my quick intake of breath, must have alerted Angelina that something was different. Bless her heart, though, she ignored it and just kept reading the menu.

This was a pain I had felt, but a very, very long time ago. I had to dig to find it in my memory. Waves of emotional pain, lapping at the shore of my mind, the feel of being too full, the wonder if it was going to ever end, these were things that I personally didn't feel, but I was experiencing them vicariously, from the layers of the whirly. Yeah, I remembered it.

One of my best friends, Sherry, went into labor pains during a party my wife and I were having. It was my wife's birthday. A few hours later, Sherry had a lovely, brand new, baby daughter, who she named Sarah. That was exactly like what I was feeling now. It was a birthing.

I smiled at the memories I was feeling which didn't belong to me. They were coming from the whirly. Once I decoded that I was looking at labor pains, a vision I heard from the whirly showed me the image of being handed a baby girl with dark brown hair, and brown olive shaped eyes. "Hello, Mom," I whispered. My seeking eye from last night was Angelina's mother.